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.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
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
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.
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.
Monday, March 26, 2007
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."
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."
Sunday, March 25, 2007
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.
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
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
Saturday, March 24, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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.
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