Beagle Convergence 2007

A few Sundays back there were over 120 beagles running amuck in the dog park down the street from me.


Weird. http://www.nocalbf2k.homestead.com/Spring2007.html

http://sausalitodogpark.org/

Nicasio Reservoir

This afternoon, I am nursing a nasty sunburn from what was a thoroughly lovely Saturday, spent lounging with friends, wine, snacks, and good paperbacks in a secluded, sunny spot on the shores of the Nicasio reservoir.

We chatted, read, napped, got a little blazed, and polished a whole loaf of challah and box of coconut cookies.

As the summer lazily approaches, my love for living up here intensifies. The beauty around this county is just jaw-dropping sometimes.

Disclaimer: along with the sunblock, I also forgot my camera. Hence I had to fine an appropriate Google image. But this one is pretty close to what I spent five-plus hours staring at.

Visitors from Another County

When one moves from the venerable City to Marin, one finds that it's often difficult to get friends, acquaintances, and other previously-frequently-seen folks to come and visit. People who will easily hop on BART over to Oakland, or drive to San Jose, seem to have trouble traveling north that five miles over the bridge, out of the fog and into my apartment.

So, it's with great enthusiasm that I'm looking forward to a little dinner party I've put together this evening: four friends, a lamb roast, some good beer, and a discussion of the first seventy pages of The Communist Manifesto. It should be fun.

I guess the only way I could attract visitors from the People's Republic of San Francisco is to offer a book group based around Marx. Alas.

Housing Prices

I found the coolest co-blogs.

http://marinrealestatebubble.blogspot.com/
http://marinpos.blogspot.com/

The titles just about say it all. I know I've waxed philosophic (and perhaps annoying) about my overpriced, rented postage stamp of an apartment. And perhaps rightfully: my rent is higher than my parents' mortgage. I have accepted the potential fact that I will never own a house. At least in a place (i.e., not Iowa, or perhaps Harare) that I would choose to live.

So, I will continue tromping through the armies of lovelorn cats, and the eucalyptus sap, and the other detritus that awaits me on my less-than-perfect days up here.

Addendum: There are, I have found, dozens upon dozens of "real estate bubble" blogs out there. Which suggests to me that perhaps one of the downsides of being an actual homeowner is that one has to work so much as to not have any time to blog. Which makes homeownership even less attractive. I guess I'm a pretty lucky guy after all.

The Price of Privilege

On the topic of white liberal bliss, one of the most fascinating books I've read in the past year is set, perhaps not coincidentially, right here in my (proverbial) backyard.

Last year, Kentfield psychologist Madeline Levine used anecdotes from her twenty-plus years of practice with Marin County as material for The Price of Privilege. It discusses how the parental pressure that accompanies growing up in upper-middle-class homes--where value as a person is perversely achievement-oriented--has driven many of her teen-aged patients to clinical anxiety, alcoholism, depression and other lovely conditions.

I was thinking about Levine's book last weekend, as I was having lunch out at High-Tech Burrito in Strawberry Village. I was sitting alone on a bench, noshing on the guac-laden creation of this better-than-mediocre-if-not-quite-the-Mission place, watching the kids and parents interact on a beautiful if slightly blustery Sunday afternoon. It was a suburban idyll, to be sure--Stanford sweatshirts, organic stuff, Land Rovers, sweatshop-conscious footwear.

Yet in my business, which consists of educating a great many of these kids, I've seen legions of tragedy. Stories that will wrench your soul, all of which take place in rather gilded surroundings. Levine is controversial, perhaps, but I think she's right.

We live in Marin. These are our children, after a fashion. So what are we going to do about it?

HTML Footnotes:
Madeline Levine: http://www.harpercollins.com/books/9780060595845/The_Price_of_Privilege/index.aspx
High Tech Burrito:http://www.hightechburrito.com/

Just Across The Lagoon

Ring Mountain is a delightful place, often eclipsed by the brighter stars of Mt. Tam and Pt. Reyes. I discovered it this morning, making a commitment to scale the top by lunchtime.

I didn't quite get all the way around to the Tiburon side, but upon making it about halfway up the hill, sat down to admire the view and wolf down my Safeway Signature sandwich. Within my line of sight, I discovered the fascinating juxtaposition of institutions in the photo above.

The buildings in the foreground are those of the Marin Country Day School, an K-8 private school with a sixteen million dollar endowment. It's pure stereotyped Marin; elite(ist) with hippie frosting.
http://www.mcds.org/

The longish building on the shore of the lagoon in the background of the photo, to the left of the bridge, is none other than San Quentin Prison. No explanation needed.
http://www.corr.ca.gov/Visitors/fac_prison_SQ.html

I like this photo because it really seems to capture what I've been discovering about Marin: the paradoxes that are right before our eyes, yet that so many of us just blissfully ignore. It's unlike in SF, where the less desirable (affluent?) elements of society are there with you on the bus, the street, in GG Park. Over there their existence is acknowledged, if only through condemnation. Up here, it seems to be a different story.

Ah, white liberal bliss.

Post-tirade suggestion: get yourself over to Ring Mountain. Bring a sandwich and a digital camera.
http://www.co.marin.ca.us/depts/PK/Main/mcosd/os_park_24.asp

Balancing the Checkbook

An expenditure comparison from last month:

Bridge tolls: $112.00
Meals out: $22.44

This, I suppose, is the how the relatively impoverished manage to afford to live in this delightful place.

In My Mind, I'm Gone to Sausalito

Yes, I miss home.

The weather behind the Orange Curtain is certainly pleasant, and there's lots of rather splendid take-out, but there's just a certain kind of flatness about this place (geographically, cartographically, culturally?) that wears me down.

Of course, there are no theme parks in Marin. Oh, darn.

Mill Valley Requiem

At this, the twilight of what has been a thankfully un-adventurous housesitting gig, I find myself a bit saddened. I am taking out the recycling (literally), changing the paper in the parakeet cage (literally), and re-organizing the fridge as befits my customary "leave no trace" policy. I would like to be Invited Back.

Housesitting, as well as kid- and pet-sitting to an arguably lesser degree (as in these there are witnesses) strikes me as a fascinating social milieu. It's a detached yet strangely intense laser-focus into someone else's life. You eat their cottage cheese, use their detergent, find their kid's month-old dirty sock underneath the sofa cushion as you browse their 614-channels of Comcastic delight.

Yet they're 8,000 miles away, in Bora Bora or something, having a lovely time of it while you stand in their kitchen Making Espresso at Six-Thirty A.M. I dunno, it just strikes me as something that Quentin Tarantino or perhaps Stephen Hawking would have a lot to say about.

Perhaps I could spend a year, or six months, just bouncing my way across Marin in this fashion. My bohemian self slogging from house to house, feeding spaniels, watering ferns, poking around kitchens for the right kind of colander.

It could be a downright pleasant business.

Mill Valley Part Three: The Big Lebowski

Tonight, I took a much-anticipated after-work junket down the hill from this swell house to the Marin Theatre Company (http://www.marintheatre.org), where every Tuesday night is "Pay What You Will" night.

Well, for this individual who very much adores paying-what-he-will (which, due to current pecuinary circumstances, is A Very Small Amount), this was the perfect combination. Not to mention that the MTC is only a stone's throw from the afore-blogged 2 AM Club.

My five dollar trip to see "The Good German" resulted in three conclusions:

• The MTC is an absolute gem. It's an intimate venue that (from my limited experience, which consists of two hours in the third row) puts on excellent semiprofessional theatre for what is (even if you choose to Pay More Than Five Bones) a reasonable price.
• The 2 AM crowd has a great deal of cross-pollination with the MTC crowd. Sociologically, this is quite heartening to me, as I adore a place where folks can appreciate good live theater, but are still down for a pint of PBR after the show.
  
• I have excellent taste, even if I am a painfully cheap SOB. To wit: I adore The Big Lebowski, and Warren David Keith (who played the role of the funeral director in that flick) was on stage tonight at the MTC. Two productions that both involve German Nihilists, and I'm a fan of both.
  

I also visited the Safeway this afternoon, but that's a subject for another post altogether. Never have I seen a mainstream grocery with Multiple Sections of Arugula. Wow.

The Banjo

I am learning the banjo.

Okay, there--I've admitted it. Not quite "I'm an alcoholic" or "I don't just troll CL casual encounters, I call back", but certainly on the Somewhat Shameful Scale nevertheless.

Of course, living up here, I'm learning there's not too much shame in the banjo. Instead I'm learning it's precisely the peculiar, never-quite-was-mainstream-but-wasn't-ever-exactly-weird-either kind of thing that people really dig in Marin. I could walk down Throckmorton toting this banjo and I suspect not too many folks would give me a second glance, much less a derisive stare, as they rolled by with their steaming Whole Foods lattes and Peg Peregos.

This doesn't mean that I'm going to try this experiment, mind you. But I suspect that my suspicions would be confirmed were I to do so.

The banjo is a fascinating instrument. It's a truly American thing; the guitar--electric, acoustic, and otherwise--has been adopted by countless manner of other folks around the globe. But search YouTube for "Russian Banjo" and you'll find seventeen hits. And not many of them are much good, frankly.

http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=russian%20banjo&search=Search

P.S. I don't own the banjo in question. It's just a loaner. The why of which I suppose is a fine subject for a later story, but I can confess that it involves organic eggs and a now-somewhat-distant trip to Fairfield.

The Two A.M. Club, Part Two: MILF Valley

I've heard certain rumors about Marin. Some of these have been completely and utterly disproven by my residence here. Others have, I must admit, have been merely confirmed and underscored the more time I spend living on this side of the bridge.

Rumor: Marin County has the highest number per capita of divorced, middle-aged white women of any municipality in California.

Confirmed: At the Two A.M. Club yesterday.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2_AM_Club

The Two A.M. Club, Part One

Tonight I began a ten-day house sitting stint in the hills of M.V., in a delightful rambling house that includes, as some of its accouterments, a drum set, trampoline, and sheet music for Billy Joel's "She's Always a Woman." Throw in the aging parakeet, and you've got One Dangerous Combination. Neighbors be warned.

Digging through the fridge upon the departure of my hosts, I found three avocados, but no beer. Oh, the horror. Luckily for me, the Two A.M. Club--a long aspired-to destination of mine on The Quest--was only a five-minute drive down the hill. I've heard there are pool tables, too.

I'm going to log out and get in the car now. Wish me luck.

Or--knowing what I know thus far of those who frequent this long-renowned dive--perhaps not that much luck.

The Paradoxes of My Home

Marin is full of wildness that roughly and sometimes even violently abuts the intrusion of yuppie civilization. It's often a constant push-and-pull for primacy between these east/west, yin/yang forces.

My apartment is a fine example. It's located on a semi-wild hillside that is home to eucalyptus trees, oaks, wild fennel, miner's lettuce, and an assortment of native and non-native wildlife.

On good days, it's quite lovely to come home to. The bright yellow sourgrass smiles at me from the edges of the asphalt; I'll pick a sprig of fennel on the way down the steps just for the Dionysian pleasure of inhaling the licorice-tinged fragrance.

On bad days, the eucalyptus trees drip all manner of nastiness on my car, the odor of decaying dog poop overpowers that of the fennel, Caltrans comes by with chainsaws to prune the oak trees on what is (as I learned) technically their hillside, and the non-native wildlife primarily consists of dozens of feral cats that my neighbor feeds and allows to fornicate at their leisure on the steps to my front door.

This was one of those bad days.

Or to paraphrase what's going on only steps away from where I write, "Yeeoow-owh-owh."

Inevitable Witnessing of Tragedy

I think I just saw someone jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.

It was late, I was going 50 miles per hour, and the fog was heavy, but there was a lone figure standing out in the freezing wind, leaning heavy over the railing. Not a common sight at 10pm.

Ever since I moved up here, I figured that statistically it was only a matter of time before this became part of my experience.

On average, one person per week chooses to end their life in this way. The Chronicle did a fascinating series on it last year.

http://www.sfgate.com/lethalbeauty/

I wonder how many more times I'll have to see this happen.

Avatar's

Indian-Mexican-Jamaican fusion cuisine. Yup.

In a somewhat unpretentious mini-mall on Bridgeway lay a litle joint that was soon to become an inspirational culinary favorite of mine. Avatar's.

Apparently, the original Avatar (his name, not his job description, although one does feel a bit like an avatar himself after consuming a Chicken Curry Enchilada) started the place back in the eighties. His death didn't stop the spicy love that emanates from the place.

I say "love" because, lovely food aside, I've never seen such a humanistic restaurant up here. Granted, my parsimonious self spends a lot of time in my own kitchen (recipe soon to be posted, BTW) so my restaurant experience is somewhat limited--but on Thanksgiving Day, nothing at Avatar's is for sale.

They instead open the doors at 3pm for a giant community dinner and make room for anyone who wants to sit down to a Punjabi Tostada. It's a far cry from the Marin: Extraordinary Living pretentiousness of Poggio or the bloomin' onion wretchedness of Outback, across the freeway.

My trips to Avatar's (and its satellite in downtown MV) have inspired me as to the following recipe, which I've made several times to the applause of my taste buds.
http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Addictive-Sweet-Potato-Burritos/Detail.aspx

The No Name

My first stop on The Quest was a visit to Sausalito's venerable No Name Bar, a (as I was soon to find) slightly divey hamlet right on Bridgeway that (much to my delight) boasts live, free music every night.

Verdict: Truly a slice of the Old Marin I'd been seeking, and delightfully only a few weeks into my residency here. The aging hippies sucking on pints while listening to banjo jam sessions were not to be missed, and a lot of fun to engage in conversation. I have since returned often and met some pretty salty folks.

On the subject of saltiness, there is also a place just down the street that, on Wednesdays, offers fish and chips for only $2.50. It's not astounding, but as I run most of my food purchases through a cost-benefit analysis it's just dandy for the price.

My Quest

About a week after I moved up here, an old friend of mine from the city picked me up on the way to Reno. The Reno Experience is a subject for another post, alas. Or perhaps not alas, as it's a fine town populated by many fine folks and friends of mine.

To many SF residents, the mere word "Marin" evokes a certain Range-Roverly stereotype. Except for (see supra) day trips in and out of this sunny belly of the Cultural Beast, they tend not to want much to do with it. Particularly living there.

We had stopped at the In-and-Out right off 101 for lunch. As we walked through the parking lot, Haj (he's a Japanese fellow who's lived in SF for the past ten years or so) finally dropped The Question, the one that I was to get time and time again during the first several months of my residency here.

"So, what's it really like living up here?" came the innocent query between slurps of a chocolate shake. I myself was a bit shaken, not being prepared for this zinger, particularly the tone of voice in which it had been delivered.

Thus came my unscripted reply: "Well, Haj, it's really nice. But every once and a while I look around and think to myself, 'Gee, am I one of these rich white people now?'"

As soon as it left my lips, I began reflecting on that thought. And fiercely denying it. I made a commitment that--Mercedes or no--I wouldn't succumb to the Bay Club Syndrome. I would live here, yes, and I would be white and relatively well-off, but I would find that legendary Old Marin that one hears so much about and yet the uppity-bobo-SOMA residents seem never to be able to locate. And I'd cast myself into it.

Thus began the quest.

Seven Months In

I moved to Marin in August after an eighteen month, much maligned experience with four strangers as roommates in the Presidio. One of them was a budding Neo-Nazi from old Hamptons money whose parents mailed him thousands of dollars a month to, I suspect, keep him and his horrific manners at bay and 3,000 miles distant.

Needless to say, I was particularly keen to Get Out of Dodge as soon as my no-way-out-early lease with the federal government ended. I started trolling C-list for places in the Richmond/Sunset. I was being a bit of a prince; I refused to live in an apt. without a parking space included in the rent. I had gone years without a parking ticket and wanted to keep my rather meritorious record (ask any SF resident or DPT employee--I'm apparently a local legend) squeaky-clean.

The cost of living around here is so Draconian, particularly in my chosen profession, that me and my multiple diplomas had been consigned to living in an unfinished basement with two water heaters and a furnace, which I named Romulus, Remus, and Ursula respectively. Needless to say I had no idea what possessed me. I do know what I wasn't possessed of, which was A Lot of Money.

Thus, I never thought I'd live in Marin. This lovely redwood-studded place was Out Of My League, save for weekends on Mt. Tam and occasional trips out to the Novato Costco for tires.

When I found the tiny, lovely little place with the view of the houseboats, I jumped on it immediately. Not literally, as the building manager is the next-door-neighbor. Now I can go hiking any time I want, and have just stopped looking at the bridge toll statements.