Working Girl

And so it was that in the topsy-turvy mobius strip that is my life, I have arrived back at Frame #27: Working At A Cheesy Bar.

It was innocuous enough. Take the register job at an organic chicken and waffles counter, bank on the hostessing shifts at the owners' nicer restaurant to turn into serving tables, this being the real money that will get me through these days of the "reimagination of journalism" and unpaid internships.

And working at the shack is fine in the day, busy as all get-out from the Frisco foodies who groove to the cachet of grabbing tasty po' boy sandwiches from a hard to find alleyway in the ex-industrial area of town. Lines around the block, happy, greasy-fingered people hanging on the loading dock/eating area outside. But at night we close down the window facing the alley and open up to the dance club we share floorspace with, becoming the official supplier of chicken and waffles to the nightlife set. Therein our story takes place.

My first night training was great- it was hip hop/soul night and ?uestlove, the drummer from The Roots was DJing. I got paid to accept free beers from the owners, people watch the immensely chill crowd and bob my head to dope beats.

But my first solo shift fell on all ages night. I didn't even go to all ages night when I was all-aged. I exchanged pleasantries with Marcello, the taciturn Mexican cook who would be my culinary backup for the night, propped myself up on my elbows in our little pickup window and steeled myself for I knew not what.

You know who does go to all ages night? Painfully awkward groups of thirty-something women ("we just want to dance!"), jailbait, the creepers that love them, and greasy faced emo kids clad exclusively in clothes whose unbought cousins are making their inexorable decline towards the Forever 21 clearance rack:

-fedoras

-ill-fitting vests

-80's aerobic gear

-gladiator sandals

-white skinny jeans on men

-nerd glasses

-blazers. everyone in blazers.

Kind of like this, but less matching

But it wasn't just the emo/hipster thing that was offending my delicate sensibilities that night. There was a gleeful ignorance of traditional aesthetics in the club. It was as though the crowd had subscribed to a different rule book of what constituted attractive self-presentation. I had seen this before, but where? A woman twirled by in white Sketchers, black leggings and a pink flannel mini-dress, ruffled and Bedazzled with rhinestones about the shoulders. But of course! They were channeling my old friend, Euro trash!

These are not big chicken buying demographics.

So we make it to 11:35 and the awarkwardness is summiting glorious heights on the dancefloor. One young fellow proudly shuffles up to my window, the crotch of his grey skinny jeans inexplicably bagging down around his knees. Could this be a sale?

"Hey, um, you having fun yet?" he begins, tenatively. I flash him a tight lipped smile, willing patience. Marcello waits expectantly behind me, tongs in hand, a mountain of uncooked hot wings at the ready. Baggy crotch scans my carefully-lettered menu. His jaw drops slightly and he turns back to me.

"So, like, what kind of music do you listen to?"

We sold $21 of product and I rubber-necked a severe drought of social styling for a full four and a half hours. I know you guys here in the "real world" are all about it, but I'm not sure about this whole "job" thing...

In search of a patron,
CD

I Am Purple Nikes!

Just dropped a resume off at this place last week. Sorry, you'll have to copy and paste the link, my html literacy comes in jerks and spurts.


http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/inmarin/detail?entry_id=45934&tsp=1#ixzz0Op6mSCMQ


Love the "I can just drop acid at Denny's for half the price" guy who commented.

But really, I dig on a restaurant who takes an interest in the soul of it's employees. Their website says Cafe Gratitude is a "celebration of aliveness," which I'd much rather eat than a bottom line.

Must be me hitting my month mark of living in San Francisco...


Totally drinking the Kool-Aid,
CD

Santa Cruz

You know it's a good weekend when you're still rocking and rolling on Tuesday. Really, there is no professional commitment we can't fill these days with a computer and mellow Wi-Fi spot, so Erik and I decided to take this show on the road.

We left town on Friday and drove to out to meet Molly and Andrew at a magic Marin County campsite beneath some friendly redwoods. Did you know in California state parks you're not supposed to collect kindling from off the ground? We didn't, but our ranger-buddy did, and let us know after we had ignited a mountain of nice wood in our fire pit. The redwoods need fire to reproduce, he told us. Apparently, the heat makes the pinecones explode and scatter seeds.

The Bay does festival posters right, am I right?

The next day we headed to the Good Festival in Fairfax. The Festival was held in the rich-hippie town's center park and we were fed bowl after bowl of free rice and beans while an intrepid Pakistani band encouraged us to break out the Bollywood spirit fingers. We drank the blackberry-plum sangria we'd made to share and Molly won an hour-long tarot session in the raffle while the curious brand of big-eyed, blonde Rainbow Gathering progeny so prevalent in Marin County frolicked around the picnic blankets.

Sunday we got hilariously lost in West Oakland on the way to making a boatload of new friend's at Camilo's birthday party. Oakland is nice because they have backyards there, and excellent Latin revolutionary-rockers like Camilo.

Here I am admiring the birthday boy's sunglasses. Check out the essential backyard refrigerator in the background. How sick is Allen's fish eye lens?

As the sun set over the grilled tilapia, broccolini and birthday cake, it was time for Erik and I to head home. Back to the foggy city, back to Craig's List, no more of this East Bay wandering woman, get to work! Kind of. See, Allen D., my dear friend from Santa Cruz needed a ride home. And I love Santa Cruz, and well heck, Erik hadn't been there yet. Was there a reason why we had to be home on Monday? Well no, no there wasn't.

So we rocked the accomplished Alero down to Santa Cruz, which is, for the uninitiated, one of my favorite places in California. I used to hang here on jailbreaks from Connecticut in my college days when Anna was at UC Santa Cruz (home of the Fighting Banana Slugs) and it's particular blend of foggy days, bitchin' party waves and organic groceries really floats my boat.

And here we be! Job hunting in Caffee Pergolesi by morn, crusing the boardwalk on local's night (every Monday 75 cent cotton candy and roller coaster rides!), taking in jazz at sleepy little clubs, utilizing all of Allen's VW van's river-tripping and bedroom-providing capabilities. Wearing the same two outfits in rotation, livin' the dream. You can take the backpacker out of the backpack, but not the other way around. (Does that work? I thought of that one myself)

Can't stop ramblin'- what would happen to my travel blog?

Sending you the 'Cruz vibes because I wish you were here,

CD

Yosemite National Forest

My bike seat got stolen today. This is disconcerting. I mean, I've had stuff get stolen off the green Kona before. One time, somebody with absolutely no regard for my personal safety took my front and back lights in Portland while I was inside Hungry Tiger on SE 12th during dollar beer night. Low visibility + probable inebriation = dirty, dirty thief. Still, my seat? That's the keeper of precious cargo. Congratulations, you've seriously impeded my ability to cruise.

San Francisco; it's a jungle out there. I'm by no means down and out, but in regards to the whole "job hunt" thing I will say that the only people thus far that are willing to pay me in monetary funds for my services is a chicken and waffle counter in SoMa. Apparently when it comes to organizations better suited to utilizing my wide-reaching, literacy-oriented skill set, the unpaid internship is the new entry level position.

Which is probably why our camping trip to Yosemite National Park this weekend felt so palate-cleansing. Totally worth the nominally interesting (almond farms! rural traffic jams!) five hour drive out there. Kudos to our crazy rock climbing buddies for suggesting the sojourn.

For those of you who haven't been out there hear me this: go now. Yosemite is the quintessential American Outdoors. It's breath-taking and huge- huge like you can explore it for 40 years and there still will be corners and peaks and glades you haven't seen.

There's a lot in Yosemite to gawk at, but it's rocks are pretty high up on the list. Our party engaged them in different ways. By day, the vertical diversion set was mounting 900 foot pitches while the rest of us entertained ourselves with hiking mountains more suitable for foot traffic.

Like this one. Made halfway up Mt. Dana in my slip-on Vans and a tank top, so extreme.

But by night, we all snuggled together at the totally bootleg campsite Marcello found. Now don't tell them who sent you, but here's directions: you drive through Tioga Pass and take a hard right at the sign for the "Senior Citizens' Summer Camp." Set your tent up by that post that says "No Camping." No one's gonna bother you. Seriously, have you heard about California's budget situation? You think Inyo County is paying rangers to patrol it's far nooks and crannies?

The answer's no. Here's a map. Go to the right of the little people.

So being the Smokey the Bear conscious children of the 80's we are, we totally were not going to have a fire. Dry brush? July in California? Not a good idea, no way... but then we chatted up some fly fishers from Southern Cali, who, charmed by our banter, thoughtfully donated a slew of trout to our cause. What to do? Couple hours later, Team Yosemite was assembled around a cheerful flame, passing nacho pots, fish nuggets and that ever-loving campsite accessory, Vitamin W (that's whiskey, for the non-medically inclined).

Two rules around the campfire:

1. You must take a little of whatever is passed to you.

2. You must pass everything.

Follow these guidelines and you will make fast friends. I met a bunch of fine souls around that flame, all San Franciscans, all transplants from different parts of the world. And none of them had a job on arrival to the big, bad city. Most were sleeping on their sister's friend's neighbor's couch, or some such place. I didn't ask them, but I'll wager at least one of them has had their bike seat stolen.

Come check me at the chicken shack! Limited time only... maybe.

love,
cd