Butter breakfast and return of the Hudgebend



With C away to L.A., Ms Amanda and I go for butter breakfast at Tartine in the Mission. The dreamy creamy coconut cream pie! Can life get any better. I cry- it was better than the pie of our imaginations with surprise chocolate lining and soft caramel hiding at the bottom. After two bites, I shamefully forgot all about my current favorite the Crixa Boston Creampie. But I now I have to run back to Crixa to do a taste comparison.



C had gone to attend the closing gala of the L.A. Independent Film Festival as he had designed a poster for them; Doug used this opportunity to squeeze 6 free tickets out of them. I refused to go as me and Doug, we are like the fox, the goose and the sack of grain- plus I had Butter Breakfast to attend. Doug had 2 copies of the poster at the gallery and requested C sign them. C asked what Doug wanted written, and Doug said "With Love, Chris. Just like Andy used to..." C said slowly "Andy? Andy Goldsworthy?" Although Doug was insulted, he said "Uh yeah. Andy Goldsworthy." But then Doug's pride couldn't withstand it so he said "Uh no. Andy Warhol."* I think cheap shots don't get you anywhere, but Joel was ever proud C slyly showed Doug.





*No insult to anyone who likes Andy Goldsworthy, but in the world of fine art, Goldsworthy is for housewives and the like.

Badasses vs the DuWAL Club



While waiting for our Picante takeout, a tough bald guy in leather pants and leather vest, moustache and mirrored sunglasses walked past me really slowly giving me the badass look. I had my suspicious porkpie hat on so I put my chin out and gave him my best "eyes under the brim" look. Then I practiced my Vin Diesel imitations. I kept looking over my left shoulder firming up my jaws to a menacing grimace. I figure it might come in handy at work tomorrow. C was not impressed, but what does he know about being a badass action hero.



C keeps threatening to start an official DuWAL Dudes with Asian Ladies club. Berkeley and the bay area is generally littered with such pairs although LaWADs are harder to spot. Every time we go anywhere, C tortures me with "Check it out. A DuWAL!" right in front of the unsuspecting parties. Or even worse, he mutters "Tut tut, does not know the joys of being a full DuWAL" when he sees a dude with a lady of mixed heritage. Gross! Why do guys love embarrassing their ladies in public at the expense of themselves? I swear these deviant behaviors did not emerge until we were safely married.

Pizza Jazz



Even if life doesn't always go your way and mean dogs nip at your heels, it's nice to put on a jazz cd and lie down on the couch. I bought the Cheese Board recordings for Big J and I've been just listening to it all this week, a real rough one to be sure- the week I mean. The CD is a treasure. You can hear the clanging of pizza pans and people ordering half pies along with the top notch jazz. I think I'll support a few more musicians and buy a few more copies.



C surprised me with a Boston cream pie and slice of pave. It took me such a long time to recognize a suspicious box with red magic markered hearts, C just shook his head and baldly pointed it out to me. When everything else is rough waters outside, there is nothing like cake and a hug for dinner. Much better than a lonely shot of whiskey.



I saw photos of the parents of the Korean man who was beheaded at work today. I think I held my heart a few minutes. Despite all that goes terrible in the world, I just have the jazz today.

Summer Solstice



Tomorrow, Monday is the longest day of the year, and after that it's all a slow march to winter. I was busily chopping wood and if I had pouches in my cheeks, they would be full of nuts.



C and I got the semi Berkeley feel at Amanda's Summer Solstice Potluck Picnic. We were instructed to write on slips of paper what we wanted to grow and what we wanted to prune; metaphorically that is although I did wrote Okinawa purple sweet potatoes after crossing out okra. Then each person jumped over the fire after throwing the note in the flames. As expected, noone's shorts caught on fire. For the full Berkeley feel, there needs to be a moon dance and some nakedness involved- I think.



Larry Update: C borrowed a jackhammer from Larry who borrowed it from the tough guy neighbor to drill out our sidewalk in completion of a very grave matter. A few months back, Larry had seemed skeptical and amused when I explained to him the necessity of moving the entrance to the side and blocking/diverting potential bad feng shui in the front with a dry rock wall. But today, Larry silently reappeared wearing sound blockers and wordlessly helped C pry out pieces of cement. That Larry is alright!



Italy Update: Sof and I finally got our tickets in order. We started out right with a few cakes at Crixa- the Boston Cream Pie is mmmm mmm fabulous. We settled on flying to Rome with Continental in case we might snag first class upgrades. Then to reward ourselves for all the hard work, we gobbled up a few figs and blueberries while C pried, gutted, pounded and barbequed abalone. I invited Wolf since his lady is away, and he ate very delicately and in small nibbles. I asked him if he knew any cute but straight single men for Sof. He had to think very hard, then he said, "Hmm. That is a hard one. I do know someone who's just gotten divorced..."

Weekend Midwiving



C finally made use of his home-made spear gun and brought home a pair of perch along with the regulation limit of abalones. Perch rove in numerous schools about the kelp forest so one just snorkels above to pick out the fattest juiciest ones. While cleaning the plumper one, C noticed a little one popping out. Who doesn't get excited at discovering perch are live bearing. Massaging the belly with his index finger, C coaxed out a few more. C was so excited he yelled for me. After about 12 more still births, I just went inside the house. The perch held 22 in all, a feast for the chickens.

Today on Bart I saw a girl with really messy but cute pig tails. I just wanted to yank on them.

I suppose if I behaved exactly as I like with other people, I would have given swift kicks to the nuts belonging to a great many men I work with. Okay okay just a handful. Okay okay just a pinch on the arm. So much simpler than verbal whipping and point better taken. But our society doesn't take nut kicking kindly. Since this is my blog, I can talk tough all I want.

Pastiche Pie & Encouraging Neurogenesis



Yes writer's block. I really want to hear some Disco Shawn or Mon Amie but instead get bad retro with Velvet Einstein on KALX. C made me a mug of gingerbread tea with milk so I'm only getting cozy thoughts involving home decoration instead of sharp ones which strain the muscles in the frontal lobe.



Larry update. Our neightbor Larry, massage therapist and general relaxed guy, told C we can borrow his cabin in Mendocino anytime. Everyone should have a neighbor named Larry.



Gleaned from junking out on the web:

"bloated buildings, filled with a thousand superfluities"

in reference to private houses skimmed from nyt on sprawl.

Snorkel gods of Chongos Zamoranos

I was hunting about in a coastal Mendocino grocery shop when I spotted this baby. I said hmm, $5.95 for a can in the middle of nowhere, it must be really really special. Hmm, I must put this in my basket.



Chongos has 4 ingredients milk,sugar,cinnamon, rennet although it should be really only 3 - sugar, rubber, and squeak. The clotted bits squeak while you chew; the sugar enough to give one diabetes. I just hung my head in shame for forcing my friends to eat this weird rubbery dairy treat. It could have been heaven in a can, for which I am willing to go through any amount of excitement.



I have this imminent feeling I might eat a fine dessert any minute, but instead I sit down to faithfully report my snorkel adventures to you dear reader. I really wanted warm bread pudding but sadly I've only got the leftover can of squeaky Chongos Zamoranos waiting for me.



So many a reason why one shouldn't dip one's body and toe in the Pacific ocean around here. When one shivers and huddle for warmth on the beaches during the summer, it does not seem advisable to plunk in and enjoy shivering and huddling wet in the water. Plus what could possibly be seen down there in the murky milky waters- probably kelp and more kelp- who hasn't already seen the tangle which washes upon shore. Th last reason had to do with renting a suit as my 3 mil suit won't do; a cold water suit should be at least a respectable 7 mil. I am suspicious of dive suit rentals since everyone pees in their suits. C said I could just wear his 3 mil suit on top of my 3 mil suit; I worried cold water would flush the areas which are loose in the wrong places. Ladies, if you are wearing a man's dive suit, it definitely is loose about the crotch. C had bought me a new hoodie and gloves, and had sweetly put them in a brown paper bag with hearts around my name so I could not not go in the water now.



The sheer visual delight of snorkeling in Russian Gulch made all my worries quite silly. All covered body parts were toasty and snug, visibility was an unexpected 30 feet. I was happily surprised by the underwater seascape of iridescent kelp, eel grass, pink coral forests. I told C and Gavin to go away to their abalone diving while I cruised the reefs alone. I trippily floated along the undulations of the kelp trying to catch their bluish purple iridescence. There is no freedom like buoyancy. And when I finally was forced to beach, it was not the cold but queasiness.



But one and last reason for a cold water dive- nothing tastes better than food eaten after a cold water dive.

Cake for lunch



My life has as of late become a run-on sentence, prepositional clause after prepositional clause and unfinished intentions. This can happen when you let punctuation occur too naturally. There is one solution for such a condition: to indulge in a meal composed entirely of cakes from the best bakery in town. One must find a partner in crime, not easy these days as no one is proud of pudge even if it's pudge from the finest buttery treats one could eat. Big J, my natural partner, is 3000 miles away so S, my icecream partner at work, happily obliged me this Friday noon.



Crixa cakes has upseated Massa's for being best bakery in town. Massa's is all about stiff buttery treats, but sometimes a girl wants to enjoy without too much chewage. So lunch was all about

1. ginger cake(moist and solid)

2. apple walnut cake(ditto)

3. chocolate rum quad layer cake (pushing up type b diabetes in the bay area)

4. frou frou almond rose concoction (for some lace underwear lady out there, but nobody at the table)

5. obligatory pave (still fabulous as ever)

6. coconut tapioca (no chewing, but topping of toasted coconut and shaved almonds might have pushed it over the top)



Between mouthfuls of cake and dollops of fresh whipped cream , I was trying to convince S to reserve running shoes for running and get more hip shoes. This is all in the name of upping his gay appeal. S is a fine fellow to be sure but looking like a dorky young dad about to go to the gym is no way to attract a gay soulmate. Grubby running shoes are universal deal breakers, gay or not gay.



C, who is now officially on a diet(my own hudgebend saying no to butter can you believe it) also met us just to sip coffee. He was poo-pooing my expertise on all such matters demanding pedigree and experience. C didn't believe I understood the rules of attraction between gay men. Come on. I so know all about it! I apprenticed under the original expert on all human nature, EJ. Even S appeared to have been convinced for the need for upgrading to casual stylish gay apparel. Clean clothes never hurt the cause.



*On a bizarre side note, our executive admin came to my desk asking me if I wanted what looked like a wrinkly never worn white shirt with the yellowed price tag still hanging off it's exaggerated cuffs. They had been cleaning out the closet and found this thing with frill ties hiding in a box; none of the guys in the near area would own up to having anything to do with it. I told her I was "not pirate enough" to be it's new owner.

Ode to greasy grease-soaked lumps of greasy goodness



C and I ventured to dine at India Chaat and Sweets- you know the place, that bad karma location on University and 8th. Masala dosa was a'ight but all else came straight from deep fry double fry hell. Greasiness is not a crime unto itself- who hasn't relished funnel cake fried up in oil of dubious origin*- but greasiness combined with stale and dry, it's evil to make people waste their grease points that way. Had I any balls, I would have promptly thrown the fish pakoras back to the kitchen yelling in my best old lady Chinese voice "I no eat refry leftover from buffet. I no pay for this. I not even feed to my chiken. You bad restaurant! Baaaadd! Bu hao bu hao!" But since C and I are gentle folk, we paid 14% tip and left without a word.



*I always get good fuzzy feelings thinking about funnel cake. I've been fortunate enough to enjoy it's greasy goodness no less than thrice total in my short life. Funnel cake has unjustly held fantasy food status in my imagination due to the sheer rarity of encountering it. I even think a dream date somehow involves enjoying funnel cake together. (Since C doesn't even read this blog, what's the point sigh...) Oh funnel cake, will I ever meet you again.

Sweet Art of Napping & a Visit to Mistress Blacksnips



I declare there is no sweeter sleep than can be had on a porch swing on a breezy Sunday afternoon. Sweet even when someone keeps sneaking up on you to pluck out a leg hair while you innocently snooze; I attribute such dangers to wearing capris without shaving one's legs.



This weekend I've finally gotten my napping system down. Front chaise lounge under the canopy for luncheon nap. Back porch swing under the shade for mid afternoon nap. Now that the chickens are safe under lockdown, I can nap in the back yard without fear of me eyes being pecked. Leg hair pluckers are a minor nuisance compared to Patrice's beak.



I took my front rose bushes to Mistress Blacksnips for some well needed discipline. Roses in the back go to a gentler Mistress Greensnips. Of all the gardening tasks, I'm a most serious pruner constantly on the prowl for scraggly growth. Plants are never afraid to grow.

Plum Gone

A badly placed planter caused C to trip over and run straight into the plum sapling we planted in March. To add insult to injury, the open box of screws he was holding flew and scattered about the garden. When C called me in exasperation- it was guilty me who had placed that no good pot right in front of everyone's way- I excitedly said, "What about the one plum?" Our tree had but one lonely green plum which had taken fruit from a meagre cluster of blooms; a frosty green thing which I loved to focus on when I sat on the back porch swing. Too belatedly I sheepishly asked "Are you okay." Too late as C was sniffy and miffy. In the doghouse again...