I Love and Hate Everything

Getting EDGEy

2010-10-25T11:01:00.000-07:00

Well, well, well.

As if sporadic, self-indulgent posts weren't enough of a slap in the face, I've now gone and blogged--gasp--somewhere else.

That's right, I Love and Hate Everything! You're not the only blog in my life.

And you know what? I don't care who knows! I can't be tied down!

Read about my top-three people-watching hotspots in midtown over at Metro EDGE's blog here!

And for those weary souls redirected to this blog, you can either elect to relink back to Metro EDGE, and so forth and so on, creating a never-ending blogging loop from which there is no escape.

Or! You can feel free to poke around these tawdry halls for nuggets from my own angsty and disorderly oeuvre.

Up next: A picture!

Enjoy.

Rent Boy

2010-09-02T12:22:00.000-07:00

Oh, blog.

Stop sitting here so woebegone and neglected, so cobwebby and stale. With your links, your self-reflection. Your judgment!

Yes, stop please. And start helping me with a more noble endeavor: Housing!

Were I able to move my IKEA bed and weathered coffee table into a sunlit corner of I Love and Hate Everything's cozy halls, I would. But I can't. So instead, this echoing chamber of snark and twentysomething angst will today serve as a community bulletin board.

And triumphantly tacked to it? A personal ad for that most personal of relationships: a roommate.
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That's right, long-suffering readers.

Richelle and I--we of the hilariously juxtaposed height difference, the Kardashian impressions, the Press Club explosions--have had a great run, but will be closing the chapter on our co-habitation at the end of this month. She and her sister are joining forces in Boulevard Park.

And I, tethered to midtown by both heart and soul, must find new housing by the end of this month. As in September. As in 28 days later. As in ... zombies.

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And so, readers, that's where you come in!

Please help me snag an awesome new living situation right here in midtown. Or East Sac. Or Land Park. I'm not terribly picky, I just know what I like.

If you know of anyone who has a great place in the area--and who is looking for a smart, hip (sometimes) blogger to share the bills with (who isn't, really?)--please pass along my info.

Ideally? Here's my wish list:

2 bedroom, 2 bath
$650 range, including utils, wireless, weekly masseuse (jokes!)
A clean, smart, sensible roommate
I'm looking to maintain a home, not just some place to crash and trash
Smoking's fine--outside
Doggies and kittehs are great, as long as I don't have to clean up after them.
A fellow young professional? Late 20s, early 30s. Meaning quiet time by 10 p.m. on weeknights
They should enjoy, or at least tolerate, the company of this one
I'm not necessarily looking for a BFF, just a non-creeper, non-psycho
Please have furniture and a TV, a modicum of taste, and maybe a Scrabble board.

So there you have it.

My first blog post in months and it's not all about me. It's also about my awesome new roommate.

I know s/he exists. Perhaps wishing, somewhere out there, beneath the pale blue sky, for someone like me to share a sweet midtown flat with.

So do your social media magic, reader. Your texting and your tweeting and your Reddit! Maybe an old fashioned carrier pigeon for good measure. I would definitely appreciate help in networking my way into a swell new house or apartment with an equally swell human being who can watch me blog about how swell it is to live in midtown with them.

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In all seriousness, please keep your eyes and ears open for anybody in your network who has a two-bedroom in midtown, Land Park or East Sac, and needs a roommate.

I've got a few prospects on Craigslist, but thought I'd cast as wide a net as possible--with all four of my readers--in the paper-thin hope that my new dream apartment with perfect roommate accessory is just an email tip away:

jdschuller [at] gmail [dot] com.

And now, some picures!

It's as if these pictures say, "Look at my varied interests! My joie de vivre! My reliability!" Such a tolerance of popsicles and Dalmations.

An easy sell.

Plus: lion costume. Need I say more?

On the Rag

2010-04-01T16:51:00.000-07:00

Yes, the new issue of Sactown is out. And it's pretty awesome.

Inside: Local companies making an international splash like Beantrees and Gregory Mountain Products; Marc Kallweit's stunning photo essay on the Capitol; plus a review of House Kitchen & Bar and a call for Sacramentans to dream green.

So go buy like 10 copies. RIGHT NOW.

As the Crow Tries

2010-03-26T10:46:00.000-07:00

Yogi I am not.

As a testament to that fact, I still suppress a giggle when I hear the word "yogi." Because in my 12-year-old mind, it immediately heralds a terrible Yogi Bear impression ("Ehhhh Boo-Boo! Pick-a-nick baskeht!"), not the deep-seeded connectivity, respect and enlightenment befitting a dedicated practitioner.

Because I'm just not that guy.

I really have no idea what a chakra is. I try and leave my ego at the studio door, but that's hard to do when it's my ego alone that is preventing a cataclysmic fart during Happy Baby. And I spend most of the opening "Ommmm" sequence trying, unsuccessfully, to just harmonize with the rest of the participants. Needless to say, I usually fall flat.

But I love yoga.

There I said it!

It's strange. I've never been a devoted practitioner. I know none of the melodic Sanskrit names for its poses and movements. There is something so foreign about the whole wheatgrassy scene; but within that strange, musty world, there's also a welcomed sincerity rarely encountered in my day-to-day. Sometimes I'll go an entire year between sessions, yet the moment I root back into the mat, it's like I only just left.

Something about the experience keeps me dawdling back for more.

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Who wants some overshare? You do!

In recent months, I found myself in the intoxicating throws of a new relationship. It was awesome. Sincere, heartfelt, wonderful. But like I learned through a Zuda Yoga session a few years ago, everything in life (love and pain included) is temporary.

Things crumbled apart in that sad, inevitable way that relationships do sometimes. A rift became a chasm, and before I knew it, another season had quietly passed and everything around me became sharp and silent again.

In the aftermath (the spesh past month or so), I found myself feeling a little lost in the settling dust. Work was annoying. I got horribly sick. It rained a lot.

My typical routine at Cal Fit provided its usual outlet for physical stress relief. But mentally, I needed a break. Bench presses and walking lunges are great. But I still couldn't shut out the cawing din of the hum-drum day (not to mention: his crippling smile) between sets.

I needed a workout that challenged both body and mind. An internal Spring cleaning, I guess.

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Enter: Asha Yoga.

If you've been to the MARRS building at 20th and K (other tenants include Newsbeat, Azul and Mr. Pickles), you've probably noticed the serene little studio tucked away into its concrete folds, right next to Lounge on 20.

They're offering an unlimited 10-day trial for $20 right now, so I figured I'd give it a shot. Clutching my new blue yoga mat from Target (so legit!), I shuffled into Asha for a 6 o'clock "Dynamic Yogi" class with instructor Linda Wagner.

Now, what always catches me off-guard in these studios is their strange, gauzy atmosphere. You know what I mean. It's always jarring, as an occasional practitioner and full-time young professional, to enter a space where everyone appears lithe and languorous--like they're floating around on their own personal clouds of organic fabric and self-satisfaction.

Simple concerns like time and space hold little meaning. Cares melt away. Chakras open.

Of course, it's about this time that Professor McJudgingpants began to rear his snarky head. It was about 10 minutes before my class began, so I decided to poke around the pastel-colored merchandise, trying to clear my mind (and my attitude) and not make snap judgment calls about the New Age self-help guides or the breathy desk attendant. It was like the place was in one continuous state of freeing exhale while I uncomfortably held my breath and, just barely, my tongue.

Then suddenly, as I ran an index finger along the spine of Khalil Gibran's The Prophet and listened in on the soft, lap-lappy banter of the gathering herd of middle-aged women, I decided this hempy bazaar was exactly where I needed to be. Anonymous, new and without pretext--I could safely leave my own reeling universe at the door for an hour and a half, embrace the sincerity and just breathe.

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Needless to say, the workout was great.

I like the Vinyasa technique (practice? variation? style?) because it emphasizes strength training while still providing the connectivity and flow that yoga is all about. Within minutes, I was fully immersed: Down Dog, Cobra, Warrior I & II. Sweat poured over me, breath flowed from me, joints creaked and sighed into action--remembering their purpose.

But mostly, it just let me clear my mind.

Funny how a focused attention on breath and movement--the most primal and ancient of things--can be the key to refocusing thought. Everything had been so cluttered, so convoluted. Personal finances, the economy, deadlines at work, deadlines outside of work ... heartache. Unmoored, I was just adrift.

But in that sweaty, burning hour, nothing else mattered. My only job here? Focus on the movement, feel the breath. And slowly, for the first time in weeks, I felt the fog move away.

Each yogi has their own philosophy and personal approach they bring to their practice. Linda, with her plucky little walk and jovial grin, talked about the effortless change of the seasons. How a time of transition can be unnerving, but also powerful. Again, this idea of change and temporariness in all things. A cliche and sappy little morsel, sure. But important nonetheless.

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So by the time Crow pose came around, I was emboldened enough to try something new. (BTW, I love the look on that guy's face in the link. I imagine he's thinking, "Oh, this old pose? I'm doing it in corduroy!" I really do.)

Crow pose for me has never really been an option. I think I once attempted the maneuver, only to collapse into a rickety somersault. Like my roommate, I usually just sit it out in Child's pose--a discreet eye fixed on the room for other hilarious attempts at flight. But on this day, it felt right.

Now just imagine, for a moment, me, in that position. All knobby-kneed and hairy, sweat catching the dim halogen glow. Six feet, three inches of man crouching nervously like some alien creature in cut-off sleeves. (Yes.) The other limber ladies in the room floated effortlessly into the fold as Linda sensed trouble on my side of the hardwood floor. Fluttering over, she talked me through the prep (knees up near your shoulders, arms slightly bent, fingers splayed, head up).

By this time, I'm pretty sure my various attempts qualified as a scene. I could sense the curious gaze (part horror, part wonder?) of the other students as they watched this gangly giraffe monster, this mess, begin its unnatural, lurching ascent into Crow.

Sensing nervousness, Linda asked: "Do you really want to do this?"
"Yes," I replied. A bead of sweat puttering to my mat.

Slowly, ever so shakily, I eased into the lift. A heaving, quaking Celtic knot. Suddenly, I was there.

"You're doing it!" cried Linda.

Richelle asked me earlier what it felt like to hit the pose. Physically, it engaged every single muscle: arms, legs, core, back.

Mentally? I can only describe it as that thunderclap of clarity and wholeness that comes when you achieve complete balance. And I don't mean "balance" in some intangible, bullshit spiritual sense. I mean a pure physical-mental jolt of connectivity. When your body is fully engaged and completely in sync with itself. Mentally, that moment--a Nirvana of synapses and breath--ushered in a sense of clarity and peace I hadn't experienced in a long time.

Instantly, it's as if the tangled collage in my mind unhinged and fell apart. Pieces cracked and torn, sliding, fluttering downward: the searing email at work; the marbly rattle in an idling engine; a crease in the cotton where I still see him.

It all came apart.

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Six seconds, tops.

That's how long I'm estimating I held onto Crow. Soon, I was back on the mat: shaken, enlivened, not really sure what just happened. From around me came the most earnest applause I've ever heard. The bendy, granola crowd was appeased.

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Like I said, I'm no Yogi by any stretch.

But something always keeps me coming back for more.

Austin Bound

2009-10-22T15:39:00.000-07:00

Oh, blog.

How much have I dropped the ball around here? Answer: a lot.

There were promises of a post about my interlude with CariDee English (of ANTM fame) and Jonathan Waud from Make Me a Supermodel 2.

But alas, once my reality stargazing died down (after several Kamikazes), I began to realize any attempt to recap the Capital Fashion Awards would be like when someone insists on telling you about a weird dream they had once. The events are totally relevant and interesting to them. But you, their caged interlocutor, are now left to sit and listen to some wandering, subconscious narrative. And quench the hate-fire within.

So I'm not going to do that today.

Rest assured however that my experience as a last-minute presenter for Best Salon is definitely going on my life's resume. If only for the fact that my co-presenter was--just wait--Bobby Trendy. Yes, that Bobby Trendy.

Fun facts you may not know about BT: he is launching a celebrity dog-walking business; he invested his Anna Nicole money in real estate; he has a firm handshake; he's convinced I should move to L.A. and model, though I'm fairly sure the subtext was that I should just move to L.A. and walk dogs for him. (Which would probably be a pay raise)

And his outfit that night was apparently inspired by by this! Lepore lips and all. (Only slightly regretting my decision not to take him up on the offer for peppermint martinis back at his hotel room. Now there's a blog post.)

Also: I'M GOING TO AUSTIN THIS WEEKEND!

I will be at the wit and whimsy of Ms. Austin Eavesdropper herself (an old friend from the early days of Sactown). If you're not familiar with this fire-haired spirit, read this and fall in love, like everyone else, with Tolly Moseley.

So hopefully a weekend of southern comfort deep in the heart of Texas will deliver some great posts. Or a great post.

(read: photo montage)

In the Mix

2009-10-07T16:26:00.000-07:00

Preface: So I covered this for the mag on Friday and have so much to dish but oh my God can't seem to sew together a coherent narrative to save my life. It will come. Eventually. And then you shall hear about the supernova of specialness that transpired.

In the meantime...

If you're 40 and under, you should be coming to the first-ever "In the Mix" networking event hosted by Metro EDGE! I would post the flyer, but the file is being difficult and I'm running out of patience/time/energy/care. So here's the logo:

Metro EDGE is the new young professionals group launched through the Sacramento Metro Chamber of Commerce.

I sit on the communications committee because a) it's good to get involved with organizations and activities outside of work that don't involve my DVR and b) it's a fantastic opportunity to come together with like-minded YPs in the Sacramento region who want to have a hand in the future of the River City.

The event is open to anyone who wants to attend. Meaning you, player (I'm having a Carmen Sandiego moment).

So just because you're not a member yet doesn't mean you can't come and enjoy Happy Hour prices and delicious cocktails at Cosmo Cafe (10th and K). Coupled with smart, informed conversation with some of the city's top professionals, this is a great way to unwind from a long week.

I N F O
Where: Cosmo Cafe (10th & K)
When: Friday, Oct. 9; 5:30-7:30
Why: Because we're awesome. Also, 10% of all bar sales are being generously donated by the Paragary Restaurant Group right back to Metro EDGE.

Bottoms up, Sac YPs.

Addendum: CC's birthday celebration is this Friday as well. Which basically means that I'll be shedding any and all professionalism come 7:30 and gearing up for the mayhem at Social Nightclub later that evening. Dear Friday, come sooner.

Makeover

2009-09-29T09:00:00.000-07:00

Yes, the place is under construction.

Gone are the hot air balloons! And in like sin is my sweet new logo designed by Sactown's art director, Jason Malmberg. As I fiddle around with HTML and spacing, just think of this awkward phase as I Love and Hate Everything's version of the ANTM makeover. I'll chop some split ends, add a few extensions, play with colors. Cry.

I'm just hoping the final product isn't the blog equivalent of a white-girl weave.

Volunteering is Hot

2009-09-25T11:18:00.000-07:00

Dear Indian Summer,

Check the calendar. Because it's officially Autumn. So let's just pump the brakes on this bullsh*t triple-digit heat you're throwing my way this weekend and kindly S that D--shut it down.

As ever,
Jon

That said, I'd like to announce a couple things. A) I'm clearly in a mood and B) I'll be volunteering at Soil Born Farms tomorrow for Hands on Sacramento Day. In 100-degree heat!

I'm not entirely sure what the volunteering entails (this one signed us up), but I'm imagining a gardening music montage with inner-city youth, so that's fun. Also, this? But really, I'll probably be shoveling manure.

In all seriousness, it should be a great opportunity to see how a working urban farm operates.

I like that they're committed to organic food production and spotlighting hands-on, community efforts at promoting local agriculture. Plus, gardening's fun!

I was going to close this out with some obnoxious kicker about sowing my wild oats and plowin' dat field, but it's been a long week.

Why soil such a nice post? (chomp)

Model Behavior

2009-09-23T10:14:00.000-07:00

So deadline's over.

Yes, that dark, bi-monthly shadow hath passed. The Oct/Nov issue of Sactown is at the printer and a sickly calm--not unlike a hangover--has settled in the quaking, twilight space that is our office for the remainder of this week.

Which is perfect timing. Because this happened last week on ANTM (the shorties season!):

That comes courtesy of the incomparable Rich at fourfour, btw.

Then this happened in the grand ballroom of the Elks Tower downtown last Thursday:

Which, *feigned surprise* birthed this:

That's right. Yuck it up, chuckles!

No go ahead.

I'll wait...

You good?

Great.

Now let me explain.
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The premise: some local designer named Victor Louis patched together a charity fashion show for himself and invited eight student designers to present mini-collections, too. My friend, Kevin Roux, attends IADT here in Sacramento and was one of those students.

The event was called "One Night in Paris" (yes, like Wonky's sex tape) because Louis was apparently inspired by the City of Lights (groundbreaking) for his latest collection. But a choice quote of his from the Sacramento Fashion Week site should tell you everything you need to know about that:

"Ive never been to Paris; so I wanted to create the beauty of the land in my designs and bring Paris to Sacramento for one magical evening."

Never been to Paris. But creating the "beauty of the land" in his collection. For a magical evening. *Hand to forehead* Also, "Sacramento Fashion Week?" It was a whole three days. That's a fashion weekend, everyone. Not a week.

But snark aside, I guess I'm glad to see someone--however threadbare and tattered the effort--trying to bring some sort of fashion event to the River City. So fine, I guess.

Anyway: me!

So about a month ago, Kevin--who I haven't seen in months--sends me a random text asking if I want to do him a solid by modeling in his first collection. Could be fun, I thought. Plus it would be nice to see how Kevin is getting along on this new creative venture. My only apprehension shimmering just beneath the surface: I've never modeled. Anything, ever.

Now, listen. Here's the disclaimer. I'm not someone afflicted with false-modesty. I don't flutter about with breezy platitudes about how I could never be a model, etc., when I secretly harbor an undying desire to smile with my eyes before the camera. I really don't. I've been lucky enough in my career to have worked with some amazing modeling talent at various photo shoots for the magazine, not to mention top photographers, stylists, artists, etc. I've seen, first-hand, true modeling talent and potential. And as trite or shallow as it may seem, to do what (good) models do takes incredible nuance and skill on par with acting.

I'm just a fledgling writer who happens to be 6'3".

I don't know my angles. Nor do I want to take the time to get to know them. We're indifferent acquaintances at best.

So again, my true reasons for doing the show: A) It could be fun and B) I can help Kevin and C) I can blog about it. Altruism! Mixed with self-promotion.

As a reporter, I've covered local fashion shows behind-the-scenes. I know all about the energy, the anticipation, the creative collaboration. The tequila shots! I've witnessed surprising local talent and vision blossom in the most unlikely of places. I've also witnessed drunk models falling off runways.

Either way, that's a good night.
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So, last Thursday arrived.

We were in the midst of deadline at work, but luckily the show was held in the ballroom on the second floor of the building. I got the semi-reluctant permission from my editors to skip out for a few hours, so at 5:30 PM, I dashed downstairs.

Back stage, natch, was a mad house. Clothes everywhere; dim lighting; Amazon girls teetering around in heels like bleating, newborn gazelles; stage hands moving things and yelling at people; hairspray and makeup saturating the air like mustard gas. Kevin had secured a more private fitting room below the ballroom in what felt like a lost catacomb from the days of Prohibition. I descended.

Now, I guess I always thought that since he had the misguided vision to cast me in his show, the other models would be of similar stock and status as myself (i.e., miscellaneous friends and misfits who happen to be tall). What I discovered was basically a shirtless buffet of languid-yet-chiseled Adonises sporting bronzer, innumerable abs and unaffected poses. And then me. A gangly, judgey blogger slowly realizing he has lost his mind.

So naturally I went to my one unnecessary defense mechanism in times of awkwardness: humor. I think my opener, as I cascaded into the meat market, was something like, "Oh, guess I missed the shirtless memo!" This was met with polite laughter--the emotional equivalent of a golf clap--before I was told to sit down, strip and get my hair done. At this point, my eyes also met with a bottle of vodka and the realization that maybe I should find other ways to relax besides this "comedy" business.

Which was helpful, considering Kevin had informed me earlier that day that I was to also be the finale look.

In fashion, designers and stylists, when staging runway shows, often structure their catwalk looks to form a type of blueprint--a rough, stylistic narrative often bookended with specific outfits that open and close the line that season. These ensembles basically serve as anchors for the brand and help the designer communicate both the DNA of their collection and their inspiration that season.

When I asked Kevin what his inspiration was (half-expecting some highfalutin soundbite like "McQueen-meets-Galliano-meets-blind-albino-zombie-in-a-bonsai-space-garden"), his reply was refreshingly succinct: "Coats, I guess."
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Backstage at these things is exactly what you imagine. Chaotic, yes. But there's also a palpable sense of creativity, too. Designers collaborating with artists, models, stylists and producers. Alterations, new ideas, creative camaraderie. There's an infectious spirit to it all. And one that, dare I say, eroded some of the irony armor of a certain participating blogger.

Perhaps in a move at self-preservation, I went into the whole experience with a bit of a smirk on my face. Thinking if I didn't allow earnestness to seep into my walk, if I shielded myself from taking the heavy eye makeup or six-packs seriously, that I could somehow float above the entire scene on my cloud of judgment. Aloof. Unconcerned. Fashionably detached. Safe.

But alas. Perhaps because this was for a friend, or perhaps because of all the creative energy and excitement of the hour, I found myself suddenly very aware that regardless of how I felt, I was about to be prancing down a long, elevated catwalk in front of hundreds of people and flashing lights.

And so, in the altered reality of that dressing room, I became a model.

By which I mean: cut to a scene of me now shirtless, downing several vodka shots out of plastic cups, bumming innumerable cigarettes from makeup artists, and amping up the laugh meter now with jokes about cocaine and not getting out of bed for less than $10,000. To anyone that would listen.

Soon, the frenzied dressing began. Thanks to a last-minute styling decision, I was now being chucked down the runway shirtless in a 3/4-length white coat with leather detailing and zebra print inside the hood. "The lapels aren't quite finished, so I need you to walk with your hands in your pockets and open up your chest," Kevin explained.

Great. The chest that hadn't seen a workout in over a week thanks to deadline. And I would be following a certain model named Charlie who shall heretofore be known as Pecs McGee. Insecurity! Coupled with unbridled narcissism. Yay, modeling!
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I used to hate when I would cover these types of shows for the magazine and have to interview the models about their moment on the catwalk. "Pure adrenaline!" they'd beam. Or something equally as uninspired, like "It's all a blur."

But seriously. As I watched each model disappear through the curtain before me--that diaphanous portal!--a mounting fear reared its ugly head. When it was my turn, when my inevitable cue arrived, I can really only recall the soft feel of the fabric as I pulled it aside. Then a white flash of energy and adrenaline. Autopilot. Walk. Turn. Lights. Backstage. Finale. Applause. Done.

Like some tumbling fever dream, it was over before it began. I was hugging Kevin, congratulating him on a great show. I was high-fivin and backslappin, air-kissin and finger-snappin. But with the performance--the performance!--over, I also felt the bungee-snap pull back to reality. Suddenly, my only desire was to be out of those clothes and back in my blue jeans and flip flops as soon as possible.

I wanted to be back at my desk, fact-checking and copy-editing beneath the dim glow of fluorescent lighting. Where I belong.
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All in all, a fantastical tableau--equal parts hilarious, inspiring and fulfilling.

I left out the part where I made the ironic, internal note to self about there being no mirrors anywhere backstage. But like how elephants can smell water from vast distances, I thought it was hilarious when all the male models suddenly crowded around the only semi-reflective surface in the room (a discarded glass tabletop laid carelessly against the wall), jostling--vying--to gaze upon their own specter-like figures in those last, spinning seconds before showtime.

Hilarious, of course, until I too was caught by my own smoldering, ephemeral stare in that dusty glass.

Smizing back at me with a smokey eye was some earnest d-bag who--if only for a fleeting moment--looked pretty damn good.

All Our Single Ladies

2009-09-09T11:47:00.000-07:00

My friend Colleen pointed out this gem of an article from today's Bee about Sacramento's ladies of a certain age.

Apparently, the River City's single women in the 35-64 age demographic outnumber their male counterparts by nearly 20,000--the only metropolitan area in the West to do so.

So I learned that.

And also this: MiX Downtown offers over-30 patrons a "Dirty 30" card that allows them front-of-the-line privileges. Like an amusement park! For old people.

Also, this choice observation of one Christina Ragsdale, a 53-year-old divorcee: "Then she shimmied around the bowling alley in an exuberant, laughter-filled dance."

Me-OW.

Twin Tweets

2009-09-02T09:25:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Sarah and Rachel of TwinSoup for the shout-out on Twitter this morning! Good running into you ladies at Luxe for Life last weekend.

Update: More terrible cell phone pics! This time, from what I snapped at Luxe for Life on Saturday. The event was held in an ~~oven~~ airplane hangar at the Sacramento Executive Jet Center. Open bar, free food and teal and white colors lent a Tiffany's feel to the night.

Click for larger view.

Harried

2009-09-01T22:19:00.001-07:00

Sorry, folks.

I've been pretty busy lately, with precious little time to fritter away on the interwebs. As such, I haven't had much of a chance to dream up some glittery recap for you about last week's Hair Wars competition at The Park.

So in my delusional world, the next best thing is: grainy cell phone snapshots!

It's a good thing, too, because the Hair War was more like a rather small military exercise. Then again, I guess I had irrationally expected something on par with this Beyoncé impersonator at a real hair show. (Oh, you're so welcome.)

What happens at 4:15 is pretty much how I want to lead the procession down the aisle at my future wedding. Repeal Prop 8, if only for that dream to supernova into existence.

Speaking of dancing, here's a terrible pic of the poppers and lockers (!) that performed during Deeda Salon's runway presentation.

They were pretty damn good. Very ABDC. And a hell of a lot more interesting than the actual haircuts that Deeda chucked down the catwalk.

I seem to remember architectural buns pulled tightly above the right temple. Um, followed by blunt-cut extensions and bangs? Then more popping. And then Harlowe-esque waves.

Meh.

My fellow judges (one of whom was Leigh Groban with The Bee--a hilarious Southern Belle with one of the best bitch faces I've ever seen) seemed to quickly jot down their scores with little fanfare. I, ever the nerd, decided to include constructive criticism in the form of passive-aggressive written comments: "You obviously didn't have much time to curl the hair for the last section, so no worries. I guess."

Fortunately, last year's winners Rowena & Takashi took the stage shortly thereafter and showed everyone why they are the reigning champs.

Again, these pictures are terrible and hardly do any of these ensembles justice.

But if I had to describe the mood for Rowena & Takashi's well-executed presentation, it would be something along the lines of McQueen meets Galliano meets blind albino zombie. In a bonsai space garden.

There was also a Taiko drum involved. And black guys, in blackface, holding lances with Japanese calligraphy flags.

There were also seven free drink tickets per judge.

So at that point, a Topsy Tail would've garnered a standing ovation. From me at least.

Shockingly: I'll be back at this week's show. Hopefully with a better camera and dishier observations.

Hair Wars

2009-08-26T16:09:00.000-07:00

I judge. Like a lot.

I judge the State workers power walking through downtown in their pantyhose and white tennis shoes. I judge the frazzled mail lady, screaming into a cell phone at her offspring. I judge the color of that dress, the fit of those jeans. I judge the mockingbird and his aching, chaotic dirge at midnight. Or the self-important hipster in a red, white and blue wrestling singlet. I judge children.

This isn't something new. It just happens, naturally. Like the beating of a heart, the curdling of milk and the indifferent, moaning churn of the seasons. I'm just wired that way--my mind a whirling dervish of snark and sarcasm probably masking a deep self-consciousness and crippling insecurity.

Me!

Well, someone took their crazy pills.

Because I've been asked to be a judge at this week's Hair Wars competition at The Park Downtown. Go figure. You can find more info here, but the premise is simple: two salons compete in runway-like pageantry to see who out-weaves, out-cuts and out-styles the other.

The competition started back in June and runs every Thursday through September 3rd. The top salons face off at the finale, but only one will be crowned hair apparent for 2009. (Knee slapper right there, folks--these are the jokes.)

This week, Rowena & Takashi (last year's winner) and Deeda face off. So come check it out! At the very least, look for my plus one and me putting our drink tickets and side-eyes to good use. This should be memorable, especially considering that CC was falsely accused of pickpocketing there last weekend. Yeah, pickpocketing. Like it's a f*cking market bazaar with snake charmers and she's fleeing scimitar-wielding castle guards.

The flyer, if you please:

How's this sound: First stranger to saunter up to me and say you saw this on my blog gets a free drink.

Deal.

Blogger Jogger

2009-08-04T09:47:00.000-07:00

Still too lazy to blog on my own, I present you with this hilarious anecdote by Tolly at Austin Eavesdropper.

Advice: set down whatever beverage you're currently drinking before reading this.

Unless of course you routinely enjoy wiping coffee/bottled water/protein shake off your monitor.

Spoke Signals

2009-07-21T12:25:00.000-07:00

Don't need, but want.

Team Tentakulus (oh, the Danes!) whipped up this cruiser concept called, hilariously, The Shocker.

With midtown's growing, lurching class of self-involved hipsters peacocking their indie style one one-speed at a time, this would truly set me apart from the pack. Also, it reminds me of an old motorcycle from WWII or something! I can kill Nazis and avoid a DUI on Second Saturday.

Jon: 1; Terrorists: 0

See CC Blog

2009-07-14T16:27:00.000-07:00

Neglectful! Remiss! Careless...

All great adjectives to use when describing my recent lack of input here on I Love and Hate Everything.

Fitting then, that in my creative drought, a new and rare flower hath blossomed here in Sacramento's growing social media shitstorm. So stop what you're doing and add The CC Special to your daily haunts, please. Yes, that CC. And that one, too.

She's been a recurring character in my recaps of various dalliances across midtown. A partner in crime. A partner in life! And more specifically, the reason I'm able to waltz into most clubs and bars around here like I own the place.

The girl is a natural repellent for velvet ropes. In fact, I feel like when brainstorming for blog titles, the moniker "I Don't Wait in Lines" was under serious consideration.

So now the lass has finally ascended those last, gilded steps to complete self-absorption. Like the rest of us! She's launched a blog.

Recent postings have included anecdotes about the Fourth of July in McKinley Park, the trials of marketing with Twitter, and even a cautionary tale about the importance of proof-reading (lest you email your landlord the phrase "sunken cooter" in place of "sunken counter").

And she's got some great tips on marketing.

So stay tuned. There may even be some really inappropriate guest-writing on both our blogs. Which is really what the world needs. Like crossover episodes of your favorite TV shows! For some reason, Hercules and Xena come to mind. Though I'm not really sure why.

Also: look out for a redesign and, yes, more writing from me. Eventch.

Booze News

2009-06-16T15:27:00.000-07:00

How much do you love alcohol?

Probably not as much as Gabriel from Cocktailnerd. His blog is a spirited little resource for all things related to the sauce. The Tulsa native lets readers imbibe daily recipes, liquor reviews (Absinthe, anyone?!), industry tips and shopping guides--all with an informed tone and a wry sense of humor (watermelons can "go to hell," and vodka is just "gin without pants on, wearing tighty-whiteys").

Most impressive: his In My Bar section. It's a list of all the different types of alcohol he owns. And it pretty much reads like the entire inventory of Beverages and More.

I'll drink to that.

Sunday, Bloody (Mary) Sunday

2009-06-12T10:59:00.000-07:00

Ah, brunch. That delightful portmanteau!

It's Sunday morning. You awake red-eyed and weary from a Saturday night on the town. The clammy taste of a few ill-advised cigarettes lingers on the tongue as gauzy snippets of memory flutter on the insides of your eyelids like an old film reel. And, if you're me, chances are your wrist stamp has somehow managed to transfer itself to the side of your face during those restless witching hours between 2 and 8 a.m.

But above the sick, above the dehydration and above the jack (Daniels?) hammer on your brain, you are one thing: starving.

Well, starting this Sunday, you're also in luck.

Paragary's Bar & Oven--midtown's Zagat-rated gustatory hot-spot for 26 years--will launch its new Sunday brunch service from 10 to 3.

Situated in the restaurant's gorgeous garden patio, Sunday Club at Paragary's promises all the gourmet-quality flourishes of the eatery's regular menu--but with a mid-morning twist. Wood-fired breakfast pizza, anyone? It's apparently a crowd-pleaser with bacon, cracked egg, scallions and a dusting of mozzarella and Parmesan.

Just be sure to land a table before noon. One word: beignets. Besides Willy's, I'm pretty sure this is the only place in town where you can get these cinnamon-and-sugar New Orleans treasures.

Salads, house-made sausage, omelets and some hairs of the dog round off the generous menu ($3 Bloody Marys! Paragary's, you are full of grace.).

But at the end of the day (or the start!) my money's on the 1/2-pound burger with cheddar, bacon and--wait for it--a fried egg.

Sunday fun day, indeed.

Ice Storm: Part We Didn't Win

2009-06-10T11:38:00.000-07:00

Bling!

So, we followed the clues, we answered the riddles and we logged some serious mileage on those borrowed cruisers.

But alas, CC and I did not find that elusive diamond ring last Saturday. But you know what? We found ourselves. And more importantly, we found out that we're pretty good at scavenging (see totally non-posed picture at left) and hunting.

So, we win! Just not $25,000.

It really may not have helped that we were both irresponsibly hungover, either. (Yes, that's a Press Club stamp on my right wrist)

But, a couple bottles of water and some turkey sandwiches later, we channeled our inner Veronica Mars and unleashed some serious sleuthing on the world.

The clues and riddles cast the participants throughout downtown. Teams were given different clues at different times, so like some human deluge, we flooded the city streets in a scrambling, blue sea of greed and child-like sincerity. It was like one part Carmen Sandiego, one part Amazing Race. And all parts awesome.

CC and I counted the buttons on the statue of Dr. Sun Yat-sen in the Chinese village near Zokku; bounced along the cobble-stoned streets of Old Sac in search of a stove inside an old rail car; and nearly had double meltdowns as we biked our way toward Sutter's Fort, only to skip what we declared to be a trick question involving duck ponds.

Nearly 800 teams participated in the inaugural event and the Sacramento Food Bank raked in over $3,000!

And more importantly, I had fun. So Race for the Rock, you're a success. You're feeding hungry people! Helping jewelry? And getting my sorry ass out of bed before 8 a.m. on a Saturday, which is no mean feat.

My only advice is that next year, you check with other scheduled events slated for race day.

Several clues required teams to invade César Chavez Plaza, only to find it had been closed in preparation for Grape Escape (props to the security guards who stood by the fence, giving us answers). Sutter's Fort had a really awkward Native American celebration underway. And the final two-part clue had thousands of blue-shirted racers scrambling between bounce houses and stock cars during a NASCAR appreciation festival (?!) near the Capitol.

All in all, a spirited start to the weekend. And one that would eventually lead to me finagling a free ticket to the aforementioned Grape Escape. Leading to further mirth, evidently:

Just Dance

2009-06-05T11:47:00.000-07:00

Let freedom ring.

Last night, SYTYCD revealed their top-20 dancers for Season 5!

Above are what R and I--college graduates and career-driven young professionals--will be obsessed with for the entire summer.

Highlights: Phillip Chbeeb! A sassy Asian chick who salsa dances. And a contemporary dancer named Brandon with whom Mia Michaels basically declared war.

Dancing!

Ice Storm

2009-06-04T16:00:00.000-07:00

So how about those T-storms last night?

Everyone's tired and pissy today (and by everyone I mean me). I awoke at about 1 a.m. when the sky decided it wanted to be a disco. I've never seen that much lightning! Pretty spectacular. And pretty annoying when all you want to do is sleep. I love storms as much as the next wild weather-deprived Californian, don't get me wrong. But I also love sleep. So thanks... atmosphere.

The Sacramento Press posted a photo essay by contributor Ryan Kleine here. Watch it while listening to this and you'll basically recreate what was happening in my head all morning. Inexplicably.

Moving on...

This Saturday, you guys! Is something pretty spesh.

The Sacramento Food Bank and Rogers Jewelry Company have partnered to present an ingenious little promotion/scavenger hunt (!) called Race for the Rock.

News10 gives a pretty thorough rundown of the premise. Basically, you and a partner show up at the Capitol with about 1,000 other couples at 8:30 this Saturday (after pre-registering on the site). Then after registering your cell phone via SCVNGR, you're presented with different questions/riddles that can only be answered by visiting several downtown landmarks. You can text for a hint, but you lose a point. Skipping a question or getting it wrong means you lose two points.

Once a certain point threshold is attained in the race, a final clue or question is sent out to the entire group that will lead to the secret location of an effing diamond ring valued at $25,000! Your position in the point standings determines when you will receive the final clue. So obvs, the more points the better.

CC and I will of course be participating in this strange debacle. Her proposal to me? Let's sell the ice and go on vacation. Sorry, brides. But that's how she and I express love in our very co-dependent, very sick, very beautiful friendship.

Cut to a scene at the after party in Mason's: CC belligerently declaring that all men are awful while double-fisting Champagne; me on a soapbox spouting Prop 8 rhetoric. The winners!

Now that's my kind of (shit)storm

Blogger Killed the Radio Clowns

2009-06-03T08:20:00.000-07:00

It's not all about dance shows, day drinking and brownies, folks. Serious posts! I write them sometimes.

Or rather, I usually list the bare-bones facts coupled with ample links to better articles by better writers in better places.

Case in point: the recent controversy surrounding local radio station 98 Rock. I know. Radio station. What's that? You may recall a time when you used to listen to this ancient form of broadcast. Before iTunes, before Sirius, before the internet became the most popular girl in school with her digital podcasts and that tempting, lady-in-waiting Pandora.

But there remain a few anemic faithful who still turn the FM dial every now and then like some tattered, yawning homage to the old days. Like me! In my car. That saucy 1990 Toyota Celica without a CD player. And like me, those upset over the recent demise of KWOD 106.5 may have turned to 98 Rock as an old standby for alternative tunes. In fact, I've listened off and on to 98 Rock for about a decade now.

Well, no more.

The station, you may or may not know, still plays host to that most loathsome entity known as the "shock jock." Two of them, in fact! Their names are Rob and Arnie. There's also a girl named Dawn who is often relegated to the role of the nagging, "sensitive" lady-voice. I don't really take issue here with her Alan Colmes-like complacency. My pity goes out to these two dying shells of men who exist in a strange, dust-riddled landscape on the airwaves--sad, wandering coattailers from the mid-90s, translucent in their obsoleteness, nearly forgotten by time. Their braying antics? Fading, echoing cries, really. Ululations dipped in ignorance and various "-isms" that masquerade as "keeping it real;" their only aim is to be incendiary and offensive.

Last week they did just that on a May 28th broadcast where they graced the sensitive topic of transgender youth. Using the story of a couple in Omaha who support their daughter's decision to transition from male to female, both men springboarded into a 30-minute diatribe heard here (starts about 5 minutes in, if you can stomach it).

Because my time and writing prowess is nowhere near that of a real blogger or journalist, please take a moment to read through Michael Rowe's response at The Huffington Post. A taste of the fury:

By no objective standard are dumbed-down, Wal-Mart versions of O'Reilly like [Arnie] States and [Rob] Williams journalists. Nor are they really experts on anything other than plunging the overflowing toilets of their listeners' psyches and selling the sewage back to them, repackaged as "insight," "common sense" and "plain talk" from fake-macho blowhards hiding behind radio microphones.

I couldn't have said it better myself. Seriously, I can't write that well.

My buddy Jeff who works for Instinct in LA also blogged about it on the magazine's site here. By the end of the day, he even got Chipotle to pull their advertising from the station!

KCRA 3 and FOX 40 both covered it.

The Bee.

Gillian at Sacramento Executive will be chiming in soon.

And even GLAAD issued a statement condemning the "highly derogatory" comments made.

I don't have a radio or speakers on my computer at work, so I'm unable to listen to the DJs' planned response this morning. But if various Facebook status updates are any indication, the duo are defending their remarks wholeheartedly.

So if you feel like taking action, here is some contact information:

John Geary
Vice President & General Manager
KRXQ-FM
(916) 339-4209
jgeary@entercom.com

Note: I echo the advice given by GLAAD, that "when contacting KRXQ , please ensure that your emails and phone calls are civil and respectful and do not engage in the kind of name-calling or abusive behavior that we are expressing our concerns about." This means you, B.

Here's the letter I sent yesterday:

Mr. Geary,

I am shocked and deeply offended by the recent broadcast of the Rob, Arnie & Dawn morning show on the topic of transgendered youth; specifically, Rob an Arnie's vile and hurtful hate speech about a sensitive topic on which neither of them has any formal education or understanding. I have been a long-time fan of 98 Rock (more so lately with the demise of KWOD 106.5). But no more.

I will no longer listen to your radio station as long as these two are allowed to remain on the air. I will also be contacting several of your advertisers, urging them to pull their support from your station as long as Rob and Arnie remain employed.

I'm not even sure a public apology will mollify this situation.

Their views are terrifyingly uninformed and have drawn a negative spotlight not only on your radio station, but on the Sacramento region as a whole. It pains me to think that our progressive, diverse and wonderful community will be associated with this disgusting display of ignorance.

Again, I've listened to your station for close to a decade now. It's sad that in an age of iTunes, Sirius and internet radio--when stations are folding left and right due to lack of ad dollars and listeners--that 98 Rock would further alienate itself by allowing this sort of behavior.

The next move is yours, Mr. Geary.

And if you feel like going a step further (you do!), here are a list of the station's advertisers. Feel free to contact them as well, voicing your concern as a consumer over their support of a station that would promote such hate speech. Especially toward marginalized, at-risk young people whose national suicide rate is already sky-high.

~~Snapple~~
~~Sonic~~
Griffin & Reed Eyecare
~~Chipotle~~
~~Carl's Jr.~~
Albertson's
Nissan
~~Wells Fargo~~
Red Bull
Roseville Auto Mall
~~Bank of America~~
~~Verizon~~
ATT
UC Davis Health System
Lennar Homes

~~Guitar Center~~
Pro City Mortgage
State Farm Insurance
Jared, The Galleria of Jewelers

Obviously I'm all for free speech. I blog.

So when your comments and views are dehumanizing, uneducated, hateful and inflammatory--exactly what this decaying breed of DJs aim to project--you get to hear from me. And my friends.

Ed Note: thought about posting a picture of the clowns, but they've both got faces for, you know, radio.

UPDATE: "Anonymous" in the comments informs me that after sending a letter to Snapple, one of the station's advertisers, s/he received the following response from Carmen J. Caccavale, the company's director of consumer relations:

"Thank you for your writing. We recently heard about The Huffington Post story regarding KRXQ. We found the segment to be offensive as well, and as a result, we are pulling our Snapple advertising from the station. Thanks again for bringing this to our attention."

Grass roots efforts for change! Well done, Anonymous.

6/4 UPDATE: Commenter "Katie" got the word from Sonic that they're pulling!

"Sonic in no way condones violence toward children and does not wish to be associated with media content that condones or promotes such activity in any way. We have decided to immediately withdraw advertising from this station and have notified the station of our decision."

Shots!

6/4 UPDATE: Can barely keep up! Liv Moe of Midtown Monthly informs the blogosphere via Heckasac that Guitar Center will peace out, too.

6/5 UPDATE: Jeff Katz of Instinct says B of A gave KRXQ the big FU this morning.

6/5 UPDATE: Instinct reports that Carl's Jr. hates hate speech, too! A statement from their parent company reads:

"We have pulled all of our ads from KXRQ. We did this as soon as the matter was brought to our attention. We appreciate your concern and thank you for contacting CKE Restaurants on this matter."

6/5 UPDATE: GLAAD reports that Wells Fargo and Verizon are out as well.

Candlelight Vigil @ L Wine

2009-06-02T10:43:00.000-07:00

Hey Sactowners!

Come out tomorrow night and show your support for the detained American journalists Laura Ling and Euna Lee.

Both women have been held captive after being captured on assignment by North Korean authorities near the Chinese border in March. They stand trial on Thursday morning and could face up to a decade in one of the country's notorious prison camps if convicted.

Ling is the little sister of über-journo Lisa Ling and both women grew up in Carmichael with my girl B over at Let Them Eat Copy. Lisa's been making the TV rounds this week in an effort to drum up support.

You can read more about the vigil here, but here's a breakdown:

When: Wednesday, June 3 @ 6:30 p.m.

Where: L Wine Lounge and Urban Kitchen @ 1801 L Street, followed by a walk to The Capitol. (L Wine owner Marcus Marquez also went to Del Campo High School with B and Lisa.)

The Wednesday night vigil coincides with several others planned around the country. All are timed to occur near the start of the women's hearing on Thursday morning in Pyongyang.

Hope to see you there.

PHOTO: AP

Shuttlecock Bloc

2009-05-29T15:41:00.000-07:00

What are you doing this weekend?

Well, if you're in midtown, you should swing by The Bloc's launch of its summer Outdoor Concert Series this Saturday at 4 p.m.

Marshall Park (enclosed by J, 28th, I and 27th streets) and the restaurants on The Bloc play host to live music from Utz and the Shuttlecocks and Cuesta Drive. (Ed: the former lists Rush, 311 and Dr. Dre as influences, so that should be pretty spesh.) Skateboarders, graffiti artists and a photography exhibit by Red Bull titled "Illume" lend spectacle.

And now the magic words: Beer garden.

Sponsored by Widmer, the ale flows from 1-8:00 p.m. for a separate event called "Midfest."

And while the allure of day drinking should be your only concern, maintain a clear mind knowing that all proceeds benefit Gifts to Share, a neighborly non-profit that raises money to beautify Marshall Park (new fountain, anyone?).

So to recap: Beer: 1-8; music: 4-8; revelry: always.

Cheers.

The Best

2009-05-28T12:01:00.000-07:00

It's all happening.

Sactown's first-ever Best of the City issue hits newsstands today (go here for where to buy, here for a peek inside).

But don't worry. It's nothing like what you've seen in some of the other rags in town.

Instead of printing endless, advertiser-driven lists of different businesses doing stuff or informing the public that KFC is apparently the "best" fried chicken in town (fail), Sactown stays true to form with witty, informed reporting about everything that makes our region shine.

From hot cupcakes to hot models, biking trails to puppy dog tails (delux pet sitting!), the June/July issue signs off as a true love letter to the River City and all her unique qualities.

Plus: a killer tattoo feature kicking off this year's All American Tattoo Festival (June 19-21 at the Sacramento Convention Center). It was shot by Jeremy Sykes!

Sleepyhead

2009-05-27T10:57:00.000-07:00

It's Wednesday. But it feels like Tuesday thanks to the three-day weekend time warp slash I didn't get enough sleep last night because my room was an oven. Well, that and the fact that I watched too many episodes of Dollhouse on Hulu before bed, segueing into harrowing dream sequences starring Eliza Dushku and that hot guy from Battlestar Galactica.

So in the meantime, I give you my latest jam.

"Sleepyhead" by Passion Pit is what neon colors would sound like if they grew edgy haircuts, put on whimsical rompers and clapped along to dancing kittens. What? In a word: delightful. My co-worker saw the electronic quintet at their sold-out (only NorCal show!) last night at Bimbo's 365 in SF. Said they killed it!

Pretty impressive that they sold out Bimbo's, too. If I recall, that's a larger venue in North Beach. Though the only time I was there was in college for a Devendra Banhart show--that freak folker/crazy person that dated Natalie Portman for a while.

Why am I talking? A la música!

Don't Go Chasing Water Mains

2009-05-20T10:52:00.000-07:00

*Audible sigh*

Another deadline over, another summer begins. And by summer, I mean the new season of So You Think You Can Dance that kick-ball changes my Thursday nights into marginally obsessed, tween-like fandom. It all starts tomorrow!

In the meantime, let me spin you a little tale based on my own personal experience last weekend. Working title: How to Have the Worst Dining Experience of Your Life.

Last Saturday--you know, when it was roughly 1,000 degrees--I planned to spend the majority of my day in the office. But because the edit staff and I have continued to streamline our deadline process, I received a gilded email from my editor that morning informing me that the team and I needn't come in that day. Basically, the fact-checking and proof-reading squad was on its A-game the previous week. Basically, we were ahead of schedule. Basically, the universe had flipped upside-down, taken a hit of acid and declared Saturday, May 16 to be Opposite Day.

That should have been my first warning.

But, you know, gift horse in the mouth, blah blah blah... I decided I should spend my unusual, borrowed free time with some friends on that sultry afternoon.

At a bar.

Our destination: The Shady Lady (which, incidentally, was not a bad dining experience--just the opening act to a comedy of errors that would later unfold).

I wrote briefly about Shady last February, but hadn't yet had a chance to wet my whistle within her brick-walled interior. My sister also bartends there part-time and likes the vibe, so I had been eager to check out the saucy little speakeasy for a while. Nestled on R and 14th streets, it helps anchor the up-and-coming R Street Corridor--often referred to as Sac's Meat Packing District. (Think: loft spaces in converted manufacturing plants. Dilapidated streets scarred with trolley tracks. State office buildings. Above-ground water mains. Some weeds. Fro-yo!)

My tip: try the White Linen drink. Created by one of their bartenders who also works at the imitable Ella Dining Room & Bar, it's an effervescent, tart and summery original with gin and cucumbers. Like something you'd get at a day spa! A drunk day spa. The best day spa.

But enough fluff. Here's my how-to advice for those wishing to have a terrible dining experience on a hot, Sacramento afternoon.

_________________________

First, make sure you and your friends somehow bring up the topic of "swamp ass." Never mind how, never mind where. Just start talking about it. And "ewwwing." And giggling.

Then make sure the next drunk--nay, wasted--guy who stumbles into the bar from the patio embodies the very definition of S.A.

Then make sure to take his picture.

Next, finish up your drinks and decide to hit up the new Burgers & Brew a few doors down.

Make sure you dine al fresco in the shade beneath tilted umbrellas, convinced a few cold beers will make the settling heat bearable.

Then make sure two members of your party have to go inside to order their beers because, as the server informs them, the restaurant can't split checks. Even if the two are leaving early and it's only you and your other friend who are ordering food. Refrain from bluntly telling said server that this is a place that makes hamburgers, not foie gras.

Next, order your burgers medium and medium rare with sides of curly fries.

Then be sure to comment positively about the exposed water main across the sidewalk from your chair, noting how it lends an industrial edge and character to the scene that you can appreciate. Because you like sounding pretentious while dining and sweating profusely at a burger joint.

Don't forget to chuckle awkwardly when a couple of teenagers come prancing out to the patio, inexplicably carrying their own plates of food.

Furrow your brow when one drops a glass container of ranch dressing that shatters on the pavement by your feet, nearly missing a nonplussed lesbian in its creamy descent.

Then show surprise when your food arrives five minutes after you've ordered it!

Then show wariness when your food arrives five minutes after you've ordered it.

Then realize both your burgers are cooked well-done and that your curly fries have been overcooked and sitting under a heat lamp for an hour.

But then decide to eat everything anyway because you're starving and a little tipsy.

Sweat some more.

Agree with your dining partner when she observes that if your restaurant's name has the word "burger" in it, you should probably make an effort to do that burger well.

Finish your sub-par meal and, laughing, help dab said sweat off your friend's forehead with a bar napkin. Maybe even flick some ice water in her face for a playful, added treat! (Very important: make sure you continue to make obvious comments about how hot it is.)

Next, shoot your friend an incredulous look when you feel moisture hit your neck that you think is an errant bead of sweat from a passing gentleman. Meet her puzzled expression when she, too, wonders if someone hasn't just spit on her.

And then this part's really important, so take notes: First, make sure time itself slows down as the crowded patio is suddenly drenched in a miraculous, glistening shower of water.

In that rare, wondrous moment, recall several events that already came to pass. Let the words dance across your mind in a flurry of slow, poetic realizations. Droplet-like, ever-so-fragile, they now shimmer to life before you: Swamp ass. Drunk. Water main. Heat.

Make sure your friend scrambles from the table to hide beneath the building's eaves (leaving her iPhone exposed to the heavenly cascade). You should also quickly slide your chair beneath one of the patio's umbrellas, just in time to receive a falling wall of water directly in your lap. Disregard that sharp prick on your right big toe.

And now, in this moment, look up to find the source of that urban spring! What ministering angel hath called forth this watery reprieve?

...

Great Poseidon's beard! It's Swamp Ass (see pic again for reference and future avoidance).

In his drunken haze, he has stumbled over from Shady Lady and managed to unscrew the water main's wheel, effectively drenching the exposed patio of Burgers & Brew and most of its customers.

Just make sure you're sitting in exactly the same spot as us! That way, you too can bare the brunt of it and recreate what I imagine a sub-par, overcooked sit-down meal would be like in the front row of a Killer Whale show at Marine World.

And if for whatever reason the entire experience is still not enough for you, make sure your dining partner bought an $8 bath bomb from Lush earlier that day. You know, a bath bomb. Whose only natural enemy is water. Make sure you set it next to your chair so it can partially dissolve beneath the unexpected geyser.

Finally, if after the stale french fries and the overcooked meat, if after the check that cannot be split and the unwanted cataract of non-potable city water and a ruined bath bomb--if after all this you still crave more: Pay the bill in full and slowly realize as you're leaving that the wetness on your flip flop isn't water.

It's blood.

Remember that sharp prick on your toe as you scrambled to shield yourself from the falling water? Only now will you realize the staff must not have retrieved all the broken glass from the spilled ranch container earlier.

Send your dining partner back into Shady Lady for napkins so you can tend to your gushing foot wound. And now, limp away--broken, defeated and damp--from the R Street Corridor. Back to your car. Back to your life. A world away from disappointment and overcooked meat.

Paler, perhaps. And drier. But a world free of water mains

_________________________

No word yet if this guide will be affected by your own alcohol consumption, but probably. Drunk enough, I'm pretty sure you could replace the word "worst" for "best" in the title.

I'm even seeing a musical number unfold, preferably to the song "Walkin' on Sunshine" by Katrina and the Waves. But I digress...

Let summer begin.

Tits, Art, Spock, Trash: Weekend

2009-05-08T10:25:00.000-07:00

Ohai, Friday!

What's that now? You've got two days of great weather (85 and 88, respectively) and a slew of events that range from the philanthropic to the semi-ironic? Great. Pick me up at 5:30.

Yes, the weekend is here. And if April came in like a lion and out like a lamb, then May--that saucy minx--got that lamb drunk at The Bloc's Cinco de Mayo party and probably plans to eat it on a stick at this weekend's Second Saturday Art Walk in midtown. Also, it's apparently everyone's birthday, as I've been invited to a bar crawl, a gay house party ("gay" as in man-love, not "geh" as in stupid) and a BBQ-slash-Townhouse interlude. Dancing card: FULL. But call me with more offers anyway.

Saturday morning: Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. There's still time to donate! Click on that link or on the widget in the right column to donate toward Mama D's cause. The Rack Pack is walking at 8 a.m. at Cal Expo, which my senior editor describes as "that thing we have to do to get to the mimosas." I won't argue with that.

Saturday day: Swinging by 20th St. Art Gallery to finally catch what remains of Anne's 50-50 showcase and to haggle with the curator in the hopes that she'll hold a piece for me until next paycheck. Clancy! That's classy and fancy's love child. And then there's Star Trek. Was never a fan of the series, but as a BSG geek, I guess I have an oath of solidarity within the Nerdiverse to get my Spock on. Owen Gleiberman at The Bible/Entertainment Weekly gave the "clever and infectious reboot" an A-, so that's fun. Plus I have a really confusing crush on Zoe Saldana--as do the Fug Girls. It'll be a day of self-discovery, really. To boldly go...[scene].

Afternoon: I can has nap?

Saturday night: See Second Saturday 'graph.

Sunday: And now, let's take out the trash. If you live in Sacramento, you probably have at least a passing knowledge of 107.9 The End. Admit it, it's totally one of your presets. The DJs may make you want to drive your car off a cliff into a helicopter piloted by rabid Kodiaks, but the tunes are your standard-fare top 40 and there's no denying that in between your latest backpack-bloghouse-glitch-indie-freak-folk-grime record and, say, the latest Yeah Yeah Yeahs, you still love you some Sasha Fierce. Embrace. It.

Enter: Endfest 2009. At Raley Field. My buddy Donny (blog probs NSFW) just makes me laugh. Which is really the only quality I require in a friend. So when he called me yesterday to say he managed to finagle two backstage passes for this mess, I was obviously on board. Featured disasters include Flo Rida, All-American Rejects and that loathsome entity known as Lady GaGa (whose album my friend Noah once lovingly reviewed as a "full-service shit buffet").

Trust, readers. I will have a camera for this.

And the Maggie Goes To...

2009-04-28T10:41:00.000-07:00

A while ago, I mentioned that Sactown had been nominated for a whopping eight Maggie Awards by the Western Publications Association.

Hey: we won some!

The WPA honored us with the following Maggie Awards:

Best Interview or Profile: "Driving Influence" (Feb/Mar 2008)

Best Regularly Featured Department: "Opening Shots"

Best Overall Design: (Specifically for the Oct/Nov 2008 issue, containing that amazing Fall fashion spread that featured Vlad.)

Breaking News

2009-04-24T15:33:00.000-07:00

There is a woman threatening to commit suicide off the roof of the parking structure on 10th and L streets, across from the Capitol. I feel like she might be crazy, but I don't want to jump to conclusions.

Update @ 5:03 PM: My co-worker snapped this on his iPhone. She's that speck at the upper right-hand corner of the building. I think the negotiator brought her some Starbucks.

The Bronze Age

2009-04-24T11:02:00.000-07:00

Hello there.

So, a week ago today I was in sunny Las Vegas for a wild weekend with the ladies. This included a Southern Wine & Spirits wine symposium, no less than four nightclubs (like this, and this!), as well as a greet-the-dawn interlude with about a dozen churlish British men in Caesar's Palace.

But before I left Sacramento! I needed to wash the winter white away. Because from about October to April every year, I'm basically translucent. Or more specifically, my abdomen is. The rest of my skin adheres to the always-classy Farmer's Tan scenario, an illusion that is abruptly shattered once attentions turn poolside during warmer weather.

Enter: California Sun.

With 22 locations throughout the region, they offer various packages for the pale masses--from the peroxide-blonde career bronzer (often in her natural habitat at clubs like Social), to the casual sunless tanner looking for a quick fix (me, often found on my couch watching Rock of Love Bus).

Did I make R. take absurd before-and-after photos? Of course I did.

See? Tan on the right! And not in that Fanta Orange kind of way.

They use this new system called VersaSpa for their sunless tanning clients. Click here to watch a (kinda hilarious) instructional video, which demonstrates the various Egyptian poses you're required to make as a disembodied automated voice coats your naked body in a (strangely pleasant) bronze mist.

California Sun offers different pricing depending on how frequently you wish to fake and bake, but I believe a walk-in VersaSpa sesh will only run you about $25 (and I think it's only available at the Howe Avenue location right now). The only catch is that you can't shower or work out for 4-6 hours afterward, so plan accordingly. The staff? Friendly, helpful and pretty much what you'd expect the perky employees at a tanning salon to look like. Not a Von Teese in the pack.

All in all, a great way to embolden the epidermis for an upcoming event.

You just might want to steer clear of white garments for a solid 24.

Strip Tease

2009-04-16T15:11:00.000-07:00

I'm going to Las Vegas this weekend with Katie and CC (and our friend Dahlia, whose pictures adorn the Britney post below). So expect my next entry to be from jail, asking all five readers of this blog to pool their money for my bail. Not sure what the amount will be for riding a white tiger down The Strip, while naked, with a yard-long margarita in hand. But I'll let you know.

In prep, I've been reading this blog called While Las Vegas Sleeps, particularly the posts of guest commenter Nick the Cabbie.

It's my plan to find this guy, cause some sort of commotion, and get featured on his next post.

Goals! We've all gotta have 'em.

Meanwhile, here's a picture from the last time I was in Vegas. Alcohol and Madam Tussauds aren't a great mix (they're the best mix).

Shirley MacLaine didn't know what hit her. But don't worry. No past lives--wax or otherwise--were hurt in the execution of this motorboat.

A Brit Fit

2009-04-13T09:59:00.000-07:00

This weekend went to the gays. And by gays, I mean the sold-out crowd at Arco Arena for the Britney Spears concert on Saturday.

Natch I went, thanks to CC and a Budweiser rep with some extra ($125) tickets.

Brit was there! Sort of.

Let me just start by saying that she has some phenomenal backup dancers. Let me also start by saying that it's a sad day when your backup dancers are pretty much the only memorable part of your comeback concert.

I can't really put it any better than Hortense at Jezebel when she opined:

The Circus experience is a bit like watching your best friend from high school do karaoke in an awesome series of costumes. You stand in a row surrounded by women your own age, staring at this girl you feel you've known since you were 16, and everyone in the entire stadium is excited and laughing and singing along.

Basically: good times. My only unexpectedly surreal moment was when she first appeared on stage. Having essentially grown up with her (Baby One More Time dropped when I was a freshman in high school), I guess she's always been this sort of abstract concept for me. Intangible. Near mythic? And yet, still strangely human (I'm actually laughing while typing this).

Almost as though by being so ingrained in pop culture, so fully enveloped within the zeitgeist all these years through every success and every scandal, that she's actually transcended reality for me. Shedding her human shell, she exists now only in tabloid form. Her voice is actually a synthesizer. Her existence? Merely a spinning composite of the collective hopes of (now twentysomething) women and gay men.

And that's totally fine.

So to see The Beweaved One materialize before my eyes and grind (fairly well) to the prerecorded tracks was jarring at first. But vodka and Red Bull soon put an end to any apprehension. Favorite songs on the tour: "Get Naked (I Got a Plan)" and a Bollywood-inspired sequence to "Me Against the Music."

And apparently Brit had such a great time in the River City that when she performed last night in San Jose, she asked the crowd, "What's up, Sacramento!"

So while the jury's still out on where her mind is (bottom of the Xanax bottle?), I'd like to think she at least left her heart in Sacramento, momentarily.

Brownies

2009-04-08T14:18:00.000-07:00

Last night, my roomie R. was in one of her moods.

One of her baking moods.

And among the plethora of reasons why I love her (hungover marathons of Veronica Mars, and very shortly, The Tudors a close second), her proclivity for the culinary arts is one of the best.

Hence: Peanut Butter-Nutella Brownies via Davis-based The Noble Pig.

The madness. They mayhem. The recipe. Enjoy.

UPDATE: R. informs me (via the comments) that her coworkers have dubbed them Blumpkin Skeet Brownies. So let it be written, so let it be done.

Cheekbones and the Twittersphere

2009-04-07T12:19:00.000-07:00

I don't use Twitter. But apparently now Sactown does!

Strange that a magazine is sending out tweets, I know. But I guess if John Mayer can manage, then so can an inanimate object.

The latest: a link to New York magazine's blog The Cut which mentions Sac native Vladimir Ivanov as "the new guy" in the world of male modeling (it's a whole world!). Blogger James Lim says ~~Cheekbones McGee~~ Vlad proves that the industry "still craves male models who look like men instead of angst-filled teens." He also uses phrases like "whippet-thin boys" and "a new wave of manlies." Which just sounds strangely predatorial.

Thanks, New York. But sharp-eyed Sacramentans are already privy to the likes of Vlad via last fall's futuristic fashion spread in Sactown shot by Chris Kern. Vlad was a total professional on the all-day shoot atop the U.S. Bank Tower in downtown and even regaled the crew with anecdotes about his sessions with (also strangely predatorial) Bruce Webber for Abercrombie & Fitch.

Perhaps more notable, however, was his recent, racy Calvin Klein Jeans commercial shot by Steven Meisel. The Jezzies were pretty "meh" about the whole thing.

Judge for yourself:

I just can't imagine denim being all that comfortable in the midst of an orgy. Maybe Kinkade would know.

Titty Committee

2009-04-01T12:39:00.000-07:00

You may have noticed a new gadget on the right-hand sidebar.

It's for breast cancer!

Yes, I will be participating in the 2009 Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure walk on Saturday, May 9 at Cal Expo.

My family and I are doing the event this year in honor of my mom, Diane, who kicked breast cancer in the face over a year and a half ago. If you get a chance, click on the link in the column, or go here, to donate to our team The Rack Pack (we might be half-seriously considering day-old tuxedos and pink cummerbunds as costumes).

You can donate under my name or under the team's general fund.

Give what you can! Mama D's a classy lady.

Things you may not know about her:

She makes a mean potato salad which is actually a secret family recipe.
She's a Taurus!
She drinks boxed wine as an appetizer and after-dinner refresher.
She loves animals.
Um, she's awesome.
When I mentioned the breast cancer walk to her, she made it clear that mimosas need to be involved.

Reason enough to give, right?

So do it.

I'll keep everyone abreast of the fundraising progress.

Stupidity Recession

2009-03-25T09:32:00.000-07:00

Six Degrees of Sacramento had a hilarious post yesterday about a chain email finding its way into ladies' inboxes (ha!) throughout the region.

Weaving an urban legend about how women in Sac are being targeted by two "black women" at various low-end department stores, the electronic scare tactic includes such gems as:

"If you don’t have money in your wallet, they still can disrupt your life by stealing your drivers [sic] licenses, social security cards, credit cards, and other important info that most women carry in there [sic] purses. And your Gucci or coach, or fendi, or other expensive purses that most women have."

Six's blogger employs a great analysis of the culture of fear created by these types of emails, as well as the misogynistic and racist undertones each "well-intentioned" missive carries. Plus, she's as appalled by the grammar and spelling mistakes as I am.

Um, but honestly, how much did I laugh at the idea of two knife-wielding women rampaging throughout Sacramento! Instilling fear in luxury-clad lady-shoppers on Stockton Boulevard! At Wal-Mart?

Makes me kind of wish they were real. Because I might have to be friends with them.

St. Patrick's Day

2009-03-19T15:27:00.000-07:00

There's that smell in the air.

You know what I'm talking about. That faint, pollen-laden note. Cherubic! And sexy.

When I launched this blog, one of my pie-in-the-sky goals was to write about my nights out on the town here in Sacramento. I seem to have accomplished this once, and that involved a giant lion costume. Suffice it to say, when I find myself at a bar--any bar will do--the last thing I'm thinking about are clever observations and hilarious anecdotes to recap to my (five?) readers the next day. I'm a bad blogger. We know this. But I'm a good drinker. I've come to terms with my limitations and my strengths. And moved forward.

Which brings me back to that smell.

That verdant whispering on the breeze! A fecund scent, really. One that promises warmer weather and longer days. BBQs and balmy nights. It's 72 degrees today in Sacramento. Which, incidentally, is the perfect temperature if you're lookin' to catch Spring fever.

Now, I realize I'm writing this on the eve of the vernal equinox. Tomorrow, March 20, marks the official start to Spring (thanks for the memo, Earth!). But for me, the season really begins on a much holier day, a mere 72 hours prior to that silly, celestial demarcation. Spring, in my book, begins on St. Patrick's Day.

And what did Sacramento have in store for the merry masses this year? Oh, just a ridiculous block party. I love that The Bee doesn't quite know what to make of it all. In one article, the party manages to be a "drunkfest," "the place to be" and "an encouraging note!" God. If that paper hopes to survive the print media holocaust, it really needs to grow up. I feel like they treated it like some sort of alien ritual. "Drinking? In the streets! The color green? What is happening!?"

Sigh: a photo essay.

So yes. L Street between 15th and 16th was shamrock central. I, of course, rolled in around 4:30 with my two partners in crime. You know how you have those friends with whom no shenanigan seems too shady? No dalliance too daring? Enter: Katie and CC (both pictured). There's often an atmospheric shift that occurs when the three of us team up. A groaning in the deep. Candles extinguish of their own accord--thunder rolls on the horizon.

But when endeavoring to storm a shitshow, trust me--you want these girls on the frontline: beads as their armor, clover decals their war paint. As such, I couldn't have asked for better company to encounter the madness that awaited.

Because let's just say that by 4:30, Sacramento was wasted.

Exhibit A: a poorly staged crowd shot about 30 minutes into it. The smell of whiskey on the wind! And my flip flops. After managing to finangle my way into the annoying drink ticket line, followed by the actual drink line, half of one Jameson and ginger ale ended up on my feet after I tripped myself. Yes--tripped myself. Still sober, I could already tell this would be a special evening.

Oh, did I mention there was a strict no-ins-and-outs policy? Once you paid $20 to enter the block party (or checked your name off the media list, thanks), you had to stay. This only added a strange, otherworldy feel to the festivities. An urgency! Through this diaphanous portal lay a landscape of mythic debauchery and my job--so I silently declared--was simple. Get drunk. And probably cause some problems along the way.

Those Sacramentans familiar with this part of the borderland between midtown and downtown know there are only two bars available: De Vere's Irish Pub and MiX Downtown (right).

Both venues meet my approval wholeheartedly. De Vere's is spacious, yet cozy. Tall ceilings blend with a rich, tawny aesthetic (plus, check out the family pictures on the walls). Upstairs, MiX--owned by the Wong brothers who also run The Park--is gorgeous. Think: fire pits, pillowy lounges, a spacious dance floor and lots of nooks for flirty conversation. Like an earthy version of Miami. (I've never been to Florida, so that assessment is completely unqualified. I just assume the whole of Miami is one big deck with throw pillows and the odd fire pit.)

After several run-ins with friends on the street, a generous alcohol rep at de Vere's and an odd conversation with an off-duty news reporter who felt it prudent to come out to me (I may have actually given him a round of applause--like clapping in a circle), we went upstairs to MiX.

What followed were a series of drunken interludes, most of which is fuzzy now at best. I recall being at MiX with my friend Steve. CC and Katie had left us to our own devices at the bar, which for Steve means awkward flirting with anything that has a vagina. I love Steve. I really do. He asked a girl named Taneisha how she spelled her name. Then attempted to be cute by spelling his. I think at that point I interrupted with a reference to The Pickup Artist and several eye rolls. Steve appeared annoyed, while Taneisha's unaffected friend in the flourescent orange bob silently judged with an anthropological air.

Further snark from my department was quickly shelved by outrage, however, over my $18 bill for two drinks. You're welcome, Steve.

Next memory: running into two co-workers from the editorial side of the fence. Anne Shulock, actually! And a former intern-turned-editorial-consultant named Lisa Rogal. Did I mention we had just wrapped deadline a few hours before this spectacle? Well, we did. Which made the ensuing round of Irish Car Bombs that much better.

By this time, I'm pretty sure 80s coverband Tainted Love had begun their set downstairs on the outside stage. Reunited with Katie and CC, we navigated down MiX's grand staircase, expertly snapping a self-portrait in mid-descent.

I won't go into the band's performance too much. I've seen them three times now and my only advice for the uninitiated: be drunk. For then you too can lose your shit to such classics as "Dancing with Myself," "Take Me Home Tonight" and an encore of "Don't Stop Believing" with reckless, post-ironic abandon. Or something. All I know is my shoulders still hurt from more neck rolls and phantom hair flips than I care to remember. Also, Steve reappeared at some point and drunkenly bear-hugged me. He then lost his balance and we both fell into a crowd of people.

Which brings me to an even classier moment of the night. Spotted: Mayor Kevin Johnson enjoying corned beef and cabbage in a semi-secluded booth at de Vere's. He was with a couple of friends who appeared quite pleased with themselves to be the recipients of onlookers' furtive glances and drunk declarations of, "It's KJ!" But whatever. Katie, CC and I were on a mission. We wanted their table. Perched at a nearby cocktail booth, we waited to pounce. Which for us included a round of Kamikaze shots and making fun of tipsy fangirls asking for pictures with the ex-NBA star.

Finally, the self-important party departed (who am I kidding, I kind of like KJ). And before the overwhelmed waitstaff even had time to bus the table, we usurped the booth with drunken aplomb (read: giggles). At this point, we also came to the realization that we were starving. Or at least CC and I did.

What followed shortly thereafter may have indeed been a fever dream. A Spring fever dream! Either way, I'm not exactly sure how it happened. All I know is Katie magically produced an untouched plate of succulent corned beef from the other end of the table.

Now, listen. I'd like to pretend there was a moment of hesitation on my part. There may have even been a feeble cry of, "Oh no, we couldn't!" Maybe it was the spirit of that great day. That precious, precious afternoon beneath temperate March skies in a churning, green sea of hope. Hope for more events like this in downtown. Hope for the equinox and the stars. Hope for humanity itself! Especially in times like these. We're in a recession after all.

Yeah, a recession.

And so, with that battle cry trumpeting in our hearts, with thoughts of families losing their homes to foreclosure and starving children in, like, Darfur or something, CC and I opened our minds (and our mouths) and feasted on the table scraps of kings--the very flesh of the righteous.

...

We proceeded to devour several slices of corned beef from the mayor's table.

And in case you're wondering, no, we didn't use KJ's utensils. That would be so disgusting. We used our hands (and I'm pretty sure at one point, Katie was just putting meat into my open mouth as tears of laughter, muddled with shame, ran down my cheeks).

________________________________

So there you have it, reader. We sit poised on the eve of something new. Something great.

The rites of Spring are upon us all! Breath deep that sweet, favonian wind. It smells not only of whiskey and regret, but of dreams and promise, too!

The resplendent blossom of a new day.

Or, closer to Earth, the nightmare of allergy season in the Sacramento Valley.

Nom Nom Nom

2009-03-11T12:40:00.000-07:00

Congrats to Sactown for snagging a whopping eight Maggie Award nominations from the Western Publications Association!

Julie gives a more thorough run-down of the categories (plus a swell graphic).

Among the various nods, we managed to mirror the two biggies from last year: Best City/Regional Magazine and Best Overall Design.

Curiously absent from the list of accomplishments in writing were "Reality Show Scorecard" and "Six Degrees of Sactown," penned by this genius.

No worries. I'm holding my breath for a Pulitzer.

Cover Girl: Update

2009-03-11T09:48:00.001-07:00

Remember when I dished that Anne would be painting my cover of Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin for her exhibit at 20th Street Art Gallery?

Well, here it is!

Check out the variations in the skin tone. The rouge on the cheekbones flirting with the red background below. Those sad, piercing eyes!

The jury's still out on whether or not she is indeed smiling with her eyes, á la Tyra. I, however, am smiling.

With my mouth.

For more info on the 20-20 exhibit, check out out the gallery's Web site here.

Cover Girl

2009-03-06T15:55:00.000-08:00

Art.

It's great! And it's even better when you know someone who does it.

Enter Anne Shulock. She's my friend. My co-worker. And she's Sactown's young and talented editorial assistant (read: party reporter, "Playlist" writer, shopping sleuth and princess of photo-caption puns). Anne's also written a screenplay. About gymnastics!

What's more, this multi-talented media maven also knows her way around a set of oil paints.

Enter: 20th Street Art Gallery's 3rd annual 50-50 Show opening Wednesday, April 8. This highly popular exhibit features over 70 area artists who create one painting a day for 50 days. Then, each 6" x 6" canvas is presented at the gallery, in sequence, where they range in price from $50-$300.

Artists are required to work with a theme. There's Thomas Ford and his riparian landscapes. Lisa Horst explores religious iconography (and a recycle sign!) through mosaics. David Kalbach: balloons!

Anne, however, takes a literary approach. Paying homage to the written word, she pulls from her own bookshelf and interprets 50 different book covers for her exhibit. English majors, try to contain yourselves. Below are some samples of her finished paintings (the sequence number is in parenthesis).

The Russian Debutante's Handbook (7)

Prague (9)

The Fortress of Solitude (14)

Dangerous Laughter (24)

One Hundred Years of Solitude (30)

Bel Canto (32)

Pretty cool! And the thing about being a book nerd with a friend who is painting book covers? You can get them to agree to paint one for you.

So when you guys check out the exhibit, don't even think about buying The Blind Assassin. It's mine. (Since I really couldn't bring myself to force Anne to paint The Fellowship of the Ring or, more sickly, The Silmarillion.)

No, Beyoncé

2009-02-24T12:19:00.001-08:00

If you blinked, you might have missed Sactown stylist Sara Oswalt Leete on KCRA yesterday. I've worked with Sara for a couple years now on all our fashion shoots for the mag. She's a doll and really knows her stuff.

Watch her share her Oscar red carpet picks with Adrienne Bankert.

And I'm with Sara on Beyoncé's gold brocade House of Deréon disaster.

Scarlett wore curtains. Bey wears a tablecloth.

Yet that print still manages to wear her.

Dance Party Monday

2009-02-23T19:58:00.000-08:00

It's Monday. So basically, mood = not in it.

As such, have yourself a little dance party to this.

I'm no music guru, let me tell you. And this song from MGMT, off their (awesomely titled) album Oracular Spectacular, is already like a year old. Which I realize in internet years means it might as well be dead. A dusty relic of the zeitgeist!

But. I heard it on KWOD when I was coming home from the gym and it cured my case of the Mondays.

So deal with it, band snobs. Shut up and dance. To "Kids."

Fun fact: the video was actually made by a fan of the band. Visit his YouTube page here to get the charming backstory on its creation.

Enjoy!

Recession, Meet Fluorescence

2009-02-19T12:22:00.000-08:00

New York Fashion Week!

And apparently neon is back.

If you're Mama Kors, that means you've slaughtered and skinned the cast of Eureka's Castle in preparation for Fall 2009.

Oh, don't get me wrong.

I live for this shit.

Like, you know Michael woke up one day and was all, 'Dear self: how do I continue to mine the sartorial depths of the jet set? I know! All I need is a blender, a litter of foxes and some highlighters.'

I can't wait for the moment when a boozy, languorous Sharon Stone crosses the path of a Fug Girl in one of these.

Think: MiMi in Aspen!

Or Solange Knowles...anywhere.

How more wonderful would it have been if she were wearing this exact hat during her recent cough medicine vignette in the airport (complete with play-by-play tweets)?

Thank you, Michael Kors. For the whimsy. For the mayhem.

For the fluorescent fur.

Because if it were up to me, the face of the recession would be Alana Zimmer wearing a dead muppet the precise hue of your tan-in-a-can skin.

ALL PHOTOS: STYLE.COM

The Most Inadequate Things

2009-02-18T23:03:00.000-08:00

A bit of melancholy today, folks.

My good friend Jeff's father, Jules Katz, passed away last weekend from cancer. He was only 54.

Today was the funeral service at the Home of Peace Jewish Cemetery off Stockton Blvd. I only met Jules once. It was at, of all places, Thunder Valley Casino. My friend Tolly was in town last fall and Jeff's parents had invited the two of us to join the family for a raucous steak dinner. Tolly and Jeff were two of the original editorial assistants at Sactown during its nascent stages. They remain, to this day, two of my closest friends.

I said I only met Jules once.

But he was the type of person who, after sitting with him for all of five minutes, set strangers completely at ease. We sat in rapt attention as he and Lorraine Katz regailed us with tales of Jeff's Mexican-themed "Baha-mitvah" (just imagine!). Jules shared stories about Hurricane Andrew from the time the family lived in Florida in the early '90s. My heart swelled as he pushed more dirty martinis on me after I politely claimed I had already had enough (always a lie).

But what I remember most was learning that he and Lorraine had known each other since they were in junior high in Jersey during the late '60s. They were high school sweethearts.

Fitting then, that during today's eulogy the rabbii very eloquently spoke about love. You see, Jules and Lorraine had been married for 32 years. And the number 32? It's the ancient numerical value for the Hebrew word lev. And lev is the word for "heart."

Jules passed away on Valentine's Day.
_____________________________

This, naturally, got me thinking about love.

How in our darkest of times, when all the world fades and the pillars of our life begin to crumble--love remains. A beacon in the heart and the double-helixed ghost within. That last, quaking vestige of our humanity, kneeling in its own incandescent quiet, burned into memory.

Funerals are sad. But there arises a certain magic in death, no? That strange, visceral feeling of connection to those around you. As if a fragile door has creaked open and from the sad ether trails a sense of peace from the common grief.

I looked around me today at Jules' service. There stood coworkers, brothers, a wife, a son, friends and acquaintances--all huddled together in love. Love for a man who loved others and loved life. Someone whose mark--however profound or however fleeting--will remain. This afternoon, under a warm, February sun, we felt that space that lies beyond the shimmer of time or death. And we felt Jules.
_____________________________

The Irish writer Edna O'Brien once wrote that "In our deepest of moments, we say the most inadequate things."

So true, Edna. How can words--even the most inflated limning--truly capture the soul? I guess we can only hope to skim the petaled surface, at best. In the end, it should be love, or lev, that does the talking.

The Shady Lady

2009-02-11T16:21:00.000-08:00

It hailed on me today while I was picking up my dry cleaning, so you'll have to forgive my lack of effort.

Or mirth.

In the meantime, I will steer you over to The Sacramento Press where my good friend Colleen Belcher spilled the deets on a new bar going in at 14th and R (in the old Wonder Bread plant). It's called The Shady Lady Saloon! Bob Shallit also wrote about it here.

In addition to jazz and classic cocktails, the updated speakeasy will feature inexpensive, down-home cookin'. Or, as co-owner Alex Origoni (currently the GM at Centro) says:

"You can find soul food in every culture. It's what the poor people eat."

Poor people like me!

Plus, after a rainy day like today, I wouldn't mind eschewing the ultra lounge crowd for some savory stew and a beer. Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind eschewing that crowd for a box of Wheat Thins and a diet soda. And that usually goes for any night.

A Better Sweater

2009-02-10T10:11:00.000-08:00

What do we think of this?

As a rule, sweaters and I don't often mix.

We fight. We bicker. Their sleeves usually can't accommodate my six-foot-plus wingspan. Unless of course I go up a size. Which then leads to the ever-so-attractive sloppy gathering of fabric around the waist.

And trust: I love using the excuse that American textile companies don't know how to cut for anyone but boxy, Midwestern frames. But that's a lie. It's my freakish proportions that are usually the culprit.

Not the coy, lambswool cardigan mocking me from the sales rack.

But then Urban Outfitters has to come along with this little number. Canvas reinforced edges, pockets and rib knit cuffs (with thumb holes!) lend structure. A double-breasted mock placket says, "Maybe I'm from the military. Or maybe I'm from the runway!"

Slim fit? Check. And while their Web site says it's lambswool, apparently it's also machine washable?

Oh, Urban Outfitters. Stop toying with my emotions! You know I'll eventually gather up the energy to go into your store at Arden Fair Mall in my gym clothes, be immediately annoyed by the "edgy" beats and ratty keffiyehs and ultimately just try on a pair of Vans or something.

But at least the fantasy of encountering a fit, well-structured sweater like this rhapsody in green will keep me warm.

Couple Crush: Jules & Joe

2009-02-09T11:53:00.000-08:00

Admittedly, I'm the type of jerk who's easily irritated by the hip, young couple-about-town archetype.

Except when I'm not.

Which is remarkably the case with local bloggers Julie and Joe at Just Jules and Your Average Joe. They're young. And hip! I would go so far as to describe them as "cute," but I think "breathtakingly attractive and stylish" might be a more accurate description. Gush alert!

Case in point: their engagement photos, like this vintage-inspired stunner. The shots were taken by Julie's cousin Jen and her husband Chris of Jen Stewart Photography out of Roseville. Jules posted a slideshow here, or you can check out a series of preview shots at the photog's blog here.

The setting was Ancil Hoffman Park in Carmichael near the American River and has a fun, McAdams-Gosling Notebook vibe.

Another reason why Jules and Joe rock?

I first met them last year at a charity event benefitting The Stanford Home for Children inside the Sacramento Grand Ballroom. Let it be known the theme was an 80s prom. And let it be known those in attendance took this very seriously.

As they should.

Exhibit A: the Out & About page from my coverage of the event for Sactown (pulled from JJAYAJ, natch).

Who's that in the upper left-hand corner rocking the shit out of a strapless, gold lamé prom dress, you ask? Um, none other than Ms. Julie herself. Joe, who incidentally was crowned Prom King that night, is in the pink blazer at center.

As a fan of 70s/80s-inspired anything (this half-earnestly includes recent resuscitations of the jumpsuit), that party was one of the best events I've ever had the pleasure of covering. And Julie, from whom I was able to snag some of the best quotes a party reporter could ever hope to get, made it that much better.

(Honorable mention: the open bar.)

Is it awkward I have a crush on them? Yes. Do I know either of them beyond that 80s interlude or their fourishing bloglife? No. Is it weird that I hope Julie makes her bridesmaids wear versions of that gold lamé frock to her wedding? And posts the photos to the blog? Absolutely.

As Valentine's Day approaches and we cross the event horizon of mass-market consumerism and cliché constructs of love and devotion, sometimes it's just nice to see a couple who are on their A-game.

Because whether they're wedding planning, fishing, boutique shopping, or traversing Switzerland, at the end of the day, they're just Jules and Joe.

And at the very least, my digesting lunch thanks them for that.

Lookin' Fine at Number Nine

2009-02-06T11:28:00.000-08:00

Hey, Sacramento! You're popular.

According to the Pew Research Group, we're one of (#9!) the most desired places in the nation to live right now. (Click image to the left for a larger view.)

The survey, released last week, reveals that nearly half of all Americans would rather live somewhere else than where they currently reside. And there, smack dab between San Antonio and Portland, is the River City itself.

Interestingly enough, Denver topped the wish list.

As a native of the Columbine State myself, I say huzzah. Other recommendations for the mile-high city? My coworker Paul spent just six months there and says it's a kick-ass town. 5280 is their award-winning magazine that often snags several editorial awards every year. And there's a whimsical sculpture of a giant, blue bear peering into the Colorado Convention Center!

Seriously. How awesome is that bear? Entitled I See What You Mean, the work was completed in 2005. Mad respeito for Lawrence Argent. (Even if his descriptions of his public works are a tad too earnest for my taste.)

Plus, Denver scored the Democratic National Convention last year. Which, by all accounts was a shitshow. And I mean that in the most endearing way possible.

Just imagine if Sac were able to host the convention some time in the near future! Logistically, we're probably lacking in several thousand hotel rooms. Not to mention a desirable venue. Don't get me wrong, Sacramento Convention Center. You're swell. But (fight it) bear with me while I hope for something grander.

Um, like a rabbit!

In related (but somewhat old) news, and keeping within the animal kingdom, Argent will design a 56-foot red rabbit for Sacramento International's new terminal.

Trust, newspapers leapt at the opportunity to pun all over the news. Please see USA Today's "Oh, hare! Sacramento airport to sport giant rabbit" and even The Bee's very own "Rabbit sculpture plan has some hopping mad."

And while Sactown reported in December that one county supervisor purportedly raised concern about the sculpture's appropriateness due to rabbits' "proclivity for reproduction," the motion passed nonetheless. Construction on the new terminal should be completed sometime in 2010.

Hare-brained or not, I say it's great for the city. With a little help from this Denver designer, you might just say we're cleared for takeoff into style? Eh? EH?!

Puns and death threats welcome in the comments below.

POLL: PRG
BEAR: City of Denver
RABBIT: Lawrence Argent

I Like Sykes

2009-02-05T10:35:00.000-08:00

If you're not familiar, check out Sacramento photog Jeremy Sykes' page here.

Jeremy has done some stellar photography for the magazine since its inception. The image to the left was for a travel piece we did on Redding and features the famous Sundial Bridge designed by Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava.

Remember that trestle fire in March of 2007? Thanks to some quick thinking and good ol' fashioned finangling with the fire chief, Jer was there snappin' away--mere feet from the flames. The two-page stunner we printed in our April/May '07 issue showed a demon-like face in the billowing smoke. The image below is another snapshot our intrepid photographer captured of the frenzy.

I first met Jeremy when we were assigned to cover the opening party for R15 about a million (two) years ago. And while trying to lasso a soundbite from the mouths of tipsy networking types is a gas, my favorite assignment with him has to be a photo essay we did last year.

The editors had us set up shop in the Sacramento County Recorder's Office on Valentine's Day--the busiest day of the year for quickie nuptials. I think we plowed through nearly 30 pairs from all walks of life: from natty Russian hipsters to sextagenarians getting remarried after years of divorce. Jeremy shot, I interviewed the happy couples.

Happy couples like these very special lovebirds (click for larger images).

So check out his work!

He was even kind enough to humor R and I a few years ago with a black and white photo shoot of our own. We initially wanted to use the pictures as Christmas cards, but now they just lovingly adorn our living room wall and Facebook albums.

And that really inappropriate pic of yours truly whipping a scarf in my profile? Sykes all the way, baby!
Oh, and dishy addendum, ladies: this single boy's photography isn't the only thing that's easy on the eyes.

New Look, Same Self-Absorption

2009-02-04T22:32:00.000-08:00

You may have noticed the new template I'm trying out here.

Bare with me. I'm toying with color schemes and familiarizing myself with HTML functionality.

I might even take a class! (Could you imagine me in an American River College computer lab?)

Oh, the ambition.

All Mah Single Runners

2009-02-04T16:06:00.000-08:00

Got a date for V'Day?

Yeah, me neither.

With all due respect for my good friend B's battle cry to, ahem, "Fuck Valentine's Day" this year, I'm begrudgingly choosing to channel my energy elsewhere.

Let's race!

I first heard about The Valentine Run through my buddy Donny (site slightly NSFW) at Cal Fit. I immediately started calling it "The Singles Race," named "Single Ladies" its anthem, made some joke about the finish line being at a bar, condoms in the goodie bag... you get the idea.

I'm hilarious.

But actually, it's put on by Legal Services of Northern California (LSNC), a local nonprofit that works to eliminate poverty and provide those who are less fortunate the tools necessary to better their lives.

I know. Even my sarcasm hath no power here.

There are several quarter-mile kids runs starting at 7 a.m., followed by timed or untimed 1.8 and 4-mile courses at 9. If you sign up before Feb. 7, it's just $25.

And while there are prizes for top male/female finishers (no shemale? damn.), I of course am intrigued by the "Best Dressed" award. What does that even mean? Like well-matched Spandex? Perhaps a giant hamburger costume? Or are they really looking for like an earnest ensemble complete with checkered keffiyeh, skinny jeans and a Miu Miu clutch?

I don't know.

The point is, I'll be there not being bitter with a really inappropriate playlist on my iPod. Spot me on the 4-mile course, trying to look unaffected. But probably failing.

I'm also looking forward to the AMGEN Tour of California which starts at The Capitol later that day at 1:30. (The current issue of Sactown has some great tips for viewing--see page 44.)

Lance is back, ya'll! And while I really don't care about him beyond his alleged tryst with Mary-Kate Olsen (remember that?), I am emboldened to know that the prologue stage of the race takes place right here in Sacramento! (Click here for a map)

So, yeah. Exercise! It's good for the heart.

Even if you're single on Valentine's Day. ;)

A Tale of Two Covers

2009-02-02T15:46:00.000-08:00

It's like February now.

And that means the new February/March issue of Sactown is gleaming on newsstands and coffee tables across the region. A beacon of culture and insight. A showcase for gorgeous photography.

Pancakes!

I believe that along with art, love and Michelle Obama, one of the greatest gifts shared by humanity (besides day drinking--I'll get to that in a later post), is breakfast.

Contributing writer, food critic, Zagat editor and all-around awesome person Kate Washington was tasked with the dirty job of dishing on Sacramento's top-10 breakfast locations for the cover story, "Early Favorites."

Nopalitos Southwestern Café's buttermilk pancakes made the cover, but other notables include the fabled French toast at Tower Café or the personal hangover cure/breakfast sandwich at Cafe Bernardo.

Behind-the-scenes confession: after our photo shoot at New Canton, I momentarily lost control when the editors strolled in with mounds of leftover dim sum for the staff. I wasn't even hungry. But that didn't stop an inappropriate plateful of dumplings and shrimp balls from having a love affair in my mouth.

You're welcome for that little visual, by the way. I'm a giver.

The only catch?

Craptastic Sacramento magazine is also doing a "best breakfasts" feature for February. (Bob Shallit at The Bee mentioned it last week)

I was all set to do a side-by-side comparison of the covers, but couldn't find a big enough jpeg on their Web site. But here's a dramatic reenactment of what I assume must have been the brainstorm behind their cover design.

_________________________

EDITOR: So, the story's about breakfast because that's what our editorial calendar says we're going to write about.

DESIGNER: What do you think of this stock-image-looking plate of runny, sunny-side-up eggs for the cover?

EDITOR: Does it look lame and unappealing enough to you?

DESIGNER: Yes.

EDITOR: Fabulous.

DESIGNER: I know.

EDITOR: What were you thinking for a background color?

DESIGNER: Something appetizing and cheery. Like puke yellow!

EDITOR: Exactly. Now, all this headline needs is an awkward exclamation point... perfect.

[Fade to puke yellow. And scene.]

_________________________

Thank you.

Along with the Tony Award I'll bag for that riveting piece of drama, I also hope to add a Pulitzer to the mantel.

As such, after you've had your fill of Kate's article, check out my "3rd Annual Reality Show Scorecard" wherein I take a look at all the Sacramentans in the past year who graced us with their presence on reality television programming from ANTM to Split Ends to Paris Hilton's My New BFF.

Somehow I also manage a joke about the L.A. Riots. Thanks, Celebrity Rehab!

In Today's Sharp Sparkle

2009-01-20T11:01:00.000-08:00

Hey, guys.

Remember me? I apparently write this blog.

Appropriately, my friend Tolly over at Austin Eavesdropper (formerly That Austin Girl) observes that, "blogs are like children: they require a lot of pampering and attention."

So true.

That also means that while T deserves a mother of the year award, someone should turn me in to the authorities for abject neglect. Like seriously.

You know how you read those stories about crazy people locking their malnourished kids in cages? Or naming them after Hitler? That's kind of like me with this blog. Or possibly some other less-hyperbolic example.

_________________________

So today!

Is Inauguration Day. The Obamas are in the White House (hopefully with a Labradoodle). I sniggered at the TV in the deli this morning as Bush hopped a flight back to Texas. People are leaving very earnest status messages on Facebook. Dick Cheney was in a wheelchair. Michelle Obama is wearing clothes!

And this morning, Yale professor Elizabeth Alexander delivered the inaugural poem entitled "Praise Song for the Day." The verses conjure a stirring tableau of American life and iconography, swirling in the glow of a new day.

Praise Song for the Day

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.
Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

Winter Song

2008-12-14T19:03:00.000-08:00

So, I survived Tahoe.

We drank. We ate. We slept. We partied. We barely survived a car battery scare, a creepy interlude at Wayne Newton's former six-story cabin and a curmudgeonly shuttle bus driver's attempts to drive us off a cliff (can you blame him?).

And, it snowed!

Pictures to follow eventually. But what better way to get into the holiday spirit than a weekend trip to the mountains?

So in that rare, festive--and dare I say, earnest?--vein, here's a little video to hopefully get you into the Yuletide mood as well. It's called "Winter Song" by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson. (Sars. Embedding was disabled.)

It's wonderful! Melancholic. Serene. Soaring.

And to all you snark masters out there: My vagina is doing just fine. Thank you.

Also, when I googled "snowflake," to give you all a lovely visual for this half-assed post, the first thing I found was a picture of that creepy albino gorilla.

Happy holidays?

Whose Orgy is it Anyway?

2008-12-10T12:09:00.000-08:00

Well hello there.

So, remember that Thomas Kinkade morsel I shared with you a couple of weeks ago?

(PS, here's a link to his very earnest Thom's Blog)

Fellow blogger (and total bestie!) Tolly borrowed the tale for use at Stoole Pigeon at Cold Towne Theatre in Austin. The gist is that a guest (celebrity!) monologuist is invited to tell a story while a troupe of improv actors recreate the narrative to humorous effect. The whole thing is presented by The Onion.

I truly wish there were a YouTube link to this. If only to see how Coke-Can-Dan was brought to life onstage! For some reason, I can imagine it would involve a Hawaiian-print shirt and a beer cozy.

Speaking of CCD, he invited Minerva and Megan to a swingers' party this weekend in the Bay Area! Unfortunately, we'll all be in Lake Tahoe, hopefully enjoying the first snowfall of the season and getting massages/drunk.

And while a weekend getaway to the mountains IS lovely, I know my thoughts will inevitably sail westward, wondering how Willy, Sunny and the gang are getting on. Or getting it on! If you catch my drift.

Because I'm talking about sex.

Cheap Things!

2008-12-04T17:19:00.001-08:00

So the new issue of Sactown is out.

It looks like this!

The cover story was a bitch to report and nearly reduced us to hysterics, threats of suicide and despair (like always). BUT, the content is amazing and really gives some in-depth pointers about various ways to save money, but still live well in the dwindling economy. Duh, didn't you hear? The economy officially sucks.

So tap into your inner recessionista and buy a copy. It's only $3.99.

In other news, I'll be venturing into cheesy, enemy territory in a few minutes to attend Sacramento Magazine's "Best of Sac" party. I'm kind of going undercover. Which means I'm helping my friend Katie, the PR director for Perry Creek Winery, pour wine at their booth.

Would it be uncouth to bring my own tip jar? I mean, we are in a recession after all...

Free-Love Willy

2008-11-20T15:30:00.000-08:00

Every now and then, life serves you a piping-hot plate of incredible. With a side of awesome.

And for me, that includes the following tale.

The players*:
Minerva
Melissa
Megan
Willy
Coke-Can-Dan

The setting:
Ella Dining Room & Bar, a Friday night in November

*names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved--except one!

As you know, last week was deadline at the rag. Which basically entails a fall off the social calendar (and for me, that means my TV and gym schedules) for two weeks. As such, I did not actually witness the following events first-hand. Unfortunately. Because they would have been life-altering. Probs.

But that won't stop me from regaling you with the ballad of Willy.

___________________________________

So, it's Friday night. As the rest of the editorial staff and I batten down the hatches for the weekend push before shipment of the Dec/Jan issue, the sales team--beaming in the afterglow of a great close, which includes a supplemental piece for the Westfield Galleria's new expansion--is heading home.

Melissa, an effervescent ad rep, decided to join two clients (Minerva and Megan, also friends of mine) at Ella Dining Room & Bar a block away for a quick drink.

Saddling up to the bar for some Champagne, the girls were content to chat amongst themselves. And then, like something out of a cliché RomCom (or predatorial thriller), the bartender approaches and informs them that, "The gentleman over there would like to buy you ladies a drink."

And there he was, in all his moustached, daddy-bear glory: Willy.

Introductions were made. Niceties exchanged. And before they knew it, he had invited the trio to dine with him at his table. Now, I'm fuzzy on which smooth lines were used exactly. But let it be known that $200+ bottles of wine were quickly ordered. Food was eaten! (The beef tenderloin alone will set you back $40.) And merriment and mirth abounded.

Willy, as it turns out, is quite the entrepreneur. Melissa tells me that when asked what he did, his careful response mentioned involvement in finance, film, philanthropy and... fine arts. And then apparently at some point, he leaned in and breathily inquired of Melissa:

"You know the name McClatchey?"
"Yeah. I know McClatchey," she says.
"Well..." he responds. Apparently alluding to some sort of connection to the media empire based in Sacramento.

More wine.

More laughs.

And then at some point, the topic reaches the hairpin turn we've all been waiting for.

I'm not exactly sure what was said. Something having to do with Willy and his wife, Sunny. Yeah, Sunny. At which point, Melissa facetiously blurts out, "Oh, so what, are you guys swingers or something?"

Awkward silence.

"Well, actually..." says Willy.
___________________________________

Waiter? I'll take the can of worms, please. And I'll open it myself. Kaythanks.

Following that revelation, and with the addition of ever more wine, the conversation happily turned to, what else: SWINGER PARTIES!

I used to think that world only existed in late-90s reruns of HBO's Real Sex (Swingstock, anyone? It apparently has a Beverly Hillbillies theme for 2009!). Evidently that whole subculture of middle-aged, Viagra-induced Dionysian debauchery is alive and kickin.' And according to Willy, he and Sunny are ardent participants.

What followed, were endless and boisterous tales of orgies, wife-swaps and even an anecdote about Willy's old pal, "Coke Can Dan." I'll let you use your imagination as to how Dan acquired that moniker. Rest assured, Willy called him--AT THE TABLE--so a skeptical Minerva could talk to him herself. He exists.

As does God, I'm convinced, for providing this story.

The evening progressed, as did Willy's boasts and lecherous tales of who knows what (his wife's breasts are huge!) Inevitably, Minerva and Megan were invited to the next swingers' gathering (convention?) in the Bay Area and told, "You don't have to participate if you don't want to. You can just watch." Charming.

Melissa, God bless her, made the requisite Eyes Wide Shut reference. Willy rebuffed the Kubrickian masks-and-secret-password scenario, saying that the "parties" are often private and quiet affairs (ha!). That's bullshit. If I'm going to an orgy, there better be some fanfare. Masks and capes. Candles. A string quartet. A mansion!--preferably one with a hedge labyrinth in the backyard.

But apparently, the modern-day swingers are secure with just pseudonyms for sexy times. Nom de sexes, if you will. Like Sunny. And Willy.

Nealry $1,000 worth of food and drink later, Willy and the gang headed to Social, the new nightclub above Cosmo Café. One by one, the girls departed, leaving a tipsy and slightly uncomfortable Melissa to fend for herself. Seeing Willy's trip to the bathroom as her moment to escape, she bolted into the night.

And by that, I mean she stumbled a few blocks back to the office to tell me the entire story.
___________________________________

The revelation.

Saturday dawns. Bleary-eyed, Megan awakens surprisingly early. A sign, perhaps?

Compelled to catch up on current events, she flips on the news, only to be greeted by the most wonderful and shocking discovery of all.

There, on her TV screen, is Willy.

Thing is, he also goes by his real name.

THOMAS KINKADE.

Yes! That Thomas Kinkade. The self-proclaimed, self-congratulatory (and trademarked) Painter of Light. The Sac-area native (Placerville, actually) who has built a horrific media empire based on his "paintings" of sun-dappled and dizzyingly saccharine gardens, cottages and Olde Timey village landscapes.

The same Thomas Kinkade who is currently promoting the straight-to-DVD release of his movie Thomas Kinkade's The Christmas Cottage,* a semi-autobiographical tale of a young art student who helps his mom save the family cottage by painting a Christmas mural... I don't even care.

*Marcia Gay Harden: What are doing in this movie? You have an Oscar. Peter O'Toole, I'm just going to chalk this one up to senility.

And yes, the same Thomas Kinkade who has built an ardent art following among Evangelical Christian families via franchised "galleries" in malls across America and an agenda to somehow spread the Word of God through his "work." (I know, ironic quotes are so 90s of me. But then again, so is this guy.)

Folks, are we surprised? Not entirely. A basic internet search reveals an L.A. Times article that talks about how he got drunk at a Siegfried and Roy performance and started heckling the performers by repeatedly yelling, "Codpiece!" at the top of his lungs. He was calmed by his mother. (The same mother whose cottage he saved by painting a mural?) I read elsewhere about him fondling women at a convention and even peeing ("ritual territory marking") on the likeness of Winnie the Pooh at Disneyland.

What cracks me up are not these events in and of themselves. But rather, his brand-status as someone who "lives a balanced life, committed to family values." His Web site also claims that since he's met U.S. presidents and the Pope, his "influence knows no bounds."

Now, I'm by no means judging anyone's lifestyle here. If you want to be swinger: round of applause for you! It's like saying you want to be a ham sandwich, as far as I'm concerned. Great. Hats off to ya. But if that's the case, then don't parade around as tuna salad on rye, thinking you're fooling anyone at the table. (what?)

What I find ridiculous, but perhaps very American here, is the inherent hypocrisy of it all. I'm not incensed by any means. But I just can't help but wonder what all those traditional-values families would do if they found out that the Kinkade lighthouse above the mantel came from the imagination of a swinging, polyamourous, pervy painter and not Jesus' artist himself.

As Minerva recounts, Willy did reveal this tell-tale tidbit: "I fuck on Saturday and go to church on Sunday!"
___________________________________

Perhaps fellow native Joan Didion can sum up Kinkade's paintings better than I (from Where I Was From):

A Kinkade painting was typically rendered in slightly surreal pastels. It typically featured a cottage or a house of such insistent coziness as to seem actually sinister, suggestive of a trap designed to attract Hansel and Gretel. Every window was lit, to lurid effect, as if the interior of the structure might be on fire.

Sinister.

Perhaps. But after this lurid tale, I can't help but look at each delicately lit cottage, each glowing Victorian caught after a gentle rain and see something else. Something sexy!

Yes, from this day forth, I will imagine that in every cozy, Kinkade home lies a raging orgy.

It's a metaphor for sexual repression! And isn't that just picture perfect?

Tighter Than My Deréon Jeans

2008-11-16T17:08:00.000-08:00

From last night's SNL, this gem:

UPDATE: Looks like the video I posted (The Beyoncé music video skit with Paul Rudd) got pulled. And here I thought thebeyoncenetwork.com was a legitimate Web site! Fuck you, NBC. Not really. Keep up the great work with post-election relevance and giggles.

Confession: Secretly in love with "Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)". If only for that cyborg/Balenciaga-esque hand accessory B seems to be rocking these days.

Maybe he didn't propose because you're a robot, Beyoncé?

Or because you own to having a split personality? That apparently has its own Web site/fan contest?

Dear, self: Resurrect drunk alter ego from college (Damanantré) and market him all the way to the bank.

(Pulling through deadline, folks! Be back next week with a new post. Hint: it involves a drunk Thomas Kinkade!)

In the meantime, dance! Because I can't.

I Can't Come Up with a Pun for 'Olbermann'

2008-11-13T18:04:00.001-08:00

It's been totes political around here lately, yeah?

Well, today is kind of no exception!

If Rich over at FourFour is going to check his Tyra tirades (Tyrades?) for a hot second and take the time to post the Keith Olbermann video, then I figure I can, too.

I don't watch Keith Olbermann. YouTube corrected me when I misspelled his last name!

But this clip, which has been doing the samba all over the internet this week, is awesome.

Personal note: Currently in the throws of deadline at the rag, but will soon be back with more shenanigans, overshares and updates in no time.

Chickens: 1, Gays: 0

2008-11-09T15:16:00.000-08:00

There's a cobalt sky overhead and the sound of circling copters over downtown Sacramento. A beautiful day--for a protest!

Currently in deadline at the rag, but had the chance to steal away for a bit to witness some of today's (huge!) rally against the passage of Prop 8 on the steps of the Capitol.

My co-worker Jason, iPhone at the ready, snapped some shots of the gathering hordes.

By far the largest gathering I've witnessed for this cause. It's odd to be but a few blocks away, high up in my brick tower, and hear the occasional roar of the crowd wafting in through my open window as I pour over reporting files and fact-checking.

The crowd grew so large, that different factions began to break off from the main megaphone-wielding portion with chants of their own.

I agree. (Though, I'd still like to see a comma between "you" and "California.")

Hey, Urban Outfitters, warm up the screen printer.

These gays know what's up. I could also see a novelty T-shirt line born out of the left sign's message. Though, honestly. When was I ever Mr. Nice Gay or Guy?

Either way, keep it up, Sactown!

H8ers

2008-11-08T21:38:00.000-08:00

For many in the LGBT community and its advocates, this election season has been bittersweet.

Like many Americans on Tuesday, I was ecstatic to see Barack Obama elected as the next president. But like many Californians, I was ashamed at the stain that now sullies our state constitutuion: The passage of Proposition 8.

And while Sacramento is not San Francisco with its thousands who marched through the streets, or Los Angeles with its demonstrations in front of the Mormon church, we are a loud, vibrant and progressive city with a thriving LGBT community all our own.

On Wednesday, a candlelight vigil was held in Lavender Heights that my friend Anna witnessed over at In the Sac. And on Thursday night, I had the privilege to attend a raucous rally on the west steps of the Capitol buidling--the seat of government in the state that would pass this ban--and, like the huge crowd in attendance, voice my opposition to discrimination.

Here are some pics:

Attendees were given the chance to voice their protests on the megaphone at the top of the steps.

As the night wore on, the crowd grew in size. In the distance, I espied a few mounted (giggle) policemen all but surrounding a pitiful group of Yes on 8 supporters on the perimeter of the park.

Buddies Donny (R, fresh from the gym and shivering as the sweat dried) and Dylan (L) showed a sign of the times.

What do we want? EQUALITY! When do we want it? NOW!

An impromptu march took the 1000+ crowd down L Street and into the night.
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I see the passage of Proposition 8 as one of the first few chapters in a much larger political narrative that will unfold. The fight for equality isn't over, and certainly not in Sacramento.

Another rally takes place tomorrow (Sunday, November 9) from 1-4 P.M. Come, show your support in signs, chants, body paint, interpretive dance--I don't care, just come!

A new era in American politics has arrived.

And while we may not be fully invited to the dinner table just yet, let's make sure we make enough noise in the kitchen to ruin the first course.

With Hope, Good Morning

2008-11-05T09:15:00.000-08:00

Upon the announcement that Barack Hussein Obama was to become the 44th president of the United States of America, a long-buried earnestness crept upward.

It reminds me of an anecdote this one once told me about a shrooming experience while watching Troop Beverly Hills. Before he knew it, he was weeping. And while I'm not sure if the water works were a visceral response to Shelly Long's performance or a psychedelic hallucination (or both!), I now understand the experience.

Because as Obama--our NEXT PRESIDENT!--took the stage last night to a crowd of 125,000, the drought in my own heart was quenched by tears of joy.

The best part? Calling my Republican parents (in uber-GOP Roseville) who, for the first time in their lives, voted Democrat in this election because--to paraphrase--they had found someone to believe in.

For Clinton's inauguration in 1993, Maya Angelou recited "On the Pulse of Morning." An excerpt from the final stanza appropriately reads:

Here, on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, and into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope --
Good morning.

[Image courtesy of The New York Times]

Obamamos to the Polls!

2008-11-04T08:58:00.000-08:00

They're saying there's going to be record turnout this year, so be sure you make it to the polls early!

Click here if you're not sure where to vote.

And remember: No on 8. Yes on Obama.

It Was Fun While It Lasted, October

2008-11-03T18:06:00.000-08:00

Hey, novelty desk calendar.

Pull up a chair.

And tell me where you hid October's body.

Because holy shitballs, guys! It's November.

The tenth month of the eighth year of the second millennium saw a slew of house guests at our humble abode. And while some hosts might take the opportunity to throw a dinner party or take their weary travelers to, like, a play--we here at Chateau du Classypants have different sensibilities.

And they usually involve some combination of karaoke, tequila with sushi, dive bars, trannies and sweaty, sweaty dancing.
___________________________

First it was a pair of law school ladies from SF and SoCal. Two of the brightest broads I know, they really only had one request for their Sactown getaway: The Merk.

For the uninitiated, The Mercantile Saloon is a converted Victorian on the corner of 20th and L streets in midtown's "gay" district, commonly--and often begrudgingly--called Lavender Heights. Now, there's nothing particularly high about the neighborhood (except the occasional coked-out club kids).

Or lavender, for that matter.

But I guess ever since Falwell's outing of Tinky Winky, anything remotely related to the purpureal hues now dances under the LGBT's big, gay umbrella of fabulousness. But I digress.

The Merk is known for two things: the strongest drinks in town and trannies playin' pool. Now who's with me!? My friends, that's who. And so after a few Big Girl Margaritas (our term, not theirs), several ill-advised photo opps and eventually convincing R to give up her 12-mile run the next morning and drink with us, we were off to what has become my local sanctuary: Round Corner.

Tucked away unassumingly on S and 22nd streets, this neighborhood dive truly has it all: a cross section of ruffians, hipsters, yups, flannel, leather, lace and--dare I say it?--mirth. Did I mention a jukebox with all the standards? At 25 cents a pop, I'll get the sickness started with any combination of this, these girls, this one and of course this ol' songbird.

The bar staff is phenomenal. Shannon's a former Aggie himself, smokes American Spirit Lights and often dons a newsboy cap. Ask to try his Attitude Adjuster--shot or in a glass. It's like a cherry Jolly Rancher had sex with vodka. In your mouth. Nicky is the Sienna Miller look-a-like usually working the other end of the bar with a no-nonsense wit, but an easy smile. They know R and me by name and never let our glasses get too dry.

And here's where it gets saucy.

I'll first let you try and finish this set-up: Two law students walk into a bar...

Don't worry. I'll wait.

Nothing? How about: ...and within five minutes get kicked out for smoking weed in the women's bathroom.

And this is why I love my friends.

Undaunted, we sent the girls on their merry way to Zebra Club on P and 19th while the rest of us washed down the laughs with a round of Attitude Adjusters. Side bar: why is Zebra's Web site trying to be at all classy? This is a bar where, until a couple years ago when the fire marshall threw a shit fit, had walls covered in bras. Now, it teems mostly with bros and the odd, tragic bachelorette party.

Again, prime stomping grounds for our motley crew.

Attitudes properly adjusted, we ended the night here in a mad haze of throwin' bows to get to the bar, almost seeing a girl fight and running into my swell friend D who works for a local ad agency (she, fortunately, was neither the bachelorette nor the girl in a fight. Though I seem to recall actively trying to help her land a hot guy at the bar. And by help, I of course mean inadvertently sabotage by probably ruining her game).
___________________________

Our second visit the following weekend was by none other than That Austin Girl herself, my former co-worker, Tolly. Together with my buddy Jeff, we've developed a tendency to burst onto the karaoke stage from time to time, warbling our way through such classics as, oh, "Jump! (For My Love)" by The Pointer Sisters. See, if you dare, the evidence below at Tolly's, ahem, wedding.

Jeff also came up for the weekend and this disaster was very nearly recreated at another Midtown gem: The Pine Cove. Fortunately, the patrons were spared the terror of our vibratos and histrionics while Tolly, C and A (two beautiful grad students from UC Davis) closed the scene that night with Britney's pre-crazy classic, "Toxic."

A large brunch followed the next morning at Fox & Goose where, while the wait is long, the Bloody Marys are strong. Tolly's weekend came to a close here, unfortunately, but not before our table witnessed an impromptu marriage proposal! Yes, over omelets and toast, and as the sun cascaded in through stained glass windows, this guy gets down on one knee, in front of everyone, and proposes. The restaurant erupted into applause. Jeff and I refrained from starting a 'No on Prop 8!' chant.
___________________________

And hey, readers! Yes, all five of you. Sorry again for the lapse in posts. I'm trying to make a better effort at this. With October a blur, I'm looking forward to deadline in a couple of weeks, Sac's Run to Feed the Hungry on Thanksgiving, R's birthday a few days later, and any other sapling that rises through the underbrush of the social calendar.

So speaking of calendars and time, the clocks are back an hour and October is now a bundle in the trunk of the car. I'll go get the shovel. You find a clearing in the woods.

But before that, what type of blogger would I be if I didn't post the obligatory Halloween costume picture? And thus, I leave you with this. R is Bjork in the infamous Oscar swan dress. I? Am a lion.

And so while it may have poured on All Hallows Eve in Sacramento, we, naturally, were classy as ever back at Round Corner and Zebra.

Right as rain, you might say.

Commanders in Adorable

2008-10-28T10:33:00.000-07:00

I love them.

Autumn

2008-10-05T21:08:00.000-07:00

There's something so unique about the change of the seasons in Sacramento.

Because for a city that prides itself on the loose idea that it has more trees per capita than any other city in the U.S. (fact-check?), when the seasons shift, so does the entire visual identity of the area--or at least the microcosm of midtown where I while away my days.

The thick, leafy canopies that shaded us from midsummer heat begin their slow, poetic descent in reds and oranges toward the earth. It's usually the sycamores that signal the change, followed by messy cascades of liquidambar, elm and oak. You hardly notice anything at first, maybe a few annoying stragglers tucked under your windshield wipers while you drive to work in the morning.

And then, before you know it, the streets are covered in a dancing carpet of tawny, autumnal patterns.

The air itself takes on an earthen, almost smokey quality, too. It's only noticeable early in the morning or late at night. A dark, electric note--like a pagan smell, as much a part of ourselves as hair or skin.

Sactown had its first rain on Friday--a big deal for a region where from May through October, the idea of "cooler weather" is a forecast of 95 degrees, vs. 110. I consider myself a sun-worshiper (damn you, January birthday!). But there's a hidden rapture I've always had with the fall.

Like the shift in mentality that occurs which I can't quite describe. As if a long day at the beach has finally come to an end. Tanned skin getting its first goosebumps. The faintest sight of breath in the morning. White wine replaced by red. The dalliances of summer folded away between textured pages and tucked into memory.

For me, autumn brings with it a parcel of melancholy, though not an entirely unpleasant one. For within that, I suppose, lies reflection. The Celts (loosely) believed the time marking the final harvest and start of winter to be the beginning of a new year. And why not? There's an affirmation in looking back. A sense of where you've come from and how you got to where you are at this moment. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a timeline peppered with stress and fun, debauchery and calm. And yes: growth.

Work continues to be a welcome challenge every day. Coming out of each coccoon-like deadline, one of the most rewarding moments is holding a copy of the 120+ page issue into which a (tiny) team of dedicated, driven people just poured an immense stream of energy and passion. There before you lies a tangible, creative product that people (hopefully!) look forward to reading every two months.

Friendships ebb and flow, grow and fade. Whether the person is there every night with you on the couch to watch embarrassing TV (Thanks, R!), across a nation with their own flourishing bloglife, at the other end of the state, in a bigger state, across the grid or down the street, they themselves, in the simple act of being, only help remind you of who you are. And oftentimes, new friends have a way of wafting into your life with little or no fanfare, though their presence is just as poignant.

And finally, l'amour. Often the thickest smoothie of joy and sorrow, what would another year be with or without it? I can say, reader, this blogger's had his taste of a few suitors through the months. Each ushering forth new lessons in a subject no one can really teach. And whether the relationship is a long-distance flash in the pan or a intra-city partnering involving key exchanges and dog-sitting, I can say, with some certainty, that each adds its own unique flourish to life's canvas.

As I sit and sniffle away the remnants of a weekend cold--the sound of leaves scuttling along the driveway outside my window--I look forward to what the coming weeks will bring. Before you know it, Halloween (on a Friday!) will be here, followed by the sobriety of November and the familial (and not-so-sober) rendezvous of the holidays beyond that.

The pagans used to parade the village between two huge bonfires in a symbolic cleanse and renewal for the new year.

Me? I'll stick with an apricot scrub and some Crest whitestrips as my modern-day homage to renewal and--nonsensically--the ancient Celts.

That, and I guess a pint of Guinness next time I'm out.

Or a pitcher.

Nailin' the Palin "Pity Party"

2008-09-30T13:48:00.000-07:00

While the majority of I Love and Hate Everything is devoted to regurgitated pop culture, things I see on TV, my stalker, Sacramento and pretty pictures, I will occasionally post on more serious matters.

And by post, I mean provide a link to a more thought-provoking article.

I've alluded to my disdain of Sarah Palin before (thanks, B!), so I thought I'd continue the trend with this biting opinion piece at Salon.com by scribe Rebecca Traister. It pulls no punches and actually shines a much-needed floodlight on the current bullshit (and anti-feminist) trend of sympathizing with Palin and her ineptitude.

A morsel of wit:

"I don't want to be played by the girl-strings anymore. Shaking our heads and wringing our hands in sympathy with Sarah Palin is a disservice to every woman who has ever been unfairly dismissed based on her gender, because this is an utterly fair dismissal, based on an utter lack of ability and readiness. It's a disservice to minority populations of every stripe whose place in the political spectrum has been unfairly spotlighted as mere tokenism; it is a disservice to women throughout this country who have gone from watching a woman who--love her or hate her--was able to show us what female leadership could look like to squirming in front of their televisions as they watch the woman sent to replace her struggle to string a complete sentence together."

Again, read the full article here.

As Traister says, "When you stage a trainwreck of this magnitude, then I don't feel bad for you."

Sactown Oct/Nov 08: Apples, Style and Steinberg

2008-09-29T13:25:00.000-07:00

The latest issue of Sactown is on newsstands! For a taste of what's inside (including a killer fall fashion spread worked on by yours truly), click here. Where can you snag a copy? These places!

(Cover model Heather Koenitzer atop the new U.S. Bank Tower in head-to-toe Ralph Lauren)

Team-O: A Tale in Four Parts

2008-09-19T11:05:00.000-07:00

So I'm pretty sure I have a stalker.

(And if that lead in any way seems self-absorbed, please see this blog's subheading and then continue).

Don't worry, it's not as glamorous as I'm sure you're thinking.

No strange, darting shadows as I walk back to my apartment at night ("Was that just the wind?" I silently inquire as I pull my overcoat tighter and look worriedly over my shoulder).

No unnerving, breathy phone calls with inappropriate questions ("Whats yer p***y smell like!?").

And certainly no pasted-together notes professing undying love and/or a desire for disembowelment.

No. In fact, the only written communication I've ever received from Guillermo (Yes, I've named him. Who's crazy now?), has been the words "TE AMO" written onto the hood of my dirty Toyota Celica some months ago. And on my rear window yesterday.

For my gringo readers, "Te amo," in Spanish, means "I love you."

Don't worry. There's a dirty alleyway involved!

-------------

The background.

I park my car in an attended lot in the alleyway behind the building where I work in downtown Sacramento. The lot has an electronic gate that is usually closed, though during the day when the jovial (sometimes-stoned) parking attendant is there, he might keep it open so as to avoid the constant need to raise or lower it (the gate emits a loud buzzing alarm any time it moves) as various cars come and go.

The same alleyway also serves as the back entrance to a seafood restaurant that occupies the ground floor of my company's building. It's not uncommon to see various bussers, cooks or wait staff on their smoke breaks milling about the area, usually engaged in quiet cell phone conversations. If I'm not otherwise on my own phone or in an unsavory mood, I usually give a courteous nod from behind the ol' wraparound Armanis and move on.

Some months ago, as I made my way down the alley toward my lot, a lone busser sat quietly on the step of the back doorway. In my usual midday haze of mental checklists and inconsequential quotidian minutia, I hadn't really noticed him leering at me like this was somehow the back bar at Badlands. As I passed, his heavily accented pick-up was this:

"Eh. I like yer sunglasses."

Admittedly surprised by the comment, I maintained my pace and managed a curt "Thanks" as I passed.

"Eh. What are they?"

By now, I knew I was dealing with a 'mo. I mean, leave it to a gay to manage not only a creepy pick-up line, but also an inquiry into the designer of your sunglasses.

"Expensive," I quipped back. A quiet, self-congratulatory moment later, and I was in my car, off to lunch.

-------------

And that was how I left it.

Sure, there were brief encounters over the next few weeks. I might be heading down the alleyway in my car with the windows down, only to pass our lone busser in his standard-issue apron, white button-up and black tam o'shanter. I paid no attention, but could feel his leering stare (how Danielle Steel of me!). I even picked up a few choice words furtively hurled at me in Spanish over the hum of NPR.

"Next on Marketplace, we'll look at the rise in oil prices...TE AMO!...in much of the Western World..."

Then one day after work, at dusk, I noticed something scrawled on the hood of my dirty car. It was hard to make out beneath the dim glow of the street lamp, but as I got closer, I could discern the following characters: T-E-A-M-O.

In my brilliance, I thought "Team-O? What's that?"

"Wait. Oprah?"

If anything, the artist should have written "Wash me." The car was/usually is filthy.

But soon I realized that, in fact, the words spelled the now-ubiquitous phrase "TE AMO" that haunted me along that dark corridor. And not only that, they were now cleverly accented by a crude rendering of a heart (creative!). On the hood of my car.

Caught somewhere between confusion and revulsion, I then used my stellar powers of investigation to brilliantly narrow the field of perpetrators down to one person.

Si. Guillermo. (For dramatic effect, let's say I whispered this out loud in the empty lot, my eyes now afire with rage).

I now officially had a stalker. (!)

I now also officially have this endearment permanently marked onto the hood of my red, 1990 Toyota. In my ambivalence, I didn't think to wash it off. For weeks. But also, I convinced myself that it might be considered evidence. And I probably shouldn't be tampering with that.

(Evidence for what? I don't know. That people love me. In different languages!)

-------------

This, again, was some months ago.

Since then, I've had nary a sighting of the emboldened bus boy. For a time, I was a bit wary of walking down the alleyway for fear of awkwardly running into him. What would I say? Should I say anything? And in what language should I say (or not say) it? What?

There was a near-miss one day in the actual restaurant where he presumably works. I think I tried to point him out to my co-worker B at the time, but he had moved (darted!) out of sight by the time she looked.

His attempts at smarmy, sweet- and creepy-nothings in Spanish are, I think, a means of "flirting" without me knowing what he's saying. The thing is, I speak Spanish. Which leads me to believe that he doesn't know I speak it (bad stalker) and can understand everything he's saying and writing. Or maybe he does know (good stalker) and thinks that in doing so, we've got some sort of "connection" and the joke's on me for playing dumb.

Other viable options: he doesn't speak English very well and can only communicate in Spanish or I'm overanalyzing everything and further feeding into my own delusion.

Guillermo! Why do you torture me?

Transition.

So fast-forward to last night. I get home from the gym. I'm tired. I'm exhausted. The only thing I can think of is that I'm craving a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and the last cigarette in my "deadline pack" of American Spirit lights (during deadline, I allow myself this one vice).

Then I notice it. Vague at first. Nothing more than a smudge on my car's rear window, I think. But as the streetlight catches it, as the waning moon steps out from behind a cloud, I instantly make out those five, familiar, neatly-printed letters.

"TEAMO."

He's back!

And you know what? Thank God. I was beginning to run out of things to blog about. And this little jolt of danger and intrigue (however self-absorbed) should get me--and you--through to at least next season's premiere of So You Think You Can Dance.

Though at the end of the day, I can't help but wonder if all this could be avoided by one simple action.

What? Confronting him? No! Are you insane?

No. I mean washing my car regularly so as to avoid giving him such a filthy canvas on which to profess his affections. And awkwardly drawn hearts.

But then I'm pretty sure that's just an avenue for victim-blaming on my part. And I refuse to be a victim.

Am a blogger.

L-O-V-E DVF

2008-09-11T11:59:00.000-07:00

While watching the antics on Project Runway's zodiac challenge last night (really, Kenley? As a fellow Aquarian, I'm ashamed. See below.), I was struck by one of the commercials.

Before the judging panel returned, Bravo ran this stellar ad for American Express featuring Diane von Furstenberg.

I've seen it before, though usually the watered-down 30-second spot. For some reason, I love the execution of the commercial. Its subtle, nearly hypnotic images of DVF in a snowy wood meld so well with her voiceover. The creative team behind the design of this spot know that the appeal behind her celebrity is a lifestyle and a legacy rooted in feminine independence and ingenuity. They successfully intertwine her creative process and inspirations (say, frozen patterns on a winter pond) with the product (a credit card).

The result is a gorgeous vignette that achieves the advertisers' goal of linking their product with more than just tangible goods; that is to say, the card is now linked to inspiration, personal liberation and artistic expression.

Ironic, though, that you'd probably need the fabled AMEX Black Card to be able to afford one of her high-end frocks.

Meemaws and Ninja Stars

2008-09-10T18:23:00.000-07:00

It's deadline week here at the rag.

Translation? Late hours, leftover Round Table for lunch from the previous night's late hours, endless fact-checking (often thrown in our laps during late hours) and threats to defenestrate off The Elks Tower (at all hours!) before that final digital ship to the printer.

But because this deadline falls mid-September, that also means it's New York Fashion Week! And that means that in the odd moments between crises, I get to languidly click through the images of goddess gowns and gauchos (let's hope not) so deliciously catalogued for my enjoyment at Style.com.

The sartorial extravaganza began last Friday in Bryant Park, and from the get-go, it looks like designers are tasting the fashion rainbow for spring 2009. I've heard critics muse on the trend of designers taking their vivid hue cues from a need for optimism during troubling times.

Whatever. I think sometimes it's just fun to play with the pretty colors.

Case in point, we have the usual chromatic antics (chromantics?) of Jonathan Saunders with flirty chiffon:

Nothing seems to be ruffling Carolina Herrera's feathers in this not-so-mellow-yellow stunna:

Sisters Kate and Laura Mulleavy at Rodarte (my co-worker Anne joins me in pronouncing that "ro-DAR-tay") took a multi-colored ombré approach here. Not sure exactly who could wear this and escape the rapier wit of The Fug Girls. Maybe Bjork? It's like someone took Balenciaga's velvet blouses for fall and tried to make a figure-skating/evening gown. It works for me, though:

Even Thakoon (who my friend Jason grew up with in Nebraska) hopped on the happy train with this floral number (left). It reminds me of something Betsey Johnson would/has/will do/done (right).

Also, look at Betsey Johnson dressed as Peter Pan (her show had a Scarlett O'Hara/Pirate theme?). She's a grandma--or as as D Listed would say, "Meemaw"--who rocks:

Even minimalist mega-designer Narciso Rodriguez embraced a bit of whimsy with peek-a-boo cutouts and...wait for it...ninja-star prints? Exhibit A:

I'll leave you with two things. One is my love of the color of this Monique Lhuillier dress. I know she's cliché and predictable, but her gowns are still gorgeous. They make me think of award show season (Oscars, Golden Globes, SAG Awards, etc.) and I live for that nonsense. I also want to dress Halle Berry in this immediately and forever.

And two, how much do you love the lads at Proenza Schouler for this bit of manna from heaven?

At first I thought it was a dress.

And then, upon closer inspection, I was all, "Oh no they di'n't just take a geometric fish skin and make an '80s-inspired jumpsuit!"

Get Chloe Sevigny on the fucking phone right now.

Hot Air

2008-09-07T15:44:00.000-07:00

Ever feel like a bit of an adventure?

I do.

Saturday was The Great Reno Balloon Race and so, bleary-eyed and still a little drunk from the night before, my sister and I hopped on I-80 toward The Biggest Little City in the World. And by a little drunk, I mean still feeling the shockwaves of a Flaming Dr. Pepper shot, several margaritas and a group karaoke session to Sir Mix-a-Lot's "Baby Got Back" at a bar in Colfax called The Red Frog.

So, after a few hours of restless sleep, we woke up at four in the morning, pounded some classy Go Girls, and hit the road.

Now, I'm not quite sure how one races an air balloon. Or why. But it wasn't so much the sport that drew us and over 100,000 other spectators to the annual event. It was this:

Well, not just this. But rather, hundreds of hot air balloons rising in a mass ascension over the desert landscape at dawn. Sound surreal? It was. But it was beautiful, too. Like a dreamscape.

A hungover dreamscape.

All of this was oddly underlined by weird, ambient music that ranged from Beach Boys, to Native American pipes, to Mozart. Oh, Reno.

Anyway, here are some highlights:

Checking my snark at the Nevada border, I laid down in the grass, crossed my arms behind my head, and took in the whimsy.

On a brief side note, the last time I was in Reno two years ago for a birthday extravaganza (not my own), this was the only image I took away from that fair city. It was on the bumper of a large truck, then subsequently burned onto my memory (and my heart) for eternity:

Artemis

2008-09-04T23:42:00.000-07:00

Dear God. Here's where I admit my not-so-guilty-pleasure love of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia on FX. Co-worker Jason got me turned on to this during fever-like deadline sessions.

Below is a montage of various clips promoting the fourth season. Watch them all, or fast-forward to 1:01 to see Artemis, "the sassy one in our group who always plays by her own rules."

I like how she plans to deal with the guys playing hard to get...

Faking Pup Miss Lard VooDoo

2008-09-04T22:15:00.000-07:00

Bless me, blogosphere*, for I have sinned.

It's been over a month since my last self-indulgent entry. So to the seven people that may or may not still read this bullshit (Hi, R!): the bitch is back.

_{(*Sorry, Tolly, for the word "blogosphere." I had to sincerely use it once.)}

Alright. So I started this entry at 10:30 P.M. on a Thursday night. The initial plan was to join a gaggle of friends at the Hair Wars 2008 event at The Park Ultra Lounge.

I know. Believe me, I know.

But the rag is hosting a series of contests for local salons to showcase their creations in drag-like pageantry. Plus, I think we get bottle service or something. And a bottle of vodka always comes with a pair of rose-colored beer goggles for this mess. And those make even the most inane events--nearly every fashion show I've covered at The Park--tolerable.

And while I'd like to say that I had a change of mind, the truth is I passed out in my bed watching tornado videos on YouTube. And don't ask how I got from watching Sarah Palin's acceptance speech to that. Though I'm sure the nature of her "family values" and shrill cadence have some sort of metaphorical connection to societal destruction. I'm sure of it! I'm just too tired to suss out any witty play on words of my own at the moment.

Speaking of Palin (Palin in comparison? Settle down.), two things:

1) Can we stop with the already-dated facebook status messages alluding to her? I've got it.

and

2) Read this saucy little number over at Let Them Eat Copy by my good friend B. (Not sure if the blog's private. If you can't access it, let me know and I'll see what I can do.) She takes a much more adept swing at things (with appropriate vitriol) than I ever could within the vapid walls of ILHE. G-d, that's a terrible acronym.

Not much to report in other news at the moment. Current mood: meh. There's a Neil Sedaka tune that may or may not sum up recent sentiments. And it rhymes with...Faking pup...miss...lard voodoo.

Wow. I'll leave you with that, my lambs.

Pat the Dog, Screw in the Lightbulb

2008-07-20T16:06:00.000-07:00

Being in the midst of deadline here at the rag, I find myself taking pleasure in the simplest of things.

For example, the SYTYCD top 10 performed this Bollywood-inspired group number on Thursday's show.

Hindi-lightful.

Ever Heard of Jicama?

2008-06-24T16:32:00.000-07:00

I've been shamefully remiss in my blogging lately. And today is no exception!

Keeping busy with work, SYTYCD, a little romance and even a Mendocino gaycation with Jews. All of which I promise to chat about when I get some time.

Meanwhile (and speaking of teh gayz!), it's Pride Month. So, in celebration, I present you with this hilarious column from Brandon Kelley of The Onion.

Enjoy!

So You Think You Can Spell?

2008-06-06T16:07:00.000-07:00

In Cat Deeley Voice: Americer, here are your top 20!

Not too much to report about last night's Vegas finals. At one point, we decided that one of the dancers who had chest razor burn and ingrown hairs reminded us of our friend Dennis. He didn't make it. Dennis, or Razor Burn.

I also find R and I have a make-believe tendency to project ourselves or our friends onto the dancers. For instance, when the final spot for the girls came down to two roommates--one Asian, one white--R and I saw each other. As the over-produced drama unfolded, we decided that we would totally support the other if one of us didn't make it.

This naturally led to fantasizing about one of us actually making it onto the show and the other being supportive by coming to the tapings with a glittery sign and ~~possibly~~ a flask. Fadorade, says R, so you can get past security easier.

That's my girl, always thinkin'.

The top-20 group consists of a good crop, from the look of things. It also consists of a lot of obnoxious name spellings.

Like, were all of their parents on coke in the '80s?

"This is awesome! My grandmother's name was Courtney. So you'll be 'Kourtni!'" BUMP!

Seriously. That's how one of the chicks spells her name. Well, technically, she's "Kourtni L." so as to distinguish her from the correctly spelled "Courtney G."

Other gems in this orthographic treasure chest? Rayven, Katee (who has extensions and a tranny face. Sars.), Chelsie H. and Kherington. Oh, and lest we forget the left fielders in general: Twitch (who we love), Thayne and--R's favorite--Comfort.

All this is happening as I get a phone call from Hollywood-based best friend Jeff who happens to be at an Armani Exchange opening (wtf?) with Mary Murphy herself (who may have been on speed for the duration of their half-hour conversation. And she owns a dance studio in San Diego!).

It's Friday, folks. And in addition to the fact that I feel like I need to get my left ear irrigated, my inspired dance card is ready to take some names. Hearing be damned!

Namaste.

Poems!

2008-06-01T14:27:00.000-07:00

Mother Night

When you wake at three AM you don't think
of your age or sex and rarely your name
or the plot of your life which has never
broken itself down into logical pieces.
At three AM you have the gift of incomprehension
wherein the galaxies make more sense
than your job or the government. Jesus at the well
with Mary Magdalene is much more vivid
than your car. You can clearly see the bear
climb to heaven on a golden rope in the children's
story no one ever wrote. Your childhood horse
named June still stomps the ground for an apple.
What is morning and what if it doesn't arrive?
One morning Mother dropped an egg and asked
me if God was the same species as we are?
Smear of light at five AM. Sound of Webber's
sheep flock and sandhill cranes across the road,
burble of irrigation ditch beneath my window.
She said, "Only lunatics save newspapers
and magazines," fried me two eggs, then said,
"If you want to understand mortality look at birds."
Blue moon, two full moons this month,
which I conclude are two full moons. In what
direction do the dead fly off the earth? Rising sun. A thousand blackbirds pronounce day.

--Jim Harrison

Sex and the Shitty?

2008-05-30T09:16:00.000-07:00

Oh stop it, you!

Forgive my by-now-overused pun in the title. It just seemed so very Carrie Bradshaw-like in its acceptable obnoxiousness that I couldn't resist.

So yes, Wednesday was Sactown's premiere of Sex and the City: The Movie at The Crest. And, contrary to all signs suggesting otherwise, it did not herald the apocalypse as my coworker B and I had anticipated.

Close though.

I liken the enthusiasm in the throngs of mostly female moviegoers to that of other eagerly anticipated movie releases. While the hottest accessory for any basic Star Wars fan would be a light saber or Princess Leia donut roll hair, the SATC fan base prefers its carefully accented clutch with accompanying sex-kitten curls. Pardon me, Harry Potter enthusiast. I just tripped over your Nimbus 5000 in my new Louboutins. And bitch please, Frodo. You call that Mallorn brooch an accessory? Put all the Elven lembas bread you need in my LV and we'll call it a day.

Above: The Louis Vuitton Carrie gives to J.Hud's character, Louise. (Above that: a few too many Lord of the Rings references for comfort, yeah?) And yes, the writers verbally skylark all over the available puns and references with Louise and Louis. Did I mention the character also hails from St. Louis? She does. And oh yes, they did.

Anyway, I have to honestly say that I wasn't expecting too much from the film.

Yes, I watched the series. And yes, I've partaken in--even hosted, admittedly--a few marathon DVD sessions in my time. The characters and plot lines, in their delusion and suspended adolescence, inhabited a fantasy land not so different from other make-believe worlds like Middle Earth or Hogwarts. (With links now!) Their Manhattan, their clothes, their lives--like any pretend place--asked us to check our disbelief at the door for a half-hour and, here it comes, get carried away in the escapism.

There's nothing wrong with that.

Now, I'm certainly not one of those who sing the praises of the show's supposed groundbreaking frankness and treatment of sex and relationships as some sort of platform for personal liberation. In 1998, I was a sailor-mouthed eighth grader with a wedge cut and not a thirtysomething single gal making it in the big city. I don't know. But, I can say I enjoyed the series. As did my older sisters. As did my older mother.

Its appeal for me has always been securely perched, Adonis-like, in that rare territory between guilty and legit pleasure, wrapped in sugar and substance not unlike the moral bow tied fastidiously around each episode via Carrie's internal monologue.

It's not real life.

But whoever said it was supposed to be? (And what is?)

If I wanted real, I'd do a spoken-word dance number about gentrification. Or, in this case, turn to my friend B in the theater, and snigger loudly as one of the characters gets proposed to by having a Manolo Blahnik placed on her foot. Yes, you read that right.

Anyway, I gave the movie a solid B.

Like most of the reviewers have said, it was nice to see the characters again. And while the film drags on at parts (2 hour, 20 minute running time), there's some secret giddy comfort to be had in reuniting with the girls, I suppose: Samantha's drag queen cadence; Miranda's witty rejoinders; Carrie's strut; Charlotte's comedic one-note capability to juxtapose prissiness with the repugnant. She shits her pants in one scene. (See! Sex and the shitty! Hilarious)

But I was with a great crowd, fortunately, who could appreciate the whole package for its post-ironic luster.

Afterwards, we headed to Ella Dining Room & Bar for the after-party where I gave in to silliness and ordered a cosmo (OK, a couple cosmos) and took part in the always-enjoyable ritual of getting drunk with co-workers.

And talking shit about the morons who came dressed up like Carrie wearing this.

This is always more fun when you're joined by cute clients and, in this case, fun German girls.

Horray!

John Shoolar

2008-05-27T19:27:00.000-07:00

A bit of a non sequitur today, folks.

(OMG, "Non Sequitur" so would have been the name of this blog if this were the '90s. Wait--did they have blogs in the '90s? Chat room? Message board!)

Jason Malmberg, Maggie Award-winning art director and general practitioner of Sactown tomfoolery, whipped up this little pearl today in about 40 seconds. Click on it!

I'd like to think he created it in honor of ILHE's launch, but really, on any given day, my inbox is usually teeming with at least one of these spur-of-the-moment Photoshop wonders.

The original shot of yours truly was during a game of drunk bowling (redundant?) in Hollywood with friends. We also saw Anne Heche that day!

Not looking like this, unfortch. She had on a blue fedora at the time and was gesturing wildly. Bless her.

Stay tuned. Tomorrow is Sactown's premiere of SATC in Sacramento at The Crest and I'll be in attendance, secretly dieing a little inside every time someone uses the phrase "Get Carried away" in earnest.

Poems!

2008-05-25T00:45:00.000-07:00

A Blessing

Just off the Highway to Rochester, Minnesota
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
--James Wright

So I Think I Can Blog

2008-05-23T10:19:00.000-07:00

Oh, So You Think You Can Dance.

Like 100-degree weather, work-night drinking binges and Friday Night Concerts in the Park, you are a harbinger of summer. That, and Thursday night couch sessions where my roommate (henceforth cleverly known as "R") and I transform into teenage girls (again) and proceed to offer our unwarranted commentary, adulation, judgment and sarcasm--peppered with tasteful swooning, giggles and frequent leg kicks--during each week's segment.

A bit of background on our fandom.

Let's just say we've seen every past season--including the MTV weekend marathons--and can cite the names of past contestants and winners with gusto.

(Creative note to self: what if SYTYCD had a Gauntlet-type spin-off where past contestants from different seasons come back to compete against one another! Instead of challenges, they have, like, hours of dance-offs! Dance-offs as far as the eye can see! And my other favorite hyphenated reality-show buzz word: hook-ups!) I digress...

Anyway, it's safe to say that in the dearth of summer TV programming, SYTYCD has jetéd its way onto our guilty-pleasure center stage of sickness. An added bonus to the crazy bus we drive? I also may or may not have taken R to last season's tour at Arco Arena for her 16th....er, 23rd...birthday.

I still maintain I made eye contact with this mess (whose Web site requires a login?) during the group finale.

Anyway, we're obsessed. And last night's episode, while still in that finding-its-pacing type of posturing most of these competition shows go through in the auditioning eps, did not disappoint.

Annoyingly effervescent host Cat Deeley ("Jidges!") is back with more hideous outfits. She had on some sort of boxy, green sack dress (or capelet?) for a few segments that would send the Go Fug girls into a tirade. Deeley's apparently a big deal (tried, but failed to make that into an interesting pun) in the UK. I guess she gained notoriety for hosting MTV UK while barefoot (how irreverent!), so now she's doing this.

Here's a pic for reference involving Chanel suspenders.

The two-hour premiere featured the L.A. auditions and, thanks to the sensationalism of the show's producers, didn't fail to showcase a good crop of hot messes, too.

First, there were the judges: Nigel Lythogoe (the Simon Cowell-esque Brit) and New-agey lyrical choreographer Mia Michaels who appears both simultaneously--and paradoxically--stoned and bitchy (except when she cries! We'll get to that). And then there's Mary Murphy, the vociferous ballroom choreographer I once met during L.A. Pride last summer at Here. She was drunk and enjoyable (two qualities I admire in anyone) and indulged me with a photo:

Me=palpably excited. My friends who I made take this picture=mortified.

Anyway, the contestants were mostly entertaining. The early episodes generally don't feature many of the actual good dancers, a)because I don't think they want to introduce their story lines until the real competition begins and b)because the sideshow of freaks and non-dancers that come out to audition in a haze of self-delusion are much more enjoyable.

A few notables from those falling under Category B were a long-haired hunchback calling himself "Sex." He can't dance, natch, but they felt the need to parade him onstage anyway for our entertainment.

Thing is, they did this last year when he auditioned and so this time, the joke felt old. Also, I've seen this guy on other reality shows including (another guilty-pleasure) Make Me a Supermodel. Yawn.

The awesomely named Philip Chebeeb was also back with improved pop and lock dancery. His appearance mostly sent R and I into a fit of portmanteau creations involving our last names (and those of people we know) fused with "Chebeeb." My personal favorite was "Enrikabeeb."

They also introduced a blind girl who performed a lyrical routine that, unfortunately, wasn't up to the technical skill level of the competition. The performance was nevertheless inspiring and, dare I say, touching. Especially if you're named Mia Michaels. Guys, Mia lost her shit because apparently she has a dancer friend who went blind or something. This then made the blind girl cry and even I waxed emotional for a second. It also reminded me of another Mia Michaels-related outpouring of flowery emotion from last season:

Mary Murphy couldn't even speak during the judges' comments following this, instead opting to draw an air heart as she wiped away tears.

Guys, you can't write this stuff. But you can dance it!

Another Mia Michaels ray of glory? Some guy who claims a sort of nomad lifestyle (Lebanon? London? LA?) did a contemporary piece accompanied by a spoken word score about, like, Hurricane Katrina and gentrification. Outside the box? Yes. Appropriate for a FOX dance show competition on prime time? Maybs not. But it did warrant this gem from Mia:

"I honor and respect the statement you just danced."

I'll just let that one hang there in the ether.

What else? A chipper 18-year-old soccer player obnoxiously named "Kherington" who could double as Jamie Lynne Spears' doppelganger (pre-preggers, obvi) whom the judges gave a pass to Vegas. But not after bestowing her with the requisite backhanded distinction of having a "commercial face."

I need to start using that one.