My unflagging San Francisco remedy (and DFW crash landing)
Jeezus, every time the plane makes that swooping turn over the Bay and onto the tarmac of SFO, my heart just goes haywire. All I have to do is peer at the city off in the distance, beckoning me once again, welcoming me back into the fold like one of the Manson girls who dared to go astray. What makes an experience like this even sweeter is having one of my favorite people on the entire bloody planet - Wayne, who always has this incredible knack for lighting up my entire world and appearing like an angel out of the blue, anyway - waiting for me down at baggage claim. Reuniting with him is one of life's little pleasures, one that I strive to make happen at least once a year. And there he was to greet me, ready to whisk me off on the BART and back into the city that always feels like home, despite the real estate prices taunting you mercilessly, like those bitches back in junior high.
Wayne hooted when he learned we didn't have to wait for my baggage, wondering how I managed to pull that off, so I took that opportunity to sing the praises of the 'two carry-ons allowed' rule, which makes getting through airports and on and off planes in a timelier fashion much, much simpler. Just don't check any bags. Seriously. It took years for this to sink in, too. I used to be the world's worst about taking everything and the kitchen sink along with me on trips - like Joan Bloody Collins and her seven Louis Vuitton trunks - that is, until my special man friend taught me the joys of travelling light. And for anyone who's ever been burned by the Lost Luggage Experience, regardless of your frequent flier status - the 'two carry-ons allowed' rule is truly your ticket to ride, my friend, paving the way for you to move freely about the country. Those smaller suitcases fit nicely into those overheard storage bins (wheels first), and they work like a charm for stowing away everything you'll need in the way of a wardrobe for the next week. Your other carry-on should be small enough to stash under the seat ahead of you - but something big enough for your wallet, travel documents, toiletries, pills, iPod, trashy mags, day planner, and books. It's also a good idea to load up on snacks, seeing how the cheapo airlines can't even be arsed enough to hand out pretzels these days.
Along with the relative ease that came with being in Wayne's presence and patting myself on the back for being so fucking clever, I couldn't have asked for a better first day back in San Francisco. The sun was shining, and even the pigeons in the Mission seemed to be in a good mood. Once we got back to the apartment on Diamond Street, I was thrilled to see that Ricky was in, despite the fact that he was obviously still recovering from a nasty flu bug. I was also greeted by the two most fabulous Dachshunds in the world, Otto and Wolfie. Otto's in his twilight years, bless his heart, and Wolfie - just shy of two - stole my heart at first sight with his one blue eye, those little sausage paws, and his soft, warm body that molded right up against mine, like the cuddle-toy of my dreams. I must find one like him. Dachshunds simply rule. All dogs do, but Dachshunds win me over every time. Having grown up around them, I can't help but be fond of the little buggers, even the snappy, territorial ones.
Anyway, we took it easy for the rest of the day, ordering pizza and catching up - besides that, we knew the upcoming weekend promised to be busier than shit. This was fine with me, as I knew St. Etienne at the Fillmore and Pattie Boyd's "Sharied Memories" photography show at the San Francisco Art Exchange would certainly be worth resting up for.
Friday's cold and rainy turn kept us indoors and toasty, with the heater going full blast. We'd toyed with the idea of making the St. Etienne pre-show meetup at the Dot Lounge in the Miyako with some of the other people from 'Avenue,' the St. Etienne list-serve, but the dazzling effects of Ricky's cooking and the wares from Wayne's local medical cannabis club (what shall it be today, Darling - the Purple Haze or Blue Moonshine?), combined with the biting wet chill, quickly disabused me of that idea. Yeah, I'll admit that weather-wise, I'm a pussy. But it even snowed on Mount Tam that day, for chrissakes - simple proof that even for Northern California, the freaky weather capital of the world, this was a bit unusual.
Luckily, I'd brought my warmest gear, and even better, the Fillmore - the most kick-ass venue in the world, I might add - has a coat check. Bless. I wanted to do a little happy dance right there, even with my ears and neck so sore from the cold that they actually hurt. The cure for that was a Bombay Sapphire and tonic for me, a Jack and Coke for Wayne, a walk around the venue, whose chandeliers and grandiose romanticism had me in full jaw-drop mode, and last but not least, catching a quick glimpse of the amazingly lovely Sarah Cracknell in person, clad in a whitish wrap-coat and making her way to the dressing room with her hubby, Martin Kelly - just three feet away from where we stood. Trying not to flip out like Little Miss Fangirl, I pulled Wayne over to the balcony, looking right over the stage, and whispered, "Oh my god, that was Sarah Fucking Cracknell who just walked by!" I could've died happily right then and there, but no, we still had a show to get though.
The opening band, a local outfit called Every Move A Picture, proved to be kinetic enough, maybe a little too Strokes-y for my taste, but they didn't suck. At least the cute lead singer gave us something to feast our eyes on while waiting for St. Etienne to come on.
In both print and in person, vocalist Sarah Cracknell is one small, stunning package. That voice! That face! Her bantering with the audience may have been limited, but it always came out as warm and flirty, with those dulcet tones that make you just want to say 'fuck it,' pack your bags and move to London, just so you can feel safe knowing that St. Etienne's somewhere around, providing your soundtrack to the city and plotting their next spurt of greatness. On stage behind Sarah stood Bob Stanley and Pete Wiggs at their respective keyboards, and to her left, the gorgeously gilded vocals and personage of Debsey, clad in a black and white striped shirt similar to the one Sarah wore - evoking a very St.-Tropez-in-the-springtime, smoking-your-cigarette-under-the-Cinzano-umbrella kind of vibe. Oh, to be young and Eurotrash, y'know?
I'd wanted to see Saint Etienne live for the longest time, but Texas has never been on any of their North American itineraries, as far as I know. So this time - considering they were only playing four U.S. tour dates, and all within one short week - when my Dad asked me what I wanted for Christmas, the first thing that flew out of my mouth was, "A plane ticket to San Francisco so I can see St. Etienne at the Fillmore in February." Merry Christmas to me, Baby!
St. Etienne Setlist (special thanks to Avenuer Dean from SLC):
Lightning Strikes
Sylvie
Who Do You Think You Are?
Don't Back Down
Oh My!
Good Thing
Split Screen
Last Orders
Spring
Stars Above Us
Teenage Winter
Action
First Encore:
Like A Motorway (just Bob, Pete and Sarah)
Nothing Can Stop Us
Second Encore:
People Get Real!
It was everything I'd hoped for and more - especially feeling the love between Sarah and Debsey on "Who Do You Think You Are?" and "Split Screen." "Oh My!" - from the US version of Tales From The Turnpike House - came on like a bolt out of the blue, as if the spirit of Pulp suddenly took over the stage. Definitely the most rawkin', unexpected moment of the evening. Speaking of TFTTH, this show marked the first time I'd heard any of its tracks - which now means that I'll now have to go out and buy both the UK and US versions, because of the varied song selections. The completist dickweed collector in me won't have it any other way.
Nursing a rather heady drunk by the time the show closed, I idiotically managed to lose my cell phone somewhere between the Fillmore and Diamond Street - either on the MUNI or in the last cab we took home from the 18th Street/Castro station. Argh. So at 12:30 in the morning, here's Wayne - bless his soul - calling every cab company in the city - and MUNI as well, inquiring whether or not any of the drivers had turned in any cell phones. Turns out with the President's Day holiday, their lost-and-found departments wouldn't have been open until Tuesday, anyway, so our first Saturday stop would be - you guessed it, the Cingular Store in the Portrero Center. A total bummer, but hey, that's what credit cards are for, right? (Cue up the Dionne Warwick)
We spent the rest of our rainy Saturday watching the second installment of Tales of The City ("Mother Mucca is one old motherfucker!"), drinking coffee and gearing up for the Pattie Boyd show. If the name Pattie Boyd isn't familiar to you (what, you didn't read my "Rock and Roll Girl's Valentine to Pattie Boyd" last February?), she's the very woman who inspired some of the most scorching songwriting moments of George Harrison and Eric Clapton - "Something," "Wonderful Tonight" and "Layla" are probably the best known of the bunch. Pattie Boyd is rock and roll royalty, the Jackie O. of the Swinging London set. God bless her. She never kissed and told. For those of us whose most fervent wish is that she'd write her memoirs, we'll just have to be content with her photography. And seeing the world through the eyes of Pattie Boyd isn't a bad way to spend an evening. Her travel snaps of the Dead Sea and South Indian beaches are worthy of National Geographic - and of course, there are the images of her husbands and lovers, friends, and family. Admit it: it's what we've all come to see. If I'd had several thousand dollars to spend, here's my wish list, in order: the self-portrait of young George and Pattie in the garden, with her in a blue bikini and roses on a trellis in the background; the 1968 shot of Jack Bruce, Ginger Baker and Eric Clapton stoned on the sofa; and the one I'd considered spending $2000 on a year before - the 2003 photogrpah of Marianne Faithfull and Anita Pallenberg enjoying a girl's night out in London.
Unreal as it was breathing the same air and being in the same room with the ex-Mrs. George Harrison and ex-Mrs. Eric Clapton, the gallery experience itself was pleasantly devoid of any beautiful people or insufferable hipster types who use these moments to shine irritatingly. Speaking of beautiful, my god - Pattie herself looks like a million dollars. Here's a woman very comfortable in her own skin, someone who's resisted the lure of the surgeon's scalpel and the limelight. I swear, this woman emanates fairy dust. And she was obviously loving every minute of the evening, too, holding court as a dark-haired and dashing young specimen of boyhunk in a purple velvet smoking jacket poured her endless glasses of Veuve Clicquot. Greatness! So maybe by the time the next Pattie Boyd exhibit rolls around, I'll have enough to buy one of her photographs. Why the fuck not? As my sweet Taj says, "Girl, we're old enough to start buying art now." It's true. Hell, it just dawned on me that I'm already the proud owner of three Kris Hundt originals, and hands down, she's my favorite shining star of the Dallas photography scene. Pattie Boyd would be the next logical step, right?
I suppose once the Brit-Chick segment of my weekend had concluded, the only major thing on my San Francisco to-do list was the pursuit of culinary decadence. Sunday started out as super low-key, but the first thought that crossed my mind upon waking was the succulent ginger crab my Uncle Eugene and his partner Jim turned me on to in Chinatown twenty-one years earlier, on my first-ever visit to the city. I've had a giant hard-on for ginger crab ever since - and was lucky enough to re-live the experience again in 1991. Unfortunately, my special man friend and I didn't make it to Chinatown on our last trip in 2004, so this time, I vowed to track the fuckers down again. That night, there would be a big-ass platter of ginger crab somewhere in Chinatown - and with my name written all over it, too, damn it.
The Powell Street MUNI brought us a few blocks shy of Chinatown, ever closer to our prized ginger crab. Hell, we could smell Chinatown before we even made it up the hill, and once there, we made our way through the morass of humanity, live chickens, Chinese characters blurring together into one big blotch, and cheapo trinkets you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. And just as we were passing a small Chinese bar with Hank Williams Jr.'s "Family Tradition," blaring out from the jukebox for all the world to hear, our sweet Danny sent me a text. So when I say it was a totally cosmic moment, I'm not being a total smart ass.
Just as Wayne and I had almost abandoned all hope of ever finding the basement restaurant my uncle had taken me to all those years ago, he took my hand and said, "Let's go check that side of the street out, honey." We were standing at the far end of Grant, the place where Chinatown pretty much ends and North Beach begins. That's when we spotted Yuet Lee on the corner (1300 Stockton Street, 415-982-6020) - a stone's throw from Carol Doda's and Big Al's. A little paper sign in the window with a drawing of a red crab and the glorious words 'Crabs in Season' was all the encouragement we needed. After settling in and ordering up the ginger crab right off the bat, we toasted our luck with Tsingtao. When the calamari arrived, fresh from the goddamned Pacific and lightly battered, accompanied by a devilishly tickly soy and jalapeno sauce, we proceeded to gorge ourselves without shame. Around this time, I saw the chef carry a rather large and handsome Dungeness crab from the tank up front to the kitchen in back, and excitedly, I pointed him out to Wayne.
Our dinner.
We clapped our hands retardedly, like two eight-year-olds who'd just egged their teacher's house, but took special care to give thanks for the little creatures from the sea, for nourishing our bodies and for reminding us that we'd better enjoy all this while we can, before the world's oceans go to shit. Unless you're a vegan, or just don't like seafood, or you're one of those mega-persnickety, unadventurous diners others dread going to restaurants with, being in San Francisco and not having seafood is tantamount to not sampling Tex-Mex in San Antonio, not nibbling on kibbeh nayiee and fatoush in Beirut, or not having the guy at your local Lancashire chip shop douse your greasy, newspaper-wrapped fish and chips and mushy peas with copious amounts of salt and malt vinegar. Criminal.
While eating crab is messy and requires a shitload of work - what with the hand-crackers and peeling of shells, not to mention slim pickings by the time all is said and done - this platter offered up nothing but the most fabulously fresh and geneous crabby goodness; the flaky meat popped right out with the juicy snap of a claw or a leg, splashing the front of our shirts and us not giving a good goddamn. In between scraping the shells clean, not to mention taking our turns in the finger bowl, we devoured another side of loaded vegetable chow mein, whose crispy noodles were even more heavenly after absorbing the sauce.
Needless to say, after this glorious repast, we were at the completely-stuffed and brainless stage, but we couldn't bid farewell to Chinatown until we'd make that last mandatory stop at Vital TeaLeaf (1044 Grant Avenue, 415-981-2388), for samples of the most awe-inspiring tea to ever hit my tongue - Siberian rose, green, Black Lychee, Black Oolong, and a couple of others whose names I wish I could remember but flavor-wise, have made their mark on my tastebuds, especially the one that tasted of rosemary leaves. Under the watchful eye of the Maoist babe in the painting up behind the counter, the staff cracked jokes and poured away as the walk-ins sipped and pondered their purchases. If you go during the week, you'll be lucky enough to meet Uncle Gee, and I understand he's quite the star.
Once home, the rest of our evening was spent cuddling Otto and Wolfie, and falling asleep on the sofa with "Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle," which is actually quite funny, save for one super-scatalogical scene involving twin sisters making a trip to the bathroom. Anyway, it was later that night when I discovered that Wolfie's even better than a hot water bottle, and somewhere from the heavens, my mother and Glenn were smiling down, watching me mack down on this loving little hunk of Dachshund. Those floppy ears of his just drive me nuts.
Monday morning we slept in, and the prospect of returning to DFW had gotten me all sad. Ricky wasn't feeling well enough to attempt a trip out, and the last little thing I'd hoped to accomplish on this jaunt was a long walk the otherway up Diamond Street - my last big-ass hill for this particular trip, just to test my endurance. Wayne suggested we reward ourselves with a trip down to Noe Valley, a friendly little enclave with shops and coffeehouses galore, not to mention hopelessly sky-high real estate prices. So when I heard Wayne casually mention that $595,000 wasn't a bad price for a house in Noe Valley, I still couldn't help but feel somewhat innocent and shell-shocked, wondering if this will this ever be within reach for someone of my means. One never knows, but we shall see. But back on Castro Street, I'd been astonished to see several empty storefronts and other places in the process of closing their doors. Lots of shops with big, colorful banners advertising 50-70% off sales, and lots of real estate offices, none of which had been there on Castro the last time I was there in 2004.
On that note, I'd be a liar if I didn't add that this is the saddest I've ever felt after returning to DFW from San Francisco. Tuesday night on the way home from the airport, "California Dreamin'" came on the radio - so cruel - and of course, there I was, welling up like a big dumb-ass, irritating the man friend and making him turn the station. It's gotten to the point where the Dallas skyline makes me feel like Linda Blair's Reagan in 'The Exorcist,' and all I can think of is Jimmie Dale Gimore's bittersweet classic "Dallas" - basically a song describing how the place really does look better from a DC-9 at night. See, it's not just me. Dallas is definitely more palatable from afar. And dear God, didn't my man and I run into Mr. Gilmore at the SFO airport when we were coming back from our last trip out there, in October of 2004? Holy shit...
If that's not a 'sign,' then I don't know what is...
Meanwhile, I'm still coming off the high of my trip, trying not to let the blues get in the way of living and moving on. It's been difficult, but I promise not to lose hope, and to keep saving my money, like a good girl, so that I may have enough to lead a comfortable life, wherever the road shall lead. I also solemnly swear to play nice, and keep my Klonopin - which shall now be referred to as 'Goddamn-It-Alls' in honor of Wayne - close at hand, in case of emergencies. My mantra will be Goethe's "Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid" - with the occasional "Fuck off" and "Because I said so" thrown in for good measure.
Wayne hooted when he learned we didn't have to wait for my baggage, wondering how I managed to pull that off, so I took that opportunity to sing the praises of the 'two carry-ons allowed' rule, which makes getting through airports and on and off planes in a timelier fashion much, much simpler. Just don't check any bags. Seriously. It took years for this to sink in, too. I used to be the world's worst about taking everything and the kitchen sink along with me on trips - like Joan Bloody Collins and her seven Louis Vuitton trunks - that is, until my special man friend taught me the joys of travelling light. And for anyone who's ever been burned by the Lost Luggage Experience, regardless of your frequent flier status - the 'two carry-ons allowed' rule is truly your ticket to ride, my friend, paving the way for you to move freely about the country. Those smaller suitcases fit nicely into those overheard storage bins (wheels first), and they work like a charm for stowing away everything you'll need in the way of a wardrobe for the next week. Your other carry-on should be small enough to stash under the seat ahead of you - but something big enough for your wallet, travel documents, toiletries, pills, iPod, trashy mags, day planner, and books. It's also a good idea to load up on snacks, seeing how the cheapo airlines can't even be arsed enough to hand out pretzels these days.
Along with the relative ease that came with being in Wayne's presence and patting myself on the back for being so fucking clever, I couldn't have asked for a better first day back in San Francisco. The sun was shining, and even the pigeons in the Mission seemed to be in a good mood. Once we got back to the apartment on Diamond Street, I was thrilled to see that Ricky was in, despite the fact that he was obviously still recovering from a nasty flu bug. I was also greeted by the two most fabulous Dachshunds in the world, Otto and Wolfie. Otto's in his twilight years, bless his heart, and Wolfie - just shy of two - stole my heart at first sight with his one blue eye, those little sausage paws, and his soft, warm body that molded right up against mine, like the cuddle-toy of my dreams. I must find one like him. Dachshunds simply rule. All dogs do, but Dachshunds win me over every time. Having grown up around them, I can't help but be fond of the little buggers, even the snappy, territorial ones.
Anyway, we took it easy for the rest of the day, ordering pizza and catching up - besides that, we knew the upcoming weekend promised to be busier than shit. This was fine with me, as I knew St. Etienne at the Fillmore and Pattie Boyd's "Sharied Memories" photography show at the San Francisco Art Exchange would certainly be worth resting up for.
Friday's cold and rainy turn kept us indoors and toasty, with the heater going full blast. We'd toyed with the idea of making the St. Etienne pre-show meetup at the Dot Lounge in the Miyako with some of the other people from 'Avenue,' the St. Etienne list-serve, but the dazzling effects of Ricky's cooking and the wares from Wayne's local medical cannabis club (what shall it be today, Darling - the Purple Haze or Blue Moonshine?), combined with the biting wet chill, quickly disabused me of that idea. Yeah, I'll admit that weather-wise, I'm a pussy. But it even snowed on Mount Tam that day, for chrissakes - simple proof that even for Northern California, the freaky weather capital of the world, this was a bit unusual.
Luckily, I'd brought my warmest gear, and even better, the Fillmore - the most kick-ass venue in the world, I might add - has a coat check. Bless. I wanted to do a little happy dance right there, even with my ears and neck so sore from the cold that they actually hurt. The cure for that was a Bombay Sapphire and tonic for me, a Jack and Coke for Wayne, a walk around the venue, whose chandeliers and grandiose romanticism had me in full jaw-drop mode, and last but not least, catching a quick glimpse of the amazingly lovely Sarah Cracknell in person, clad in a whitish wrap-coat and making her way to the dressing room with her hubby, Martin Kelly - just three feet away from where we stood. Trying not to flip out like Little Miss Fangirl, I pulled Wayne over to the balcony, looking right over the stage, and whispered, "Oh my god, that was Sarah Fucking Cracknell who just walked by!" I could've died happily right then and there, but no, we still had a show to get though.
The opening band, a local outfit called Every Move A Picture, proved to be kinetic enough, maybe a little too Strokes-y for my taste, but they didn't suck. At least the cute lead singer gave us something to feast our eyes on while waiting for St. Etienne to come on.
In both print and in person, vocalist Sarah Cracknell is one small, stunning package. That voice! That face! Her bantering with the audience may have been limited, but it always came out as warm and flirty, with those dulcet tones that make you just want to say 'fuck it,' pack your bags and move to London, just so you can feel safe knowing that St. Etienne's somewhere around, providing your soundtrack to the city and plotting their next spurt of greatness. On stage behind Sarah stood Bob Stanley and Pete Wiggs at their respective keyboards, and to her left, the gorgeously gilded vocals and personage of Debsey, clad in a black and white striped shirt similar to the one Sarah wore - evoking a very St.-Tropez-in-the-springtime, smoking-your-cigarette-under-the-Cinzano-umbrella kind of vibe. Oh, to be young and Eurotrash, y'know?
I'd wanted to see Saint Etienne live for the longest time, but Texas has never been on any of their North American itineraries, as far as I know. So this time - considering they were only playing four U.S. tour dates, and all within one short week - when my Dad asked me what I wanted for Christmas, the first thing that flew out of my mouth was, "A plane ticket to San Francisco so I can see St. Etienne at the Fillmore in February." Merry Christmas to me, Baby!
St. Etienne Setlist (special thanks to Avenuer Dean from SLC):
Lightning Strikes
Sylvie
Who Do You Think You Are?
Don't Back Down
Oh My!
Good Thing
Split Screen
Last Orders
Spring
Stars Above Us
Teenage Winter
Action
First Encore:
Like A Motorway (just Bob, Pete and Sarah)
Nothing Can Stop Us
Second Encore:
People Get Real!
It was everything I'd hoped for and more - especially feeling the love between Sarah and Debsey on "Who Do You Think You Are?" and "Split Screen." "Oh My!" - from the US version of Tales From The Turnpike House - came on like a bolt out of the blue, as if the spirit of Pulp suddenly took over the stage. Definitely the most rawkin', unexpected moment of the evening. Speaking of TFTTH, this show marked the first time I'd heard any of its tracks - which now means that I'll now have to go out and buy both the UK and US versions, because of the varied song selections. The completist dickweed collector in me won't have it any other way.
Nursing a rather heady drunk by the time the show closed, I idiotically managed to lose my cell phone somewhere between the Fillmore and Diamond Street - either on the MUNI or in the last cab we took home from the 18th Street/Castro station. Argh. So at 12:30 in the morning, here's Wayne - bless his soul - calling every cab company in the city - and MUNI as well, inquiring whether or not any of the drivers had turned in any cell phones. Turns out with the President's Day holiday, their lost-and-found departments wouldn't have been open until Tuesday, anyway, so our first Saturday stop would be - you guessed it, the Cingular Store in the Portrero Center. A total bummer, but hey, that's what credit cards are for, right? (Cue up the Dionne Warwick)
We spent the rest of our rainy Saturday watching the second installment of Tales of The City ("Mother Mucca is one old motherfucker!"), drinking coffee and gearing up for the Pattie Boyd show. If the name Pattie Boyd isn't familiar to you (what, you didn't read my "Rock and Roll Girl's Valentine to Pattie Boyd" last February?), she's the very woman who inspired some of the most scorching songwriting moments of George Harrison and Eric Clapton - "Something," "Wonderful Tonight" and "Layla" are probably the best known of the bunch. Pattie Boyd is rock and roll royalty, the Jackie O. of the Swinging London set. God bless her. She never kissed and told. For those of us whose most fervent wish is that she'd write her memoirs, we'll just have to be content with her photography. And seeing the world through the eyes of Pattie Boyd isn't a bad way to spend an evening. Her travel snaps of the Dead Sea and South Indian beaches are worthy of National Geographic - and of course, there are the images of her husbands and lovers, friends, and family. Admit it: it's what we've all come to see. If I'd had several thousand dollars to spend, here's my wish list, in order: the self-portrait of young George and Pattie in the garden, with her in a blue bikini and roses on a trellis in the background; the 1968 shot of Jack Bruce, Ginger Baker and Eric Clapton stoned on the sofa; and the one I'd considered spending $2000 on a year before - the 2003 photogrpah of Marianne Faithfull and Anita Pallenberg enjoying a girl's night out in London.
Unreal as it was breathing the same air and being in the same room with the ex-Mrs. George Harrison and ex-Mrs. Eric Clapton, the gallery experience itself was pleasantly devoid of any beautiful people or insufferable hipster types who use these moments to shine irritatingly. Speaking of beautiful, my god - Pattie herself looks like a million dollars. Here's a woman very comfortable in her own skin, someone who's resisted the lure of the surgeon's scalpel and the limelight. I swear, this woman emanates fairy dust. And she was obviously loving every minute of the evening, too, holding court as a dark-haired and dashing young specimen of boyhunk in a purple velvet smoking jacket poured her endless glasses of Veuve Clicquot. Greatness! So maybe by the time the next Pattie Boyd exhibit rolls around, I'll have enough to buy one of her photographs. Why the fuck not? As my sweet Taj says, "Girl, we're old enough to start buying art now." It's true. Hell, it just dawned on me that I'm already the proud owner of three Kris Hundt originals, and hands down, she's my favorite shining star of the Dallas photography scene. Pattie Boyd would be the next logical step, right?
I suppose once the Brit-Chick segment of my weekend had concluded, the only major thing on my San Francisco to-do list was the pursuit of culinary decadence. Sunday started out as super low-key, but the first thought that crossed my mind upon waking was the succulent ginger crab my Uncle Eugene and his partner Jim turned me on to in Chinatown twenty-one years earlier, on my first-ever visit to the city. I've had a giant hard-on for ginger crab ever since - and was lucky enough to re-live the experience again in 1991. Unfortunately, my special man friend and I didn't make it to Chinatown on our last trip in 2004, so this time, I vowed to track the fuckers down again. That night, there would be a big-ass platter of ginger crab somewhere in Chinatown - and with my name written all over it, too, damn it.
The Powell Street MUNI brought us a few blocks shy of Chinatown, ever closer to our prized ginger crab. Hell, we could smell Chinatown before we even made it up the hill, and once there, we made our way through the morass of humanity, live chickens, Chinese characters blurring together into one big blotch, and cheapo trinkets you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. And just as we were passing a small Chinese bar with Hank Williams Jr.'s "Family Tradition," blaring out from the jukebox for all the world to hear, our sweet Danny sent me a text. So when I say it was a totally cosmic moment, I'm not being a total smart ass.
Just as Wayne and I had almost abandoned all hope of ever finding the basement restaurant my uncle had taken me to all those years ago, he took my hand and said, "Let's go check that side of the street out, honey." We were standing at the far end of Grant, the place where Chinatown pretty much ends and North Beach begins. That's when we spotted Yuet Lee on the corner (1300 Stockton Street, 415-982-6020) - a stone's throw from Carol Doda's and Big Al's. A little paper sign in the window with a drawing of a red crab and the glorious words 'Crabs in Season' was all the encouragement we needed. After settling in and ordering up the ginger crab right off the bat, we toasted our luck with Tsingtao. When the calamari arrived, fresh from the goddamned Pacific and lightly battered, accompanied by a devilishly tickly soy and jalapeno sauce, we proceeded to gorge ourselves without shame. Around this time, I saw the chef carry a rather large and handsome Dungeness crab from the tank up front to the kitchen in back, and excitedly, I pointed him out to Wayne.
Our dinner.
We clapped our hands retardedly, like two eight-year-olds who'd just egged their teacher's house, but took special care to give thanks for the little creatures from the sea, for nourishing our bodies and for reminding us that we'd better enjoy all this while we can, before the world's oceans go to shit. Unless you're a vegan, or just don't like seafood, or you're one of those mega-persnickety, unadventurous diners others dread going to restaurants with, being in San Francisco and not having seafood is tantamount to not sampling Tex-Mex in San Antonio, not nibbling on kibbeh nayiee and fatoush in Beirut, or not having the guy at your local Lancashire chip shop douse your greasy, newspaper-wrapped fish and chips and mushy peas with copious amounts of salt and malt vinegar. Criminal.
While eating crab is messy and requires a shitload of work - what with the hand-crackers and peeling of shells, not to mention slim pickings by the time all is said and done - this platter offered up nothing but the most fabulously fresh and geneous crabby goodness; the flaky meat popped right out with the juicy snap of a claw or a leg, splashing the front of our shirts and us not giving a good goddamn. In between scraping the shells clean, not to mention taking our turns in the finger bowl, we devoured another side of loaded vegetable chow mein, whose crispy noodles were even more heavenly after absorbing the sauce.
Needless to say, after this glorious repast, we were at the completely-stuffed and brainless stage, but we couldn't bid farewell to Chinatown until we'd make that last mandatory stop at Vital TeaLeaf (1044 Grant Avenue, 415-981-2388), for samples of the most awe-inspiring tea to ever hit my tongue - Siberian rose, green, Black Lychee, Black Oolong, and a couple of others whose names I wish I could remember but flavor-wise, have made their mark on my tastebuds, especially the one that tasted of rosemary leaves. Under the watchful eye of the Maoist babe in the painting up behind the counter, the staff cracked jokes and poured away as the walk-ins sipped and pondered their purchases. If you go during the week, you'll be lucky enough to meet Uncle Gee, and I understand he's quite the star.
Once home, the rest of our evening was spent cuddling Otto and Wolfie, and falling asleep on the sofa with "Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle," which is actually quite funny, save for one super-scatalogical scene involving twin sisters making a trip to the bathroom. Anyway, it was later that night when I discovered that Wolfie's even better than a hot water bottle, and somewhere from the heavens, my mother and Glenn were smiling down, watching me mack down on this loving little hunk of Dachshund. Those floppy ears of his just drive me nuts.
Monday morning we slept in, and the prospect of returning to DFW had gotten me all sad. Ricky wasn't feeling well enough to attempt a trip out, and the last little thing I'd hoped to accomplish on this jaunt was a long walk the otherway up Diamond Street - my last big-ass hill for this particular trip, just to test my endurance. Wayne suggested we reward ourselves with a trip down to Noe Valley, a friendly little enclave with shops and coffeehouses galore, not to mention hopelessly sky-high real estate prices. So when I heard Wayne casually mention that $595,000 wasn't a bad price for a house in Noe Valley, I still couldn't help but feel somewhat innocent and shell-shocked, wondering if this will this ever be within reach for someone of my means. One never knows, but we shall see. But back on Castro Street, I'd been astonished to see several empty storefronts and other places in the process of closing their doors. Lots of shops with big, colorful banners advertising 50-70% off sales, and lots of real estate offices, none of which had been there on Castro the last time I was there in 2004.
On that note, I'd be a liar if I didn't add that this is the saddest I've ever felt after returning to DFW from San Francisco. Tuesday night on the way home from the airport, "California Dreamin'" came on the radio - so cruel - and of course, there I was, welling up like a big dumb-ass, irritating the man friend and making him turn the station. It's gotten to the point where the Dallas skyline makes me feel like Linda Blair's Reagan in 'The Exorcist,' and all I can think of is Jimmie Dale Gimore's bittersweet classic "Dallas" - basically a song describing how the place really does look better from a DC-9 at night. See, it's not just me. Dallas is definitely more palatable from afar. And dear God, didn't my man and I run into Mr. Gilmore at the SFO airport when we were coming back from our last trip out there, in October of 2004? Holy shit...
If that's not a 'sign,' then I don't know what is...
Meanwhile, I'm still coming off the high of my trip, trying not to let the blues get in the way of living and moving on. It's been difficult, but I promise not to lose hope, and to keep saving my money, like a good girl, so that I may have enough to lead a comfortable life, wherever the road shall lead. I also solemnly swear to play nice, and keep my Klonopin - which shall now be referred to as 'Goddamn-It-Alls' in honor of Wayne - close at hand, in case of emergencies. My mantra will be Goethe's "Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid" - with the occasional "Fuck off" and "Because I said so" thrown in for good measure.
posted by No, You Can't Watch at 2:15 AM
1 Comments:
Jeez...just reading this has given me the California itch all over again! I got some killer shots of the lounge area at the Vital Leaf (so cool) It's been 6 months - guess I should post something soon!
Cee.
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