BREADWINNER!

Love Lafayette! Way to go, Sweetie! Dinner at Metro every Saturday!

A Taste of Honey: Boogie Oogie Oogie

As most of my friend-lies

Already know, I take after my Irish-Italian Grandmother and do not drive.  I have never even owned a drivers' license and I suspect I never will own a drivers' license.

(I know, I know:  it is a miracle that I have been able to date any woman, much less be engaged to one.)  

Since just about every wine trade tasting is in the City and since most of those tastings in the City are in Fort Mason, which Tre Bicchieri was, natch, that meant I would have to do BART, cabs, MUNI, the whole deal.  

I have not hailed many cabs and every time I am called upon to do it I get a little scared.  It seems like such an adult ritual or gesture and in many ways (e.g. not driving!, etc, ... ) I am certainly not an adult.  I hailed two cabs in the City that day (the first was kind of a cheat, I did it right in front of the St Francis Hotel) and by the time I was nestled in my BART car, whooshing home after a v long day, I was happy to note that I had conquered my cab-hailing fears.  In fact, I loved hailing cabs.  I want to go right back to the City as soon as I can and hail a bunch more.  But that will have to wait.

Enough with the prologue, our story begins here:

Renee and I received a letter from PG&E that our power would be turned off at around nine a.m. that morning due to some work being done on our cross street.  (Turns out our power was not turned off; we were not affected by the work being done.)  That meant that I would have to leave a little bit earlier than necessary to make my first destination and I would prob have some time to kill.  Me being the old, non-driving, public transport, time killing pro that I am (for those of us who do not drive, time killing is a discipline that must be mastered and let it be known that I am a black belt time killer) I knew that the smartest plan was to get to the original destination first, so there is no chance of my being late, for sure, and I would not be rushed or overcome with anxiety, having to get to my destination at the last minute.  Essentially, it is better to kill time closer to your destination than farther away.  

(You can always tell the folks that take public transport:  they are the ones standing alone, reading or smoking, in front of the meeting place.  It is the folks that drive who are always late.)

Anyhoo, my game plan was to take a County Connection bus (the #7) to Walnut Creek BART and then take the SFO/Millbrae line to the Powell Street station.  From there I would hail a cab to 2300 Chestnut in the Marina, my first destination, Ristobar, where Young's Market was hosting a pre-tasting event.  I decided that I would wing it after Ristobar.  

When I went out to catch my bus at 8:50 a.m. it was cold and raining.  Not a good omen for the day ahead.  It was not the normal No. California type of Winter rain, either.  It was coming down fairly hard, fairly sideways.  I chose not to plug in to my iPod but instead tried to read my small book, Sontag & Kael, Opposites Attract Me by Craig Seligman.  One woman ran to my side at the sheltered bus stop right before the bus arrived.  

I bought an eight dollar BART ticket at Walnut Creek and boarded my train.  Luckily, I did not have to stand.  There were a few seats available.  I sidled up next to a woman who proceeded to curl her small body as close to the window and as far as possible away from me as she could.  At either the Lafayette or Orinda stop a petite woman boarded and sat across from me in the aisle.  She had a horsey face but exquisite stockings and super shiny black pumps.  She got off at Embarcadero, the first stop in the City.  

A couple of stops later I alighted on to Market and Powell streets.  Looks like the BART fares have gone up.  I looked at my ticket and realized I would have to add to my ticket for my return trip.  Like I always do when traveling, I sized up the situation and asked myself, "Can I walk to my destination?" The answer to that question was, "Yes, I could make it in time," but I did not have the energy to attack those hills right then.  Plus, I wanted to hail a cab, tell the driver, "The Marina, please, and step on it."  

I walked up Powell St, on the look out for taxis heading west.  The rain clouds had vanished.  It was sunny and if not warm, it was not cold.  Right in front of the St Francis Hotel I saw a cab pull up.  I raised my right arm, got the driver's attention and felt like Cary Grant as I slid in to the back seat, "The Marina, please," I said, "Twenty three hundred Chestnut, and step on it!" I am kidding, I did not say, "Step on it."  

That took about ten minutes and cost me about twelve dollars.  I knew it would be no problem killing time there.  Ristobar is across the street from one of my all-time fave restaurants, A16.  I knew there would not be a bunch of cool bookstores (bookstores are the professional time killers' valhalla) but there would be breakfast places, coffee shops, overpriced boutiques, whathaveyou, ... 

Sure enough, I arrived about an hour and a half before the pre-tasting event.  There was a Starbuck's, natch, and a Peet's.  I hate coffee shops and I do not much like coffee.  I prefer bar culture, as messy, and loud, and as ugly as it can get, over coffee shop culture any day of the week.  I noticed there was a funky breakfast/lunch cafe called The Grove.  I decided to eat there.  It is a counter restaurant.  You order your food at a counter, get a "flag" to signify your order, and someone brings your order to you and takes your "flag" back home.  I ordered the basic jack & cheddar omelet, which comes with hash browns and their "special" thick-cut toast.  

The place is not that great.  It is like an over-blown coffee shop.  Everyone had their Macs plugged in to special outlets or they were reading on their iPads instead.  The omelet was okay, the hash browns had rosemary in them (weird) and the toast was barely buttered and lame.  But their iced tea was v good.  I had two of those, read my book, and watched the Macintosh-folks do their hip Marina/Fillmore thing.  

I went down a side street and had a cigarette, came back up towards Ristobar and noticed folks setting up for the event.  There were men in suits on cell-phones, standing in front of Ristobar.  These guys were from Young's Market, you could tell.  I crossed the street to check out the A16 lunch menu.  A16 runs my favorite wine program in the Bay Area.  Shelly Lindgren only pours southern Italian wines there.  No Brunello, Chianti, or Barolo there.  In honor of Tre Bicchieri her list for that day was only wines that would be poured at Tre Bicchieri later.  

I bumped in to one of my old reps, Stefano.  He did not remember me.  But he was polite.  Later, I learned that he does not work for Young's Market anymore and runs his own Italian wine import business.  Some of the wines he reps had made Tre Bicchieri and were poured at the event at Fort Mason.  

Noon came around and I went to the pre-tasting event.  I hated it.  I thought it was going to be a much smaller, more exclusive, little lunch-y type of thing.  It was the normal over-crowded trade tasting that makes folks like me hate trade tastings.  The retail folks like myself were heavily out-numbered by the wholesale, Young's folks, which made me look pathetically under-dressed.  (I wore black Jack Purcell trainers; black socks with pink skull and crossbones on them; my supersmart, sexy Gap 1969 brown cords; an undershirt; a red button down shirt; and (the big crime) my Stax hoodie.  No one gave a shit at the actual event but at this Young's Market thing-y, I definitely got some looks and frowns.  Fuck 'em.)  

(I know, I know:  wine trade tastings sound like they are a lot of fun to folks outside the industry but they are not.  There is a lot of shoving, jostling for position, and pretentious posturing at the producer's table.  Plus, many folks treat it like a fucking mixer and get horribly loaded and start leering at prospective "dates.") 

It was near impossible to try the wines at Ristobar.  The Young's folks did a lot of back-slapping and celebrating, happy their event seemed such a hit.  But was it? It seemed like it was just a lot of grey and blue suited Young's reps doing a victory lap and then preaching to the choir.  

Still, it was nice to see some Young's folks:  Sean (who used to be a Whole Foods wine buyer), Mark G., and Erin, who got me my ticket to Tre Bicchieri.  (Thanks.)

But now it was time to go to the real event, at last.  I raised my right hand and hailed a westbound taxi on Chestnut, "Take me to Fort Mason, please."  The driver laughed and I asked why.  He said he had just taken a cabful of Italian folks there.  I told him there was a big wine-tasting event.  As we pulled in to Fort Mason it was my turn to laugh.  He asked, "What's so funny?" "I coulda walked," I said as I settled the fare and headed towards Tre Bicchieri 2011.    

Of course, I was early.  I took my place in the queue, got my ticket ready, and people-watched.  Even if there was not a queue it was v easy to tell the wine producers from the retail tradesfolk.  The producers were ninety per cent men, wearing fabulous silk or wool suits with amazing Italian shoes.  The producers spoke Italian, natch, most of the time on to their cell phones, and smoked furiously whilst doing so.  

The tradesfolk did not smoke, wore trainers, cords, and jeans; hoodies, windcheaters, and jumpers.  They took lots of pictures with their cell phones.  

I am v glad I got there early.  Angelo from Vinity greeted me as I walked in, got my program and my cool Tre Bicchieri neck bag (to hold your glass in if you need to free your hands for anything.)  Angelo was giving away complimentary 100 mil bottles of grappa.  Hello! 

The other good thing about getting there early was I could hit all my friends' tables without having to fight anyone for a taste or a chance to spit.  (Yes, folks, I spat the entire time until I knew I was going to leave.)  

I was most impressed by the white wines I tasted.  There was a Barolo I particularly liked, Ettore Germano Barolo Cerretta '06, and a Nero d'Avola that is a bit pricey, Firriato Harmonium '08, but it was the whites that shone brightest.  

I tried Sassacaia ('07) and Cabreo just because I had not tasted them in a while but I was not impressed.  I stayed away from the super-tuscans, the blockbuster cab/merlot/sangiovese blends that earn all the points and cost a mint.  When I first got in to the "industry", I loved those wines but I would much rather have a reasonably priced Nero d'Avola or Montepulciano d'Abruzzo these days.  They are much better with good food.  

Here are the whites that I absolutely loved:  Cantina Produttori San Michele Appiano A.A. Sauvignon St. Valentin '09 (I sell at my store the same producer's Pinot Grigio and Pinot Bianco); Elena Walch A.A Gewurztraminer Kastelaz '09; Sergio Mottura Grechetto Poggio della Costa '09; Cantine Lunae Bosoni Colli di Luni Vermentino Lunae Et. Nera '09.  

The thing about these great white wines, and there were others that are not leaping straight to my mind as I write now, was how crisp and refreshing they were.  The are all perfect for seafood, natch, (which I do not particularly care for) but they are so lively, unfussy, and fun.  They are total porch-sipping wines.  The acidity is such that they encourage you to drink more.  They are not heavy, high-alcohol wines that weigh like a ton of bricks on you, like a Napa Chard.  They are elegant yet spirited.  Mischievous and classy, all at the same time.  They are like the super smart tom boy sister at the wedding, running amok and amongst the stuffy, overdressed, overbearing, blowhard Uncles (that would be the Sassacaias and Cabreos, the super-tuscans.)  Those whites were a breath of fresh air at this event.  

I saw Tom, Julian, Raphael, and got to meet the guy who runs the wine program at Postino, a v nice restaurant in my neck of the woods, Lafayette.  

Julian and I tried a v pricey but lovely Prosecco from a v small hill that is part of the new DOCG Prosecco classification.  And then I decided it was time to go home.  

And who woulda thunk it? The best part of my whole day was the trip home.  

Saint Etienne lounge at home

MUNI drivers are notorious for being cranky bastards.  I was considering hailing another cab to take me to the Powell St station but I bumped in to this lovely, v good-looking British couple who had just been to Tre Bicchieri themselves, still wearing their neck bags, who were talking a v sweet MUNI driver about the best way to get downtown.  We all boarded his MUNI and got transfer tickets and he told us where to get off so as to make it home.  We were to board the 30 Stockton.  The MUNI stop was barely a "stop" at all, it was an unsheltered street corner with yellow paint on the street light the only thing indicating that we were at a "stop".  

We did not have long to wait.  This MUNI driver was cranky.  I offered him my transfer ticket and he waved me in disgustedly.  Ah, now that is more like it. Though busy, once again I was able to sit down.  I sat down in the second half of the train, right behind the back side exit.  I had the seat to myself until a business man sat next to me.  I finally pulled out my iPod and started to listening to Saint Etienne.  

Saint Etienne are a fab group whenever but their music, especially their 4/4 discotheque songs are perfect for taveling by train, car, whathaveyou.  The trip was beautiful if a little on the long side.  After the Marina we did North Beach and passed right by the Italian restaurant that I went to with Dawn Walter the night the 'Niners won the Super Bowl and the City went ballistic.  Then suddenly we were going through Chinatown and all the crowds at the vendors' tables were four of five people thick, the City hopping and electric on a regular Wednesday early evening.  

I got to Powell, added on to my ticket and boarded another v busy train.  Once again I was able to sit down, miraculously.  The woman beside me was thumbing through a Martha Stewart Good Food magazine, then she started revisiting a hand-written letter in a notebook, then started reading a glossy pink novel, and then she finally went to sleep.  The woman in front of me was reading a Virginia Woolf novel on her kindle.  

Saint Etienne kept pumping along.  Stoned to Say the Least, Urban Clearway, Hug My Soul, Like a Motorway, Cool Kids of Death.  Glorious.  

I arrived back at Walnut Creek and began my walk home.  I tried unsuccessfully to break in to my bottle of grappa.  As I made the turn at the bottom of The Hill and Cool Kids of Death kicked in nice and loud I noticed that I was walking up the hill I was walking straight towards the full moon.  It was as if I was walking a ramp that would take me straight to the moon itself.  Magical.  

Here is the playlist for my travels home (all tracks by Saint Etienne):

1. London Belongs to Me

2. Kiss and Make Up

3. Primrose Hill

4. Mario's Cafe

5. Railway Jam

6. You're in a Bad Way

7. Memo to Pricey

8. Hobart Paving

9. Here Come the Clown Feet

10. Urban Clearway

11. Chicken Soup

12. Join Our Club

13. Hug My Soul

14. Former Lover

15. Like a Motorway

16. On the Shore

17. Marble Lions

18. Cool Kids of Death

19. I Was Born on Christmas Day

I love you all, mwah!

Billy Bragg -There Is Power In A Union

Blake Griffin in Slamily Guy (Dunk Compilation) Part 1

Pretty cool to see what is

Happening in Madison, WI these past few days.  Teachers are calling out "sick", forcing schools to shut down; protesters have been occupying the state house; and the entire Democratic Senate caucus has left town, actually the state, meaning there can be no vote on the newly elected idiotic Republican Governor's Union-busting bill.  Even some of the World Champion Green Bay Packers have come out against this stupid bill, citing that the Packers are the only publicly-owned NFL team.  Good for all those folks.

They ain't celebrating the Packers' Super Bowl win, they're standing up to Union-busters!

Governor Walker is in a tizzy now.  He's called out the state police to find these Senators.  One of the first things Walker did upon taking office was to nix the Fed money for high-speed rail.  Smart.  The Feds told him if you say no to the new program you cannot use the money for something else.  The money would be shared with the states that want high-speed rail.  Well, now the new Republican goofball Governor of Florida says he don't want no money for high-speed rail, either.  He wants to use the money for highways.  Cannot do that, guy.  Sweet.  It means that us folks in California, who do want high-speed rail, and all the jobs and environmental benefits that it brings to our fair state, will get even more money.

************

Bernie Sanders, I love you.  He may be the last true US public servant we will ever see.  This was posted by digby today.  It is a long interview for blogging standards but you really should read the whole thing.  I am going to say it one more time:  There is nothing wrong with Social Security.  It is fully-funded until 2037.  Plus, Social Security has absolutely nothing to do with the deficit, and lastly, those that you hear who are complaining the loudest about a "bankrupt" Social Security are those that want to destroy Social Security.  Do not listen to them.  They are evil and they are wrong.

Bernie was so magnificent in the interview.  He hit on just about every single issue progressives need to concentrate on in the future and did not pull any punches re the crappy Bush tax-cut extensions.  Love that guy!

************

Meanwhile, there was this cool miniseries I saw on PBS back in the mid-nineties (I did not have Kabletown back then) called Shut Down! It starred Newt Gingrich and Bill Clinton in a stupid political struggle that really did no one any good.  In fact, it only pissed Americans off and embarrassed the GOP.

It appears that golf-loving, tanning salon aficionado, Boehner (along with his new Teabagging buddies) wanta do a remake.  Whatever.  I know how the thing ends.

Some folks just never learn.

************

Saturday, this space:  Tre Bicchieri!

Leah Garchik's,

Again, words of love on Valentine's is a lovely little Cognac Truffle in the SFChronicle today.  The Chron Datebook section remains golden.

(And Jon Carroll's column today was excellent, as well.)

Rufus Thomas - Funky Chicken (Stax Records "Wattstax" Concert, 1972, Los...

I liked the movie,

These stars have rough lives.

Never Let Me Go, a lot.  But I could definitely understand some folks not liking it.  I have not read the novel.  I do not want to talk much about the film and I would suggest if you have not seen it but would like to, do not do any research or read any reviews.  There are some outstanding performances, especially the children in the First Act, and Ms Mulligan and Andrew Garfield (Wardo in The Social Network) also do v fine work.  I will say one thing:  I love how the main characters' lives are completely ruled by "rumors and theories." I understand how the film might be a matter of taste.  I loved it.  It has a composed, gently pulsing, eerie quality that reminds me of some of Peter Weir's work, notably Picnic at Hanging Rock, Fearless, and Witness.

************

SO, ... right smack-dab in the middle of Black History Month, as some of you might have already heard, but I am going to talk about it anyway because it makes me frickin' ill, The Mississippi Division of Sons of Confederate Veterans are proposing the state honor Nathan Bedford Forrest with a commemorative license plate.  

Forrest, the "entrepreneur."

Those are some mighty sick folks down there in Mississippi but sicker even still are the "Alibi Ike"s out there polluting political blog comment boards and facebook threads, apologizing for these assholes or defending Forrest 'cause he "moderated" his views late in his life.  What a load of shit!  


You know, it is the usual tired, pathetic arguments:  "The Civil War was not really about slavery"; "The North was/is racist, too" (Yeah, no shit, Sherlock); and, "Sure, Forrest was an asshole but what a brilliant tactician he was!" 


Nathan Bedford Forrest does not deserve to have a landfill named after him.  


I am done.  I feel like I need to cleanse myself.  I am going to watch some Watts/Stax, listen to Booker T. and the M.G.s all day.  


Love you all.  

Life is fantastic here

Right now in Walnut Creek.  Work was fine, the walk home propulsed by Squeeze on the iPod and loosened up by a cheap, v small cava.  I arrived home, made pasta and watched An American in Paris on TCM.  (Still on! as of 8:14 pm PST.)

(And I love you, David Thomson.  You introduced me to Belle de Jour, Simone Signoret, L'atalante, Sunrise, Jean-Pierre Melville and much more but you are totally off-base when you state that The Band Wagon is the best Freed Unit musical.  So wrong.  Singin' in the Rain is the best and An American in Paris next.  Meet Me in St Louis is better than The Band Wagon, too.  Anyhoo,)

There will be no baseball talk tonight.  I am hunkering down and going scattershot o'er a number of topics, mostly films.

And it begins thusly,

This is a sandwich named after my Sweetie.

• So, I am reading the current Hollywood edition of Vanity Fair on a break today.  Naturally there is a gorgeous photograph and brief discussion of Ms Portman, who may beat out Ms Bening (an injustice in my eyes) for Best Actress two and a half weeks from now.  This discussion mentions that there is a "all you can eat" sex scene between Ms Portman and Ms Kunis in Black Swan.  I have a few things to say about this revelation:  First, let me quote "Fosse's" daughter in All That Jazz, "To me, lesbian scenes are a real turn-off,"; and, second, I will always prefer Sarandon and Deneuve in The Hunger; lastly, I will stick to the Archers' The Red Shoes, thank you v much.  
• Speaking of Vanity Fair, (Graydon Carter was the co-founder and Editor of Spy magazine but is now Editor-in-Chief of Vanity Fair, which has lots of little Spy tricks and sidebars, gimmicks, etc, ... [incl in this current issue a "Create Your Own Oscar Film" page/chart,] as I was perusing my latest Spy back-issue, July 1989, I noticed a couple of mentions and realized that The cast never changes.  Both of them were in the William F Buckley article, as in who would be his heir.  In the Ayn Rand sidebar they mention Miss America 1988, Gretchen Carlson, as being a big fan of Ms Rand and The Fountainhead.  Of course, Ms Carlson is now co-host of perhaps Fox News' most heinous program, Fox & Friends.  The other mention was this quote re Ben Hart:  " 'The neoliberals used to say that the scandal isn't what's illegal,' ventures Malcolm Gladwell, a Washington Post reporter and former American Spectator writer."  
• And speaking of the July '89 issue of Spy, I checked out cover star, Emily Lloyd's debut and break out picture, Wish You Were Here.  It is damn good but not like the preview which I watched, as well.  The preview makes Wish You Were Here out to be more like Monella by Tinto Brass than what the film is really like.  It is actually a v serious little film about what it is like to be a sexually liberated woman in late '40s England.  Ms Lloyd is fantastic and it is a shame that her mental health problems derailed what could have been a v fine career.  Ms Lloyd was supposed to play the Mandy Rice-Davies role in Scandal, too.  It stinks that that did not work out.  She would have been much better than Bridget Fonda (and her awful English accent.)  Tom Bell, from Prime Suspect, stars also.  Wish You Were Here is v good.
• Interlude:  my pasta came out v well, farfalle and red sauce, one of my best sauces.  
• It hurt to see Fabio go out last night.  They shoulda sent Tiffany packing.  Great to see Carla win, though.
• I really liked Winter's Bone despite Jennifer Lawrence's ho hum performance.  You can tell v early on she does not have the stuff to carry a movie on her own.  My example would be the first scene she shares with Thump's "ladyfriend".  Ms Lawrence is not nearly tough enough to stand up to her when the script is telling all of us she is.  It is a stilted, eye-rolling sequence that hopefully Ms Lawrence will nail going forward.  What makes Winter's Bone good (but not great) is the script.  I love the early Odyssey sequence of Ms Lawrence having to hit each holler, speaking to folks that would rather kill her than speak to her, each holler revealing a more sinister, more formidable foe.  But the thing that really cinches Winter's Bone to me is the language.  As the script is based on a novel, I am assuming that much of the language/dialogue is lifted straight from the book.  The dialogue reminds me of the novel, Warlock.  It is formal, polite and v elevated.  I love it.  I imagine I will be talking like those hill people meth-addicts for a while now.  I asked my Mum, who lived in a holler in Arkansas for a few years if folks talked like that.  She said, No.  But where she lived, Eureka Springs, is a tourist town, full of hippie artist types and rich folks.  I really want to read the novel.  I thought John Hawkes' performance was especially rich and chewy.  He was the big stand-out to me, along with Lauren Sweetser and Dale Dickey.  
• I have always loved the film, The Sweet Hereafter.  (Thanks, Mo.)  One day, a friend and I were riding BART together.  He had a lot of time on his hands, I suppose, I cannot remember exactly, but he went to the Albany theater to watch Felicia's Journey and I went home.  Later I asked him what he thought of Felicia's Journey, director Atom Egoyan's follow up to The Sweet Hereafter.  He hated it.  I forgot about it andthereyouhaveit, except, ... For whatever reason (maybe because they both have contemporary English stars?) I have always confused Felicia's Journey with another film that came out around the same time.  And in my confusion I have always avoided a film that I should have watched years ago, simply because my friend said Felicia's Journey stunk.  That film is Sexy Beast.  Sexy Beast is just like its' title.  It is a sexy, violent, surreal, nightmarish fucking masterful film that I am kicking myself now for not having seen until two nights ago.  Uh, when you see Ben Kingsley (nominated for best-supporting actor) on the screen you are riveted.  The airplane scene is one for all-time, up there with the Five Easy Pieces diner scene.  And the airport security interrogation scene with Kingsley might be even better.  Kingsley is just un-worldly, alien-like, and like a car wreck in the sense that despite your guilt or misgivings or dread of rubbernecking, you cannot turn away.  You have to watch him.  But there is so much more to like about aboot this mesmerizing picture.  The brill score, the boulder scene early on, the performances by Ray Winstone; Ian McShane (my gawd, he is good); Amanda Redman; and Julianne White, my goodness, this is a film I will own.  A v different, mind you, British gangster film that deserves a spot next to John Mackenzie's also brill The Long Good Friday on my shelf.  Fucking fantastic, other-worldly picture.  

And that is it for me tonight.  More kisses,

Daddy and Mavis, 2/9/11.

xxxxxxxxxx

Not really torn anymore re

Michael Young being traded.  That is because of stuff like this, or stuff like this.  Michael Young, the "Face of the franchise" is a baseball player.  He is a pretty good player, not as good as he used to be and mos def not a great defensive player.  He is payed $16 million a year to play for the Texas Rangers.  He has 3 years left on his current guaranteed contract with the ballclub.  "Face" does not wanta be a DH.  "Face" wants to play in the field.  "Face" is no longer an asset to the club with his glove.  All that saw his ole moves in game one of the past World Serious can attest to that statement.  "Face" has whined every single time he has been moved around the infield but because he always eventually shut up and just played, the DFW and national media have lauded "Face" as a trouper, a real stand-up, unselfish guy.  I am not buying that anymore.  Actually, I never really drank that kool-aid to begin with but it was positive press for my joke of a franchise so I just went with it, reluctantly.  Another thing "Face" liked to whine about was how the Rangers never won anything, how the Front Office did not seem even invested in producing a winning ballclub.  Guess the frick what? After a v rocky start (incl this ridiculous long term contract for "Face"), Ranger GM, Jon Daniels, went on an amazing Bob le Flambeur winning streak.  He acquired current AL MVP, Josh Hamilton, in a trade.  He hoodwinked the Atlanta Braves, getting Elvis Andrus; current Rookie of the Year, Neftali Feliz; swingman, Matt Harrison; and a couple of players still in the pipeline, all for Mark Teixiera, who plays for the Damn Yankees now.  He unloaded Gagne for Dave Murphy.  CJ Wilson moved from set-up man to a good #2 or #3 starter and he rescued Colby Lewis from Japan, v cheaply, I might add.  Colby Lewis has the only Ranger World Serious victory in its' wretched history.  To top it all, last year Daniels hoodwinked the Damn Yankees and got Cliff Lee for the stretch-run and playoffs.  You know the rest.  The Rangers won their first pennant and lost to the SF Giants in the World Serious.

So, now $16 million per annum and a winning ballclub are not enough for "Face."  For crying out loud, he is going to get his 600 PAs (plate appearances).  Kinsler, Cruz, and Hamilton are seriously injury prone and our first base option is a rook, who the jury is still out on.  (Not me, though, I think Mitch Moreland is gonna be a stud.)  "Face" can spell Beltre at third, Andrus at short, and Kinsler at second.  Plus there was talk he would learn first.  He could spell Moreland if he washes out.  If "Face" just apologizes and takes one for the team (whilst earning sixteen million dollars playing a game) the Rangers would have one of the deepest and best lineups in the Majors.

And "Face" is essentially holding the team hostage.  Sometime in late May or early June of this year "Face" becomes 10 and 5.  10 and 5 is a Union incentive meaning a Major League ballplayer has played ten years in the Show, five with one ballclub.  10 and 5 means "Face" cannot be traded to any team, for anything unless "Face" agrees to it.

(Do not get me wrong:  owners are swine.  They always have been and they always will be.  Watch the totally brill Eight Men Out, dir by big Union man (Matewan!), John Sayles to get the flavor of how horribly Major League ballplayers were treated back then.  If you were not a star it was basically indentured servitude, the club could bury you in the minors indefinitely or trade you to whomever for whatever the club desired.  If you were not a star your salary sucked and if you did not agree to terms with the club [and most contracts back then were renegotiated every single season] then you did not PLAY, i.e. WORK.  Back to the zinc mines for you, loser.  I ALWAYS take the Union's side in these labor disputes.  I do not care HOW much these players make today.  They are just signing contracts that evil owners put in front of them!)


No team in baseball, as much as they would like to have "Face" on their team (and there are teams that would like to own "Face") wants to pay the rest of his contract.  The Rangers are over a barrel in more ways than one.

Michael, please.  Say you are sorry.  We will get a TORP at the deadline and go to the playoffs again.  And who knows what happens then? You are paid (in baseball terms) twice what you are worth.  In real-life terms I cannot even do the math on how overpaid you are.

Let's win the whole deal, dude.  Say you are sorry.

************

This "Face" thing ran oot of control (and no one is gonna read this post).  Tomorrow:  Clos Manou, Sexy Beast, Winter's Bone.  I swear.

Love you all, ....

"Face" gets ready to rok the Royals.

P.S. Puh-leeze, give me Joe Blanton for "Face."

Blake Griffin HUGE Dunk All Over Tim Mozgov + Gallinari [11.20.10]

Really should not rub it in

(but I suppose I will anyway) but the weather here in the beautiful Bay Area is like Spalding Gray says, "A giant piece of calendar art."  We live right by a 9 hole public golf course.  All the sections of the condos are named after golfers, aficionados of the game, tournaments, whathaveyou.  We live in Masters Court.  I am doing laundry right now so as I walk to the laundry room presently I see fit white-haired folks lining up their fairway shots on the 5th.  I see fortysomething ladies in bikinis by the pool.  Folks are grilling, one family is listening to Holiday by Madonna and pushing the Hoover o'er the carpet.  It is that kind of a Super Bowl Sunday in Walnut Creek.  Lovely.  

Honestly, I do not give a flying fudge aboot today's "game."  My only small, vested interest in the game itself is I bought a square in a pool and I would like to win some money.  My numbers are Green Bay 9 (not so great) and Pittsburgh 4 (very good.)  I would not mind in the least if the CBA does not get resolved and we went a year without the NFL.  Would love it, actually.  Pitchers and catchers report in less than two weeks.  

(The Rangers are trying to trade The Face and his $14 million salary.  I do not know how to feel about this.  We have got to get that money off the books so we can sign CJ, Josh, and Nellie but Young is the Rangers to the rest of the world.  And I loved how Young stood up to the media after the Washington cocaine flap, told them we believe in Wash, he and the team had his back, and everyone else needs to back the fuck off.)  

Really I am here today to do a large movie wrap-up.  

Ruth Gemmell works in the West End, as well.

I have never seen Fever Pitch from soup to nuts.  I am talking about the original UK Hornby written version, not the Drew Barrymore Boston Red Sox US remake.  I have always caught Fever Pitch on cable in mid-stream.  So, I netflix'd it and watched it a couple of nights ago.  It is not a great film.  There are all kinds of problems with it.  Where should I begin? Colin Firth's horrible wig, perhaps? Or the terrible original score? Or the sappy "cute" ending and kiss? Still, despite these obv rom-com faults, the film will always be v special and crucial to me.  There is still a lot to really like about it:  The Baba O Riley terraces montage stands out.  So does Firth's performance.  The film was made in 1997 and Firth already looks haggard, droopy and shattered about life, as he should.  And Ruth Gemmell with her hair pulled back and her smart, static-clingy skirt and pantyhose brought back all my 8th grade English teacher desires.  But the real star of the picture is Nick Hornby who wrote the screenplay, which is based on his Arsenal memoirs.  

Nick Hornby is so crucial to me.  He proves you can love Arsenal (the Rangers), Ella Fitzgerald, The Sex Pistols, and still hold your own at the party when folks start talking about Hannah Arendt or "Bunny" Wilson; that you can love Keats and the Steelers at the same time.  Plus, Hornby reveals that there are hidden, insidious, selfish, benefits to sports obsessiveness, such as I have discussed in this very space.  The film (maybe better than the excellent memoirs) does a brill job at discussing the, "Well, although, it seems really stupid and insignificant to you, it is something that really matters to me," gulf that exists in couples all around the world.  

************

TCM is doing their 31 days of Oscar bit, natch.  I watched Five Easy Pieces and dvr'd The Last Detail, which I have not seen yet, ever.  I first saw Five Easy Pieces around 1990 and lapped it up voraciously.  Even then I recognized that it was episodic in structure, practically a sketch-film.  And at that point of my life I really loved films like that.  I called them "Pop Films." They were films that were hung on a few great scenes.  I suppose that at that time I was more interested in single glorious moments in films than the whole package.  And my "Pop Film" phase lasted throughout the nineties and a goodly portion of the aughts, as well.  Thus, my mad appreciation for Wes Anderson.  Rushmore and Bottle Rocket will always be among my favorite films but that episodic/sketch-film style is just not my bag anymore, I think.  

Renee hated Five Easy Pieces.  And I totally understand.  Sure, the big moments still popped but there are so many other scenes that are completely unbelievable or laughable.  I do not for a second believe today that Jack and Susan Anspach would share even a single afternoon in bed together.  It is a joke.  And the last scene with Jack and his father is an abomination, completely forced and unbelievable and unseemly.  This film with its' prodigy family is obv a huge influence on Wes Anderson's work, along with Hal Ashby, and pre-Shining Kubrick, of course.  Five Easy Pieces is not a masterpiece by any stretch.  It is a disconnected "Jukebox Film."  Playing piano on the moving truck, the Triumph t-shirt reveal, the diner scene, the last shot are the best tracks on what is ultimately a fairly lackluster LP.  

************

Last night I watched Separate Tables (1958) which has a splendid cast:  Deborah Kerr, Rita Hayworth, David Niven, Dame Wendy Hiller, Burt Lancaster, etc, ... The film is based on a Terence Rattigan play of the same name.  Rattigan actually co-wrote the screenplay, too.  I have never seen the play but I doubt that I would like it anymore than the tepid film I saw last night.  Hayworth mails it in; Niven is good but certainly did not deserve an Oscar; Kerr was still sexy as the plain girl (but that is prob just me) and it is not one of her best performances; Hiller did deserve the Oscar she won, she and Burt Lancaster were the only really good things in this "who cares" drama.  Lancaster, with his linebacker build, American accent, and strength of presence totally lights up the screen whene'er he enters.  The great "scandal" of the Major's is so ridiculous it does not even need to be mentioned here.  It got loads of Oscar nominations, incl Best Picture.  Must have been a slow year, 1958.  Yuck.  

Dame Wendy played the West End, too.

And that is it for me today, my lovelies.  Please be safe today and very special sweet to your special lady friends today.  Even my gay friends today! 

Mwah, ... 

Kim Weston - Lift Every Voice & Sing (Black National Anthem)

"I do not recall."

Sophocles, showing a little tit.  You tiger!

Whoever came up with that line of defense is a stone-cold genius.  Unfortunately for that person they are obv not getting the credit they deserve, or the royalties.  I imagine "I do not recall" prob dates back to the birth of western civilization, the Greeks, who at least if they did not invent it, prob made it v popular and laid the painstaking and crucial groundwork for all the rest of us in the western world.

When the Tillman family finally got Rumsfeld and all the frickin' generals to testify before Congress re the death of their oldest son, the phrase, "I do not recall," was used eighty-two fucking times.  And when Waxman tried to close the hearing, stating, just in passing, the dates that Rumsfeld and his crew had each acknowledged they had seen the "smoking gun" memo, they each one of them (Rumsfeld, the first, showing the generals the way, old pro that he is) got on the record w/ one last, "I do not recall" to cover their asses.

It would be hilarious to watch if it were not real.  To paraphrase the event, if Rummy & his gang were not top brass military folk but instead college kids caught with their hand in the cookie jar, the quote from the generals would be, after Rummy covered his ass, "Hey, I wanta get in on that!" And if those generals were not military brass or college kids but instead eight year olds, the applicable quote would be:  "Yeah, me too."

I know.  Fucking pathetic, hunh?

Speaking of the ancient Greeks, The Tillman Story movie, a fantastic documentary, seems to have been written by Sophocles.  It is a true Greek tragedy, not horribly unlike Antigone.  Pat Tillman was a great human being and to see his life be co-opted and abused to justify a fucking unjust war is so repulsive and flat-out wrong it makes one ill.

"I do not recall."  Works a treat every time.

Hey, it is my first movie,

Cut me some slack.  This is where the reception will be.  (Ignore the idiot talking, that would be me.)