S n a r k A t t a c k

I'll Fly Away

A Monday morning once again finds me awake at 4:15 in SF and at my office in Burbank by 8:30.  In between, there was some very quick showering/drying/dressing and getting to the airport by a DeSoto cab driver who won points for timeliness but lost them immediately when he asked if we could stop for Starbucks.  I believe this request actually rendered me speechless.

(Upside to speedily getting ready - no stress over being late to airport.  Downside - flyaway hair.  I hate that.)   Overall though this was the smoothest trip yet to SF and back - and I flew with Lucky, which has gotten easier too, as he seems to get what's going on and doesn't fuss when I fold him into his carrier like a fuzzy white bit of origami.   The thing about traveling with a pet is that you've got to pay for them separately, and irony of ironies, his ticket is more expensive than mine, despite the fact that he spends the trip crammed under the seat in front of me.   (SPCA people, put those pens down; I say 'crammed,' but really, he's all curled up, nice as you please, and would that he could speak, he would doubtless agree that an hour spent thusly is far superior to six and a half hours in a car, where he stands the entire time, panting.)

But enough about the dog - yesterday we took said dog to Swirl, a wine shop in the Castro which we adore for its selection of wines and friendliness of the staff.  So delicious.  (The wine, anyway.)  It also has the added benefit of being a place that people we like also like, so we're treated to running into friends.  This is a good thing since we've gotten to the point where these weekends in SF are so harried that we can't seem to schedule any actual meeting with friends.  Plus, there's something just so awesome and neighborhoody about running into friends when you're out and about.  For the record, we never ran into a single straight friend, but such is life in the Castro. 

(There is an invisible line just north of Market, east of Divisadero, which discourages straight men from wandering into the 'Stro.  The line, which encircles the neighborhood, loses its mojo somewhat along the eastern boundary but towards the southern end of the neighborhood, where the Castro abuts Noe Valley, the line has been infiltrated to the point where none but the straightest, most macho, most rear-entry-phobic, male would hesitate to wander in the general direction of Badlands.)

 

But here's the thing - it's been a few months (or is it several?) since we've been seriously shuttling back and forth between SF and LA, the Castro and West Hollywood, and as it turns out, despite our protestations, we both really like LA.   SF is still home, of course, and can beguile and bewilder only like a true love does.  For every ooh and aah over the sheer beauty of the City, there's a matching outrage over municipal misdeeds.    That said, LA has grown on us, and the things that were supposedly so singular about SF, turn out to have pretty great analogues here in the Southland.  Including - and this is heretical, I'm sure - the food.  Maybe it's because we either indulge ourselves with well-reviewed and higher-end places or with cheap and still well-reviewed burger and taco joints, but the food's been great. 

Sure, restaurants alone don't make a city, and we're lucky in that we were able to find a place in a neighborhood where you can actually do what we do in the Castro - walk.  We can walk to Lucques, we can walk to the pet store, we can walk to the bank.  This is crucial - had we not had this, I doubt I'd be surprising the hell out of myself by admitting this:

LA, not so bad.

Especially since twice a month (or more), I fly back up to SF.  It's good to be home.

Nicotine Bomb

One of the men that GF works with is big into cigars.  We're not, and so when it came to finding him a cigar-related gift - cigars or their accoutrements - we were at the mercy of online reviews of local cigar shops.  These proved to be less than helpful as all the reviews seemed to be limited to exhilarated cigarette smokers raving about how 'I smoke, which makes me a bad, bad man, but they always throw in free matches at _________ whenever I drop in for my Dunhills.'  I'm not a smoker but I have purchased cigarettes for friends in the last six months and seem to recall that a pack o' premo smokes will run you nearly ten bucks.  How, then, is a free book of matches a selling point?  But I digress.

As I was perusing Yelp and Citysearch and reading through such unhelpful reviews, a colleague wandered into my office, mostly in an effort to stay awake, as he'd been out at the Emmys the night before and was wandering the building, zombie-like, until he could acceptably go home.  He recommended a place he'd been to with a friend who likes cigars.  A lot.  Happily, it's near our apartment and since the GF was slammed with work, I headed over there by myself, thinking I'd do the advance work until she got there. 

First of all, it's not just a cigar shop, but a cigar lounge, and when I hear 'cigar lounge,' the image that comes to mind is one of a smoky room full of giant winged leather chairs occupied by scotch-drinking men, usually Edward Herrman.  Perhaps they're reading the Wall Street Journal, or the Financial Times - or staring importantly into the fireplace.  It's not a roaring fire, but a tastefully restrained fire. 

This was not that place. 

This was more living room than parlor or den, full of mashed sofas and garage sale chairs, scuffed and worn, not unlike the men occupying them.  Four men sat at a table, playing poker, while another sat at a video poker console to the side.  Everyone ignored the Washington-Philly game in the background.  The guy running the shop came over to me immediately: "Are you the one who called earlier?"  I'm guessing they don't get many women.  I explained that I was looking for a gift and he ushered me into the glassed off room in the back full of shelves and shelves of cigars: the humidor.

As we walked in, I was nearly knocked backwards.  The smell of the cigars was nearly physical, the air almost viscous with nicotine and cancer.  In the corners were humidifiers which quietly clicked on and off.  The room had a library feel to it, and the cigar guy talked me through their selections.  He had a thick accent, and called them CEE-gars.  He said they ranged anywhere from three bucks to over $20 a cigar, the higher end cigars having rankings from Cigar Aficionado clipped and taped below them.  The rankings were like wine rankings: 'this one's an 89, it's got a easy burn and smooth draw, with notes of cherry and caramel on the finish.' 

Normally, I'm as much a bullshitter as the next person, but with cigars, I'm clueless.  I don't smoke, so couldn't tell you what I liked or don't like in a cigar.  I do miss the smell of my dad's pipe - Borkum Riff was his brand of tobacco - but cigars never smell like anything I'd want to be in the same area code with.  Yet here I was, in a room full of them, and kind of liking it.  Granted, they were unlit, but still, I started thinking: cigars, not so bad.

My attitude was apparently noted by the cigar guy.  That, or he was hitting on me. (Again, in that respect, I'm shockingly clueless.)  I was killing time, waiting for the GF to show up, and making small talk.  On a subject about which I know nothing, I can come up with anywhere between five and ten minutes of small talk.  I was there for longer than that, so I was forced to get personal, and ask the guy how it was he worked in a cigar shop.  You might have thought I'd asked him to describe when he lost his virginity, such was his enthusiasm:  he said he'd never even smoked cigarettes before, but when he got this job, he figured he should learn all about cigars so he would be knowledgeable when customers asked.  Can you imagine, he asked me, 'what they would say if I told them I knew nothing about a certain CEE-gar because I do not smoke?  What would they say?  That I should go work somewhere else.  That is what they would say, and how can I blame them?'  (He said, 'blem,' when he said 'blame.'  How can I blem them?)

And so he began smoking his way through the shop, learning.  That was four years ago and he said he's halfway through.  When he first started, he had to focus on the taste and began with 'easier' cigars, ones that are flavored with the essence of vanilla or cherry, pointing to brightly colored boxes of cigars.  After he got used to those, he worked his way up to more refined cigars, ones with more subtle flavors.  His goal is to be like his boss, the owner of the shop, who can pick up a cigar and identify it after a few puffs. 

The GF was held up at work so I went ahead and bought the gift - a 'treasure box' of five cigars, each individually wrapped.  When I'd paid for it, he brought out a single cigar.  'A gift, for you, from me.  You try it and if you like it, I will get you more.'  It was flavored with essence of vanilla.

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Listening to: Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Phenomena
via FoxyTunes   

You Got Lucky

When I first got the pup, I was in law school.   This turned out to be a genius training move for her - all that time at home to neglect Advanced Evidence and instill in the puppy the awesome trickery which has rendered her a push-button dog: 

'Do your thing' equaled 'please, hie thee to the grassy area nearest the door and make numbers one and/or two, forthwith and heretofore.' (It was law school, after all.)  'Drop it' meant 'please spit out discarded bagel/doll's head/piece of poo immediately.'  And, best of all, 'tan-tan' meant 'please make like you're on the frozen planet of Hoth and do your Tan Tan impression.'  There was also a variety of humiliating tricks my housemate and I would make her do:  sit pretty with a biscuit on her nose until we gave her the go signal to flip it into her mouth, or crawl on the floor like she was under enemy fire or, a classic, roll-over. 

But best was getting her to 'do her thing' on command. So much time saved, so many late nights not spent wandering the neighborhood waiting for her to get in the mood to drop the pups by the pool, as it were.  Now that she's a senior dog, wanting dinner at 4, instead of 6, you don't even have to say 'do your thing.'  She's an old lady; she wants to go out, do her own goddamn thing and then come back in and resume her nap.

Not so the GF's dog, Lucky.   He takes his sweet time.  He sniffs every tree, every blade of grass.  A leaf rustles in the next county over and he looks up, as though trying to discern: ash, or sycamore tree?  Meanwhile, my own pup has planted her feet squarely in front of the building.  Tan Tan no more, she's now an At-At.  She's done her duty and now wants not to go on a walk and certainly not to hang around while Lucky stands around like a mascot for indecision.  Always a good leash dog, suddenly I have to drag her around the block while I lay out issues of the Economist and, in a dark moment, Cat Fancy, for Lucky to peruse while his precious white Bichon cheeks dare unclench and we might manage to return indoors this millennium.   

That said, once all is done, I enjoy the trip back in the building, itself a maze which holds several interior courtyards featuring such classic Los Angeles architectural motifs as stucco and...more stucco.  (I have brushed up against a wall or two on my way around the building and have arrived home to discover my arms are bleeding.  Bleeding - and exfoliated.)  It's a nice little walk and once inside, Lucky, lightened of his burdens, jumps all over Z's head.  She suffers him, this little fucker, but I can tell.  She loves him. 

It reminds me of my folks' old black lab.  He was an outside dog, and until Z, we'd never had dogs that were even allowed in the house.  Cats could come in and out, but dogs - dogs were always outside, and the black lab was no exception.  He was a good outside dog, reliably stinky and sweet, fond of tennis balls and of following you around the yard, but I think all that alone time aged him prematurely.  By seven, his coat seemed dull, his eyes lost their shine and he turned lethargic.   

Enter the pup.  My hours at the firm were punishing enough for me, let alone for the pup, who did not cotton to being left alone in a tiny apartment off the Divisadero corridor.  I would eventually realize that I had to get a better apartment and get rid of the pup, if at least temporarily.  And so, she went off to stay with my folks and their dog for a while.

Within six months, the old dog had lost weight and his coat and eyes were shiny and bright.  I'm sure having the pup around added a few more years to his life.  Perhaps Lucky will do the same for my old lady dog.

So, here's to Lucky, who's grown on me.   Even if he did last night what Ryan Seacrest did metaphorically, and left little turds all over the floor.

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Listening to: Sarah Vaughan - September Song (1954)
via FoxyTunes   
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Listening to: Ray Brown Trio - Poor Butterfly (feat. Etta Jones)
via FoxyTunes   
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Listening to: Etta Jones - Save Your Love For Me
via FoxyTunes   

Please, Don't Talk About Me When I'm Gone

Good lord, it's been quite the sabbatical from blogging, and for that, I'm sorry.  In fact, I'm so sorry that I've taken some steps to make sure that in the future, as I find myself engaging in other pursuits that steal my time and devour my brain cells, that you will not have to waste even a moment of your busy, busy day by visiting a site (e.g. this one) which has not been updated.  No empty feeling of coming upon a site (this one again, bub) and seeing that same damnable title for a posting that was, jes' between you and me, not so good in the first place, and hardly any better after six weeks of sitting out in the rain-soaked blogosphere.

No, for you I've taken advantage of a few technological advances to make life easier.   Options which will let you subscribe to the blog, either through a news reader or - if your idea of a 'news reader' is Brian Williams - via old-fashioned email delivery.   Enter your email in the cute little box to the left, navigate through a painless CAPTCHA test (so I know you're not - heh - a robot) and watch in wide wonder as new entries are miraculously deposited into your overflowing inbox, only to be lost among the painstakingly typed messages from parents, the invitations to LinkedIn and all of those professional newsletters you subscribed to that one time when you felt like you should, i.e. your first month at the new job. 

More soon.  I promise.  Really!  I mean it!