My Triumphant Debut as a Stoner Film Critic!

I'll be like the Cheech & Chong of Siskel & Ebert!

But seriously folks, here's my very first interview for the San Francisco Bay Guardian, with my editor's photo captions. Be forewarned: it is rated PG-13 and we spend time talking about Mr. T. But it's the beginning of big things, and I knew all the folks at home who are wondering what the devil I'm doing down here in San Francisco will appreciate regardless.

Whoop whoop!
CD

In Which San Francisco Impresses Me With Free Things And I Shoot A Sea Urchin

It was kind of cruel if you ask me. My manager Christian had an invitation to an "Exposicion Exclusivo de Mezcales Artisanales" (Exclusive Exposition of Artisan Mezcals) and he had tacked it to the bulletin board at work to stare at us as we boxed wings and breasts and potato salad.

It was kind of like "look how cool I am, I go to exclusive booze fiestas. Don't you wish people wanted you to drink their artisan mezcal instead of just bag their french fries and wings?" I suppose he felt bad about it (after I affixed a Post-It note to invite that expressed my thoughts on the matter), so yesterday, the day of the fest, he commuted his exclusive invite to yours truly. "Better RSVP now," he cautioned.

So here's me RSVPing.
Voicemail message: "Hi, you've reached bla bla bla. Bla bla bla. If you're RSVPing for the mezcal party, leave your name and the name of the restaurant you represent."
Me: (professional voice) "Hello, this is Caitlin Donohue of _____ restaurant and I'd like to RSVP for two. If you don't call me back I'll assume we're on the list."

It's fair to say I do not make the liquor buying decisions for the restaurant I work for. But, as a hostess two nights a week, I do come into contact with lots of liquor buying guests. Surely, this is a position of influence that artisan mezcal makers cannot well overlook.

It didn't even matter, anyways. Erik and I rolled up on our bikes to a long line in front of the club wherein the party was being held, a line that terminated at two large men who merely sniffed at my Oregon driver's license (I'll admit, the card's seen better days) and waved us through.

Inside we were bombarded with a club stuffed with Mexicana. Everywhere. Necklaces with strobing Mary medallions flashing red and green. Small men wandering about with mariachi guitars. Mayan inspired animal masks I refused to put on (what was this, Eyes Wide Shut?), odd life sized wooden dolls of old men and sheep wearing dresses. Agave plants.

And refreshments! A table full of tamales and tortilla chips, and most importantly, a bar full of Los Danzantes mezcal. For those of you who don't know, mezcal, like tequila is an alcohol made from fermenting the agave plant. But where tequila purveyors remove the pulp and other solids from the agave before putting it all in the still, mezcal is fermenting pulp and all. This lends it a much richer flavor, smokier and spicier than tequila. Mezcal, contrary to popular belief, is the one that gets the worm in the bottle that is said to produce hallucinations.

Agave plant. Looks like an artichoke

Donkey making mezcal. Clever donkey.

I didn't take those two pictures by the way. I don't know who did, either.

This being San Francisco, we couldn't drink the liquor without some trendy gimmick, and true to form the mezcal shooters each had a small piece of sea urchin in the bottom of the glass. I wouldn't say it was the best entree to sea urchin, but whatever, I appreciate the gesture.

So anyways, we got drunk, fed and stocked up on all the Mexican souveniers we didn't buy while we were actually in Mexico. For free! Oh, and a leggy blonde took a photo of Erik and I with her 35mm that I'm sure will immortalize me on some crappy nightlife website as being drunk and awkward-looking.

A job well done. The moral? Pester your boss about anything and everything. This will get results.

Much love,
CD

Slow Food Eat-In

Not sit-in or walk-out or picket line, but eat-in. An eat-in is my kind of protest. This is how we change the world, people: free food.

Between my restaurant gig and a brief internship at Roots of Change, a local food sutainability organization, I've been spending a large chunk of my waking life immersed in the pleasures of a locally sourced diet.

It's easy to do here, San Francisco kicks ass at sustainable food. There are three weekly farmer's markets within a few blocks of our apartment and you can't throw a stick in this town without it landing in someone's beet gazpacho at a new organic restaurant. Michael Pollan is beginning to rival Barack as San Francisco's change-spouting favorite- although the Prez recently gained ground when the First Lady planted a vegetable garden on the White House's front lawn.

Have you seen this thing? More newsworthy than her latest shift dress.

I like this, because food is delicious. Eating has beaten out door-knocking as my favorite way to save the world (yes Mom, I know you have to do both).

This is why on Labor Day the boy and I cooked us a mess of rice and pinto beans, bungeed it to our bike rack and rolled out to the Slow Food Eat-In, a community potluck on a grand scale. It took place right in front of San Francisco's majestic City Hall to publicize the Child Nutrition Act, which is leglislation due to be reauthorized soon that can amp up our country's commitment to healthy food in public schools. Keep all the kiddies bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and diabetes-free!

Yesterday was a sunny indian summer kind of day and there were several long tables dotted with contributions from our fellow activists. This being San Francisco, home of the foodie fanatic, most offerings were a bit more sophisticated than the twenty-something standard we'd brought. I'm talking coconut quinoa with squash, massive wheels of sharp yellow artesan cheese, gorgonzola studded heirloom tomatos, cabbage salad with tangerines and crunchy japanese noodles... I could go on, but you get it. It was a nice spread.

You can't really blame the park's regular occupants for forgetting to bring a casserole of their own to contribute, and to be fair it did look somewhat like an outdoor soup kitchen. At one point a tall white guy in a soiled Giants hat walked up with his tablecloth bedecked lady friend and began addressing the Tupperware containers in a manner that suggested it had been a long time since their last roasted local lamb shish kabob. A Slow Food volunteer arrived to address the situation.

"So, sir, this is an event to publicize the Child Nutrition Act... It's for healthy food in schools? Did you bring a dish to share?" Her political teachings met a blank stare from the would-be activist. She tried a different tack. "So, like, I can't have you... taking 25 things and then there won't be any for- try to not take too much, okay?" She turned, and, satisfied with the exchange both resumed their duties, the volunteer returning to the seed-planting table and the hobo to making a large dent in the mushroom tabouli. Truly heartwarming to see individuals from distinct walks of life coming together to make a difference.

We left after listening to speeches from a kid from a recent San Francisco high school grad who had planted a kitchen garden on campus, a stoked politician and a doctor who'd written a book on the wisdom of the indigenous diet. We were up some oregano and spearmint seedlings, but down the Tupperware container that had housed our rice and beans, which seemed to have been appropriated by a fellow warrior for food justice who wanted to bring the good word to his buddies' bellies in the Tenderloin.

Anything for the cause,
Sister Caitlin

Paramount Theater

Erik scored some last minute tickets via Craig's List ("craigslist"? What is the proper grammerfication of that name? Ridiculous the amount of times I've had to use it in professional correspondence) to Mos Def and Erykah Badu's show at the Paramount Theater in downtown Oakland on Friday.

And we can talk about the show. What do you know about Erykah Badu live? If there is a diva of our day, it is Erykah. The lady rocks my world in dashiki-and-hair-wrap mode just as much as she did in her 50's belted dress, four inch heels and tight afro at the concert. She holds down. She opened for Mos Def, which I thought was a questionable order of operations until the Mighty Mos took the stage and killed it. In rolled up slacks, old penny loafers and pink striped socks. 'Ms. Fat Booty' and a moonwalking rendition of Billie Jean. I think hip hop artists are contractfully obligated to do one MJ cover at every public appearance these days.

So the concert was great. But what set the performances into the 'epic' stratosphere was their setting. The Paramount Theater. The most beautiful venue I've ever seen:

Photo by BWChicago

Art Deco porno. Excessive elegance. I was underdressed, which is a distressing occurance in the life of Caitlin. The above is the view of the stage from the nosebleeds, which is roughly where we were sitting until my enterprising boyfriend decided it wasn't good enough for up and coming A-Listers. Fast forward twenty minutes and we were in the third row, ground floor with ample room to get down for Mos Def. Thusly I am able to comment on the intricacies of his wardrobe for you, the reader at home.

You Are Very Welcome,

CD

P.S. Guess who is the newest intern at the San Francisco Bay Guardian, the defining independent alternative weekly in the United States? That'd be Caity D! Check out their culture blog , where I will ostensibly be posting to on a mega-regular basis in a few weeks.

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