Never try to be a bartender ... if you're not a bartender

I met the CEO of Zola Acai at a bar in Yosemite during Thanksgiving Day weekend. Zola Acai, you ask? A bar in Yosemite?

We stayed at a place called the Evergreen Lodge. It's located on Highway 120 past the town of Groveland and mere miles from the west entrance to the park. We stayed in our own little cabin and there was a rustic restaurant and a good ol' boy bar onsite.

It snowed the first night we were there. A light dusting that was just enough to get our Christmas spirits going. We sat on our little cabin porch outfitted with Adirondock chairs and drank a bottle of wine, checking out the flakes. Then we moseyed down to the bar for dinner and drinks.

Two bar stools, a coupla beers, lasagna for me and a burger for Tim were keeping us quite satisfied. The band, whose name was something like "Mountain High," was setting up in the back.

I don't know how the conversation started, but we ended up awkwardly chatting with a couple that was not older, but simply older than ourselves. The guy had the black-dyed hair thing going on and the woman had the blond-dyed hair thing going on. Nobody asked him, but the guy promptly told us he was the CEO of Zola Acai. It's a Brazilian superfoods health drink that, um, will not keep your hair from turning gray, apparently.

Hmm, never heard of it.

Well aren't you lucky? They sell it here at the Evergreen Lodge bar. Yippee!!!

Two Zola Acais were now sitting in front of our mostly finished plates. We cracked them open. Took swigs. Then proceeded to try and conceal our bitter beer faces. God damn this just has to get awkward, doesn't it?

It's GRRRR-eaaaattt!! Smiles all around.

How about you make me a martini with this here Zola Acai?

Did that just come out of my mouth? Yes. It. Did.

Two purple, somewhat nutty, chunky Zola Acai martinis coming right up. CEO thought it was crazy, of course, but was dying to know if I had just tapped into something new.

Tim's ZA concoction flew down his throat so fast he didn't even taste it. Mine, well I can't do that, so I sipped it. Slowly. Not good.

Then I started to try and sell my freelance copywriting services ... because I have freelance copywriting services. Yeah.

Anyway, the CEO felt so bad that my (his?) drink tasted so bad that he ordered me a different one.

Anyway, Yosemite did not disappoint, even if the Zola Acai did.

Here's to much awkward chitchatting with strangers and old acquaintances this holiday season. Cheers!

Shoes, and a pretty good case to hold onto your cash this holiday season

A message about things. Considering the holidays are upon us, I figured it's an appropriate topic.

I didn't plan on it, but I conducted an interesting experiment last night. Feeling like a little closet organization was in order, I bought two shoe organizing things at Ross yesterday. One is a typical shoe rack, the other is one of those nifty cubbie things that hang from the closet rod.

I cleared out the boxes of shoes stacked up, some seven high, and the loose pairs collecting dust in a folding metal contraption. I found shoes I bought for special occasions, like weddings and bachelorette parties (including my own), that I only wore once. There was a pair of boots that treated me damn well during a 4-day vacation to Chicago last winter but haven't been worn since. There was a sequined pair I bought in Vietnam that look like someone left them at Studio 54 after a long night.

Black cowboy boots. Adidas ballet flats. Chacos. American flag-printed Vans.

Now, this is a collection that has been building for years. Except for the four or five pairs I bought during an amazing Macy's One-Day Sale (we know them well, right guys?) for 100 bucks total, these shoes have been purchased carefully throughout my existence. Like I said, some for trips, some on trips.

After I tucked them all away, I counted them. I own 51 pairs of shoes.

I know this isn't Mariah Carey style. I do not buy super expensive shoes in the first place. The most expensive ones are Michael Kors and they were about $120 at the Nordstrom Half Yearly Sale. And -- this is a big "and" -- a lot of these shoes were bought for $1 to $5 at the oh-so awesome Macy's employee shoe sample sales, which used to make me giddy with delight and my friends who wear size 7 mad with rage. The models wore sizes 6 and 9. I am a size 6.

A lot, however, were frivolous buys. I'll admit it.

Fifty-one pairs of shoes? That's insane. Want to know what's even more insane? When I need a pair for yet another special occasion, I usually consult someone else's stock, meaning the store's.

Truth be told, I used to be a whole lot worse and have scaled back a bunch in the past two to three years. So these are the remains of a bad habit of purchases past.

It's an important thing to think about, though. Especially when the holidays this year are going to be so tough for so many people. What will truly make you and your family happy these holidays? It probably won't be another thing that will end up -- maybe not soon, but some day -- in a cubbie.

Spoken from someone without kids, right? Good luck out there this year, guys. Just remember to ask yourself, do I (or they) really need this?

..........

(BTW, the shoes in the pic are chocolate.)

Chico State halloween: A trip down memory lane.

Let me state the obvious: tomorrow is Halloween. Here's something even more obvious: I'm getting in the spirit.

(Jeez, this is even my second blog about it.)

People who have spent time around me this time of year know I can go a little overboard for this particular holiday. I have sewn, glued and painted my way into a sequined mermaid, Queen of Hearts, Minnie Mouse, Marge Simpson and flapper costumes. I have forced friends to watch It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown. (They totally liked it.) And have truly out partied the heartiest of partiers. I'm still hungover from 1999. More on that later.

Sadly, this has all died down in the past few years. And frankly it's making me feel old. I'm in this weird in-between stage where half of my friends have kids and go trick or treating and the other half live in apartments and would rather go to a bar than throw a "house party," er, apartment party.

This year, I'm attempting to bring back some of the fun from the old days.

Of course nothing will top the impromptu party that hatched on the front lawn of my house at 812 W. First St. near the Chico State campus, yes, in 1999.

It all started with a few friends drinking Sierra Nevada before heading out into the streets. A friend arrived as a backpacker with a cylinder keg in his backpack, the tap coming around his shoulder like a camelback.

For some reason, hordes of people arrived. No joke, a guy started eating and blowing fire on the lawn. We were like, This is amazing. Then our dear friend in a Tootsie-like wig and a neon leotard with the letter "Q" on his chest (going as "Q-Man, naturally) performed an elaborate gymnastics routine on the 2nd-floor balcony for the crowd.

That was just at my little house. Heading out into the streets, my roommate, dressed as Ted Kaczynski in ridiculously bad-taste form, accidentally bumped his 6-foot-4 frame into a tiny female cop. Someone, dressed and acting as a tourist, snapped a poloroid of the collision and stuffed it into his pocket. He discovered it the next day. An entire group of students performed the Thriller dance throughout the streets. The Simpsons cruised around.

This was Chico State before they clamped down on the Halloween fun. Some of my older colleagues might have even better tales during the Pioneer Days run, which ended in the late '80s.

So this year, I'm bringing back the Halloween spirit. There will be ... well, black vodka cocktails, of course. Although I don't know where to get black vodka just yet. I'm hoping BevMo has some in stock. Possibly Mollie Stones. And there will be costumes. Can't tell you what just yet, but I will say this: all you need is love.

So be safe and stay out of jail tomorrow night, guys.

Can you get pregnant from ... oh, just read it!

So I visited an urgent care facility this afternoon. I had to go because I'm a fool and have not learned to navigate the provider network of my new insurance. Thus, no primary care physician. And damn it, I got a sore throat.

I got there at about 4:45 and the place was empty. The only patients were a couple of peeps whom the staff knew by name. I was pretty confident I'd get in and out quickly with either a lolli or a prescription. I was fine with both. I needed to go into the weekend knowing if I was dealing with something serious. Say, tonsillitis.

So I'm sitting in the room, which the NP posted a "DR. WEISENBERG: NEXT!" sign on. Cute, I thought, a little road map for the doc. I fielded a couple of texts from a friend in need of SF hotel advice.

Coupla minutes pass and the doc comes in, checks out the EN&T situation. He says it looks like I'm fine, just a minor case of "under the weather."

"But, we'll give you a throat culture for strep just in case."

Ok, I'm cool with that. I've had them before.

Turns out the strep test has gone the way of the pregnancy test. Bear with me now.

The doc in the hallway: "Erika! I hear you -- what's the word now -- volunteered to give a culture in room 2D." (That's not really something I wanted to hear, but oh well.)

The nurse comes dragging ass in, rolling the blood pressure machine in with her. "Feeling sick?"

The rubber gloves come on. "This is going to be really uncomfortable and it's going to feel like you're going to throw up. But try not to."

"OK."

Afterward, she pulls out a little plastic white stick, sticks the throat swab in it and sets it on the counter. "Now we have to wait five minutes. I'll be right back."

Shuts the door.

What the hell is that little thing on the desk? Is that an EPT? I see a single blue line start to appear in the "window." Wow, that's a far cry from when they took the "results" away from the patient and then called you at home or made you wait a few hours in the lab. WTF?

While I was sitting there I saw a printout tacked to the wall reading "Medication shapes and colors." There was a spearmint tic tac, a blue eraser and a white original iPod shuffle.

Coulda done without seeing that.

Then I read the flu shot poster: "Don't forget to ask for your orange lollipop after your flu shot -- while supplies last!"

While supplies last?

At this point, I was not feeling so ready to see the results of my pregnancy test.

Doc walks in, looks down at the plastic stick. "No strep!" he beams.

I had told him earlier I was taking ibuprofen for the pain.

"Now, about that ibuprofen," he says, his eyes level with mine. "Need anything stronger?"

It was like I was back at Chico State, in the student health center, where vicodin flew off the shelves and all you had to say was, "I can't sleep, therefore, I can't study." (I never did that btw.)

"No, but thanks. Really, thank you."

Did I just say thank you to the doc for a prescription that I turned down? Yeah, I guess I did. Twice. And smarter people would say I was a fool.

Sincerity as far as the eye can see

Is anyone else completely freaked out that it's fall already?

I guess for those of you with children, it's not really that big of a deal since back-to-school was like so yesterday. But, for those of us without, the coming of fall is like ... I don't know ... it's like something new is happening.

I know New Year's brings the sense of a fresh start to a lot of people . New Year's Eve is actually my BFF's favorite holiday for that reason. It's not like her life slowly degrades over the course of every 12 months, but it's the energy and feeling of hope a new year brings her that makes this holiday so exciting.

For me, that feeling comes in the fall. I call myself a summer person, but I get a little giddy when the days get colder and shorter. I love sweaters and boots and comfort food. Maybe I have a little black bear in me, but I love staying warm inside with a glass of wine and a pile of magazines, a lamp softly lighting every room and the tube glowing and going unnoticed in the corner. Everything seems that much better. Like eating chocolate with three layers on, because you're already all covered up.

This love of fall was probably instilled in me from a very young age. My parents packed up the car every October and headed to the Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival. Because my family didn't eat at restaurants, we tailgated at the beach and ate my mom's cold fried chicken and macaroni salad for lunch. Then we wandered the arts and crafts booths, peered in the window at the caramel-making shop and watched the parade. I was always, and still am, frankly, afraid of the people in stilts.

My mom made me and my sister's baby and toddler clothes and she made our Halloween costumes up until about the sixth-grade. We started the planning about a month early. I do not remember going to the fabric store, but I remember her brown sewing box with the cracked lid and her sitting at the kitchen table sewing away. Snow white, a gray mouse, a witch, a butterfly. The last requiring more wire and glue than thread. She taught me how to sew, and I made a Minnie Mouse costume my sophomore year in college. She probably wouldn't have approved. (It was more diva than Disney.)

Nowadays, Tim and I make a date to go to the pumpkin patch every year. I watch It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown as if it was a State of the Union address. I threw a cookie decorating party last year for my copywriter friends and made five dozen ghost, tombstone, pumpkin and black cat sugar cookies that we frosted and sprinkled. This year there will be pumpkin lights.

So I guess all there is left to say is, go ahead, buy that bag of mini Reese's peanut butter cups, drink some Oktoberfest beer and start dreaming of the pumpkin pie to come.

It will make you so happy.

The master of show, don't tell

My first T.C. Boyle experience: Drop City, first published in 2003.

Very quickly: this book is about a hippie commune that gets run out of the SF Bay Area and tries to live off the land in Alaska.

Not so quickly: Something started happening to me after the first 100 pages or so of this book. I began to feel like I had read it before, like I had walked through the original Drop City house in Sonoma County, smoked cigarettes with Star and Merry and rode in their Merry Pranksters-like bus. Some of it could have been flashbacks to my Phish-following, camp-counseling college days, but mostly it was just this unbelievable familiarity Boyle created that brought this on. (Aside: I have since watched a bit of that movie The Beach that came out in 2000 with Leonardo DiCaprio after the book of the same name and the similarities are a little unsettling.)

Anyway, I don't know much about Boyle, but a quick scan of reviews and the criticism was heavy. He is both praised as one of the great novelists of the last few decades and accused of foregoing any real substance for a quick laugh. Sounds smart enough. And I totally get it. For the most part, Drop City and residents are thrown under that Merry Pranksters bus at the end, a big easy-way-out no-no according to one of my creative writing teachers.

Overall, this ended up being a hurried read. I rushed through it, and I'm not sure why. It wasn't exactly to find out what would happen as the characters depth gave way to hypocrisy and vulnerability. They went from people I was getting to know to people I did not want to know.

But one thing is for sure: Boyle is the master of showing, not telling. That's harder than it sounds. During my days as a reporter, when deadlines would allow, I would go through my articles sentence by sentence turning each one from a crappy, "The board voted 5-0 ..." to a "Children will no longer be able to check books out of the library because of a unanimous vote." Again, the deadlines. Sometimes they don't allow this. And neither does 11:15 p.m.

Someday, I hope this comes more naturally. Until then, I will give the T.C. Boyle catalog another try. Any suggestions?



Boyle, did he slip?

Hearts and thoughts, they fade?

For those of you who don’t know, I grew up in Modesto, Calif. From my post, it was a fast-food, strip-mall suburbia that led to my utter boredom as a teenager.

I say “from my post” because I didn’t get the culture of the area until I returned after college for a two-year stint as a newspaper reporter. I didn’t understand that the area was feeding the country through the work of people who had risked their lives and left their families. I didn’t know about the Asian refugees who were trying to make sense of their new lives in America. (I also have friends who found true love and made happy homes there. That just wasn’t my experience.)

Some of my friends did live on farms. They wore cowboy boots and Wranglers. But I didn’t know what they did after school or during the summers. Most of us just lived in single-family track housing, one-story ranch style homes with popcorn ceilings in cul de sacs.

It was a big deal to drive over the Altamont Pass passed the windmills to San Francisco. The temperature dropped, the sky opened up and there were people with tattoos, piercings and attitudes. We knew something more was out there then. But we were isolated and frustrated, and there was nothing we could do about it. Bored out of our minds, we turned to certain recreational activities, fell in and out of love and stirred up trouble to break through the heat and dullness that was teenage life in the Central Valley.

Then there was this music that came in the early '90s. I think we discovered it as it discovered us. We did not really care, but it was dubbed grunge, and it was coming from Seattle. Until then, like those before us, we turned to the music of our parents’ generation, the Beatles, the Doors, Jimi, Pink Floyd, but it was too abstract and stood for things we weren’t involved in and couldn’t fully understand. It wasn’t ours—but until then, nothing was.

The lyrics and jarring sounds got under our skin. It was unstable and pissed off. Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit was called the anthem of an apathetic generation. We didn’t take offense.

There was a song for every one. As they kept coming, we gobbled them down from now-defunct music stores like the Wherehouse and Sam Goody. If you had shitty parents, a fucked a relationship with your mom or dad, problems fitting in, or were sick of pretending to fit in, this music spoke to you, it gave you a voice, and that felt like something when nothing else did.

I fell in love with Pearl Jam.

Sixteen years later, I relived those lyrics live in Golden Gate Park. It was one of the hottest nights of the year. It felt euphoric. Here's what it was:

It felt empowering to relive those songs and those moments so many years later, free from the issues that bound me to them in the first place, either by death, distance or resolve. I am older and wiser and less vulnerable. That night, I became acutely aware of this band's influence on the person I am today, how it helped me get through the bullshit that was growing up in a small town.

“I changed by not changing at all, small town predicts my fate...”

Except it didn’t.

Bachelorette parties are good for the soul

There is something that happens when a bunch of girls get together in heels and cocktail dresses.

It's not excessive drinking and smoking. Or insane amounts of squealing. Or karaoke. Or 32 Marilyn Monroe-billowing-dress photo ops.

All those things may have happened, but despite my best efforts (lots of champagne and two dirty martinis) they are not what has stuck with me three days after my dear friend's bachelorette party Saturday.

What has: the crazy amounts of positive energy women can generate under certain circumstances. Put us in an office and we complain, complain, complain about our bus ride in, the printer, our pen running out of ink.

Now, I am not a yoga-mat toting, Arizmendi-loving, life-is-wonderful wannabe hippie. Get me in a car on 19th Avenue and no one is safe from ... well, the things I will yell inside my car.

But back to Saturday. We complimented each other. We talked about how great things were--from our outfits to our new jobs to our babies. And we poured endless amounts of affection on our BFF in the boa and tiara.

My question is: Why can't we channel some of this into other parts of our lives? I know celebrations are all about celebrating. It's what you do. But this level of warm fuzzy doesn't happen at all celebrations.

Example #1: Your friend's kid's 3-year-old birthday party. Presents. Cake. Cuteness. Car.

Example #2: Weddings. If you're not crying, you're probably talking out the side of your mouth or sending someone else to the bar to preserve your GWs.

Example #3: Baby showers. Do we really have to smell the baby food? Can I get another cupcake?

All I'm saying is that we need to remember to boost each other up more often. The feeling will last for days.

Or we could dress up and drink lots of champagne and martinis for no good reason.

I think this was how people used to do it.

An engagement party to call home about

It's not often I run into people I know at the airport. Taking the same flight. Sitting in the row ahead of me.

But oh yes, in June Tim and I ran into two great friends doing the exact same thing as we were--taking a red eye to Boston to visit family. Our guy friend ended up proposing to our gal friend on that trip, and we started thinking back on the flight: Did he look nervous? Did she know?

Two weekends ago we were invited to celebrate the engagement with their friends and family at the May Flower Restaurant on Geary Street in San Francisco. Although it has only been around since 1991 (according to the website), this restaurant is a Richmond District institution and definitely a tradition for our friends' family.

The website boasts authentic Cantonese food, live and fresh seafood and dim sum. Oh, we didn't have a clue.

Highlights from the 10-course meal:

Geese feet. Lobster. Fish Stomach lining. Peking duck. Shark fin soup.

I was going to warn you, but then, well, I didn't. Shark fin soup? I know. I know. I know.

When I asked what kind of shark it was, my new friend next to me smiled wickedly and said, "Great white." Soooooooooo evil.

Then she told me Bald Eagle was up next.

I countered: albino alligator? No? Not funny? Not funny.

This ended up being the most authentic Chinese meal either of us had ever had, with some of the warmest, friendliest, funniest people we've ever met. We haven't had that much fun in a long time.

And then, of course, there were the scorpion bowls that ended the evening.




Here's to a happy year of planning for our lovely friends!

Happiness is ... apparently up for debate.

Little known fact about me: I used to be a comics editor.

It's true. For about six months give or take I was the comics editor at the Merced Sun-Star, where I had my first newspaper job.

Let me tell you, I really ruffled some comic readers' feathers during the time. I wrote a column suggesting we yank all these timeless comics (For Better or For Worse, Blondie, the Family Circus) to make room for some of the newer ones on the scene (Rose is Rose, Get Fuzzy, Non Sequitur). I also suggested Dilbert. People were not happy with me.

I didn't say I was going to actually do it, I was just making a suggestion. The purpose of the column was to introduce an election for the most popular comics. We threw some of my new favorites in the mix as well.

The three with the most votes? For Better or For Worse, Blondie, the Family Circus.

C'est la vie.

I do not know my comics as well as I used to. But I still love them, especially Peanuts.

I will leave you with these from "Happiness is a Warm Puppy," which I picked up on a recent trip to the museum in Santa Rosa. (I. Love. This. Book.)

"Happiness is a bread and butter sandwich folded over."

"Happiness is three friends in a sandbox...with no fighting."

"Happiness is walking in the grass in your bare feet."

"Happiness is one thing to one person and another thing to another person."

Now that is something we can all live by right now.




By the way, did you hear Archie is going to marry Veronica? I couldn't believe it either.

You are not Hunter S. Thompson

I finished reading "The Night of the Gun" by David Carr on the N-Judah ride home last night. I did not get this book at all. In fact, I thought about throwing it in the trash before I finished the last 10 pages.

But, I did read all 389. Blech.

This author and reporter (currently a columnist for the New York Times) decided to investigate the black hole that was his life in his 20s and 30s. He was smoking crack and shooting cocaine. Selling. Beating girlfriends. Going to jail. Going to rehab. Somewhere in there he has twin baby girls with a woman who is also using, and he somehow gets custody of them. He cleans up until the girls are teens and then starts to rage with the booze and ends up in detox.

My problems with this book started with the cover:

Problem #1:
The subtitle schtick: "A reporter investigates the darkest story of his life. His own."

Dun dun dun.
(And it's written in a cheesy graffiti font.)

Problem #2:
The picture of the author with his twin girls at about 3 years old.

Problem #3:
It's dedicated to "the magic fairies," his wife and three daughters.

Dude. Duuuuuuuude. This is not "his" story. It is (mostly) about the childhoods he decided to give the twins, I'll give him that. But, the photo, come on. They're not baby girls anymore. He screwed up their childhood. Hard. Yes, they are capable women in college now. It's called survival. And seriously, "magic fairies?" This guy is truly living in a fantasy world. His own.

I do not understand why a person, a professional, a father would write such a thing after everyone involved has emerged alive. You made it! You're sober! You have a job! They don't hate you (well, not to your face)! I'm sure there was a "family talk" about the whole project and everyone was on board and agreed.

But he should have just given them peace.

Cocktails yummy enough to read

I want to sing a little song for the cocktails menu at the Alembic bar on Haight Street.

The back story: While I have been to this bar a number of times, my friend Sarah and I were celebrating her 31st birthday on this particular occasion. We ate: pork belly BLT sliders, a salad with grilled Monterey squid, and I can't remember the third dish because the first two were so amazing.

More importantly, we drank:
(descriptions are directly from the bar's site)

Cocktail #1
Strawberry Alarm Clock: This psychedelic jam is the perfect way to wake up anytime of day. Sweet vermouth and strawberry puree all twisted up with stranahan’s grand mesa malt whiskey and spiked with little shot of tabasco, topped off with a tiny dose of parsley and peppermint oil. Turn on, tune in. Good sense be damned.

Cocktail #2:
The Clover Cocktail: One of our favorite pre-prohibition cocktails, this number harkens back to a time when the distinguished gentlemen of Philadelphia would gather at the Bellevuestratford Hotel and raise glasses of (what else?) pink frothy cocktails. We pluck some raspberries from our garden, whip up a little syrup, drop it in some gin, add a splash of lemon juice and some egg white and shake the hell out of it. Seasonal and timeless. Oh, yeah, and pink!

Now, these are not slam, bam, thank you ma'am cocktails.

Me: Wow, I can't believe I'm only a little buzzed.
Sarah: Yeah, if you get drunk, that's your fault not theirs.

True dat.

Besides that, the writing is superb. Each blurb tells a story behind the drink, whether that's how it's made or who drank it first. Yeah, drink, drank, drunk. Whatever.

Highly recommended: the Alembic bar cocktail menu for fantastic reading. You do anything else, that's your own fault.

Two pieces of ice? Anyone?

I'm starting this blog now because, well, I need a job. No, I want a job. I could try to live it up for a while on funemployment, but who am I kidding? I come from a blue collar family and have had a job since I was 13. It has really been such a natural progression since then, from filing X-rays in tiny envelopes for the dentist my mother worked for in 1990 to working as a freelance copywriter at Bare Escentuals Beauty in 2009. It all made sense. The next step was always so obvious.

I mean really, I have worked at:

• A movie theater serving popcorn with butter flavoring (not butter) and sweeping up candy wrappers.

• A retirement home serving veggies and other very specific orders (like a glass of water with 2 pieces of ice).

• A department store selling Levi's to teenagers with their moms' credit cards.

• A university's student business office, where I think I did something along the lines of accounts payable but I might have just been filling out forms with multiple carbon copies.

Sigh.

It was all such a natural evolution.

It's too bad where I'm going after Friday, July 31 is a mystery.