Going Back Behind the Orange Curtain

This is from March 21, 2006, originally written for MetroG.com. The artwork is my obligatory Laguna seascape. 

I’m actually going back to Orange County in a couple of weeks. It takes a lot to get me down there—I’ve only been back six or seven times since moving to West Hollywood. Usually, I go to cover events for IN Los Angeles magazine, and this is no exception—I’ll be there for the 20th anniversary of the AIDS Services Foundation Orange County.
I worked for ASF 16 years ago, as the manager for their thrift shop Dorothy’s on Broadway. Running tiny 900-square foot store in downtown Laguna Beach was the best time I’ve had in my working life. Every day was an adventure, because we never knew what donations would come through our doors. We got a lot of donations too—people were extremely generous. Dorothy’s became a popular local hangout, and it had a circus-like atmosphere—I’d wheel and deal all day long. I figured we had way too many donations—seemingly and endless stream—and the goal was to get money into the cash register. We made a lot of money in my five years of running the store; with sales of $500,000 by the time I left to become editor of the Blade.
Although there’s still a thrift store at the location, it’s no longer associated with ASF, but I’ll always fondly remember those five years. Unfortunately, I’ve lost touch with the wonderful army of volunteers from those days, so I hope some of them will be at the ASF event.
It’s always hard for me to go back to O.C. I was born in L.A., but moved behind the Orange Curtain when I was seven. Today, I tell people that I spent the next 40 years trying to get back up here. I never really felt like I fit in living in O.C., until I moved to Laguna Beach, where I lived for 23 years with my ex. Laguna has changed a lot since 1980, when it was in its last throes of truly being a bohemian art colony. The change would come slowly, with local businesses leaving, rents rising, and increasingly rich residents moving in. Also, development in the communities bordering Laguna, and that awful MTV "reality" show were changing the character of the town.
One of the last times I was in O.C. was for an ASF fundraiser (big surprise), and the visit was bittersweet. I had some time to kill, and I walked around visiting my old haunts. That’s an ironic choice of words, because there were ghosts. Not literal ghosts, but ghosts of my previous lives, previous loves, lost youth, and a town that looks the same but has a different personality. I walked around the old courtyard of shacks where my ex and I first fell in love, looked up the avocado tree where our cat would knock down the fruit so they’d split open for so he could devour them, and remembered our beautiful rose garden. It was sad, but it also made me realize that you truly can’t go home. That trip to Laguna strengthened my resolve to focus on my life here in West Hollywood, where I’ve found so much positive energy and growth.
Perhaps memories are best being just that: vestiges of the past, sepia colored photographs in the recesses of the mind. I still spend too much time living in the past—sometimes with happiness and sometimes with anger. There have been many times in the last few years that I wish I could go back to that shack on Third Street with the avocado tree in the back, or that thrift store on Broadway, but you can’t just click you heels together and say, "There’s no place like home." L.A. is my home now, and as Auntie Mame said, "Life’s an adventure, and most poor sons of bitches are starving to death."

Today I am a Man: Confessions of a 50-year-old Bar Mitzvah Boy

This is another golden oldie, written right after my June, 2006 Bar Mitzvah






Remember that episode of The Dick van Dyke show where Buddy Sorrell finally had his Bar Mitzvah because he didn't have one when he was 13? On Saturday, June 3, that was I. (Ironically, Morey Amsterdam, the man who played Buddy, is a distant relative.) I was part of an adult B'Nai Mitzvah at Congregation Kol Ami in West Hollywood: seven of us in our middle ages who decided to have a rite of passage normally reserved for 13-year-olds.
We came to the experience with different needs and perspectives. All but one of us never had this ceremony as children. Nearly half of us were Jews by choice, and many of us have been taking this journey together for the past two years, beginning with adult Hebrew. The current class had been studying together every Tuesday since October, learning everything from ritual and history to theology, concluding with our Torah portions and the sections of the service we'd perform. The last month was the most difficult, as some of us were thoroughly unnerved by having to read our Torah portions in Hebrew from the actual scroll.
But enough of the mechanics of our studies and what led up to Saturday. As is my habit, I arrived early at the Temple that morning, buzzing with nervous energy. As the time approached, however, I relaxed somewhat. Before our friends and relatives arrived, the seven of us agreed we'd meet at the Temple's rooftop garden for a quiet moment of reflection together. Afterwards, I felt centered and ready to face the wave of friends and family filling the Temple, meeting, greeting, schmoozing, and sneaking back to my seat from time to time to go over my Torah portion again.
Finally, the service got started—our big moment. I was the first to deliver a prayer for the service, and as I stood on the Bimah, I was astounded to see that the Temple was filled to standing room only. I knew we had a big crowd, but I wasn't expecting that many. Each of us took turns doing our part of the service, and although we'd said those prayers many times before, it was different: deeper, more meaningful, and communal because the seven of us were bound up in the words together.
Then came the Torah reading, the highlight of any Bar or Bat Mitzvah, the moment all of us looked forward to, and I can't speak for anyone but myself, the moment I was dreading the most. Languages don't come easily to me, and learning Hebrew was especially difficult. Truth be told, I'm still very poor at reading it and can speak it only phonetically. My Torah portion practices in class were unnerving, but I practiced at home endlessly and felt fairly confident I could do it.
First, we took our congregation's four Torah scrolls out of the Ark, said the Shema prayer (our declaration of faith) and paraded the scrolls around the room. It's tradition for Jews to touch the Torah with their prayer book or prayer shawl and kiss it, plus everyone had to kiss us and congratulate us. It was an overwhelmingly joyous moment. The particular scroll I carried had enormous significance to me. I was carrying the Temple's Torah scroll that was rescued from the Holocaust. The first time I attended the Temple's High Holy Days services in 2004, Rabbi Eger told the congregation the story of that scroll. As is the tradition at Kol Ami, that Yom Kippur night, the Torah scrolls were being passed from one member to another, and suddenly it was heading my way. As I held it, I felt the presence of God in my heart for the first time and I knew whatever I went through, I would never be alone. That was the day I decided I was going to have my Bar Mitzvah.
We then took turns reading our portions, and everyone did theirs fabulously. Since I'm a singer, I decided I would do my portion more musically. From what people tell me, I took the cliché “sing out Louise” literally—let's just say they had no problem hearing me in the back. I like to think that I wanted to be sure that my father, who died in December and insisted on paying for the class, would hear me wherever he is. I wish he'd lived to witness my Bar Mitzvah, and I believe in some way, he did. When I was done, I did the blessing after reading the Torah, and as I said the last "amen," you could tell it meant, "thank God I got through it!" As I hugged the Rabbi, she whispered in my ear, "Your father would be so proud." I kind of lost it at that point, but managed to keep my composure until I made it back to my seat.
Next came the Haftorah (a reading from the second part of the Jewish Bible), and a wonderful Dvar Torah from our classmate Julie that not only put our Torah portion into context, but also beautifully summed up the mindset of the class. After a presentation of gifts, a very emotional blessing before the Ark and concluding prayers, it was over. We were greeted to a sea of hugs, kisses, and Mazel Tovs.
The ceremony may have been over, but I think we all recognized that the journey we began in October would never end. The weekend before my Bar Mitzvah, I went to see the film Keeping Up with the Steins, encouraged to by my classmate Reva. I'm glad I did, because it took a lot of the pressure off me. The message I came away from that film and from Saturday with is that a Bar or Bat Mitzvah is not just about that day when you stand before the congregation, your family, and friends and read Torah, it's about the journey. We all chose to participate in that ceremony; none of us were forced to do it as children. We chose to take that journey together, and I think we'll continue on the journey together. I came out of that day feeling like a new person, a little more holy (not holier than thou, but a holiness within me), a lot more centered, and with a deeper understanding of what it means to be a Jew. For me, that's fighting for justice, studying, helping the downtrodden, and making this world a better place than I found it. I feel forever changed by the experience, and although I have plotted out some steps for the future, I never know where this journey will take me. Isn't that half the fun?

Cheapest Eats

Living on unemployment isn't easy, and stretching my food dollar has become one of my main goals. I usually make a huge batch of pasta or chili and living off that for a week, but it one can only eat the same thing for so many meals in a row. I have always been on the lookout for cheap eats, and living in Chinatown affords me lots of opportunities to seek them out. Perhaps the cheapest, and best, I’ve found recently are banh mi—delightful Vietnamese sandwiches that sell for $2-$2.50. Served on a light and crusty French roll and filled with meat and vegetables, you’ll be hard-pressed to find a cheaper or tastier lunch anywhere. The two in my neighborhood are within neighbors: Ba Le, 812 Franklin St. and BC Deli, 818 Franklin St., Oakland. Each sandwich is a meal in itself, with a choice of pork, ham, fish cake, chicken and various combinations, served with cilantro, lightly pickled daikon and carrot, cucumber, peppers on request, onions, a light mustard mayo, and salad dressing. If you’re on a budget, or just want a good lunch, check them out. Also, as if the price wasn’t cheap enough, both places offer a sixth sandwich for free if you buy five. Such a deal!

Art for Sale-Cheap

This seems like a good place to start: I'm selling framed 8 X 10 photos from my produce series for $50 each. They make great holiday gifts. Here are three examples, there are many more—name a favorite fruit or vegetable and I'm sure I have it.

Astroboy Made Me Gay

“Cosmic ranger, laugh at danger. Everything is GO Astroboy!”
-Theme from “Astroboy.”

When did you know? At what age did you get first feel the attraction to someone of your own sex? I first experienced those feelings around the age of seven, but it was only recently that I figured out what triggered them. I knew I had developed crushes on various males throughout my childhood, especially people on television. I recently bought a DVD of the Japanese cartoon “Astroboy,” which was popular when I was a child. Watching this tape, I realized that he was my first male crush.
Who wouldn’t love Astroboy, he could fly, was strong and courageous, had great adventures and he was so damn cute. I remember imagining Astroboy and I having adventures together, he would hold onto me as we would fly through the sky together. I know it sounds strange having a crush on a cartoon character, but I swear it’s true.
As I grew older, I continued to have crushes on male television characters; at least my next one was a real flesh and blood human being: Sandy from Flipper. Looking back, this crush probably had a lot to do with locking in my taste in men, I’ve had a life long obsession with blondes ever since. Sandy was so sexy and he was always usually dressed only in cutoffs. Again, I would imagine him and me frolicking in the water together with Flipper, having all sorts of fun adventures.
At the time I didn’t identify these crushes with being gay, since I didn’t know what being gay meant. All I knew is I wanted to be close to these people, I wanted to have fun with them, I didn’t know anything about having sex with them. After all, I was only nine at the time.
My next crush definitely had me moving in a more adult direction. I was a bit of a loner as a child and would usually come home and watch TV after school. I normally preferred cartoons and comedies. I usually didn’t like action and adventure shows, but suddenly, I was coming home everyday to watch reruns of “Sea Hunt” starring Lloyd Bridges–again a show starring a blond who usually had his shirt off. I used to love watching him.
I never had any contact with my childhood crushes (which also included Cary Grant and Sean Connery), excerpt once many years later. I was covering a campaign rally for Bill Clinton in 1992. I had been admitted through the press entrance, which brought me through the VIP area for the rally. After the event ended, there was a crush of people backstage. As I was trying to get out, I suddenly almost bumped into a rather tall man. I looked up and was surprised to find Lloyd Bridges in front of me. I hesitated for a moment and wondered if I should say anything about my boyhood crush on him. Ultimately I decided that discretion is the better part of valor and said nothing but “excuse me.” Some things are better left in fantasy anyway.

Copyright 2007 Amsterama Global Productions

Where Have I Been?

I just looked, and realized that I haven't blogged in nearly two months! Truth is, I just haven't felt like writing anything. Nearly three months of unemployment have taken their toll, and it seems like the only way I feel motivated to write is with a deadline hanging over my head. I'll probably post some food blogging next week. In the meantime, I'm going to put up some of my unpublished work.

My Favorite Buritto

I've never understood why Southern California doesn't have any good taquerias and Northern California doesn't have any good sit-down Mexican restauraunts. I know this is an overgeneralization, but it holds pretty true. Don't even get me started about the state of Carne Asada in SoCal: most places fry it on a griddle instead of char-broiling it as it should be made.
While San Francisco's Mission District is the home to many fine taquerias (most in the 16th and Valencia area), my favorite by far is Pancho Villa Taqueria. This place is nothing fancy: you stand in line and give your order, which is prepared while you wait to pay. The line is always long, and yet as held true from a conversation I had with a parton in line, there's always a table available no matter how crowded it is. The choices at Pancho Villa are numerous, with every Mexican favorite you can think of. They also have a large variety of meats (and tofu) to fil their huge creations, including lengua (tongue), al pastor, chili verde and chorizo. Their salsa consistently wins awards at the state fair every year, and their aguas frescas are great thurst quenchers.
While their tacos are fine, I adore their huge burittos filled with everything but the kitchen sink.
Pancho Villa is a favorite spot with San Franciscans, and to add to the cool factor, Beck shot part of a video there.
Pancho Villa Taqueria
3071 16th St
San Francisco, CA 94103
(415) 864-8840
Fax: (415) 864-3484
www.panchovillasf.com

The Right to Write

I feel like I'm getting rusty at writing. After 13 years of being a magazine editor and writing at least two articles a week, I went to a job where I didn't write a word for three months. I've always found it hard to write without a deadline hanging over my head, so I haven't done any recreational writing either. I guess that's the purpose of this blog, but I'm still having trouble getting motivated unless I find something interesting like a restaurant to write about.
Not writing was one of the things I found most annoying about my last job (it's a long list). I was supposedly hired to take care of all communications for the company, but I ended up simply taking dictation from the owner. He'd talk very fast, had little patience and I can barely read my own handwriting, so I hated doing this. At least toward the end, I would record his missives.
So, what's the purpose of this blog? I'm not really sure, but the title is misleading: I denied myself the "right to write," and I guess I wanted to find something to write about and get some things off my chest.

First Church of Christ Scientist

Beer and Clams?

As I was driving to Las Vegas recently, I saw a billboard in Spanish that advertised a new product that's a combination of beer and Clamato® juice. I only caught a glimpse of it, but decided to investigate further upon my return. Apparently, Latinos have been doing this combination on their own for years (So have rednecks according to my friend Denise, who worked in a bar many years ago. She said the call it "breakfast."). With an eye on a marketing oportunity, Budweiser has brought Chelada® to the market for your convenience, so you don't have to buy your own Clamato®. The results for me are a bit mixed: although effervescent, tangy and somewhat refreshing, there was something wrong—I just couldn't put my finger on what it was. Hot sauce and more lime would have improved the product, but overall, I thought it was vile—and yet I couldn't stop drinking it! I'm going to play with it and try additions like the forementioned hot sauce, as well as a shot of vodka. Another idea is to use it as a base for the Mexican style shrimp cocktels I love. These are not your American shrimp cocktails, but are presented in a thin tomato juice base, with lots of cilantro, chopped tomatoes, avocado and cucumbers. I think Chelada® may be the perfect base for this dish. I'll report the results.

Free at Last

I'm finally free of my job. When I gave notice, I said I wouldn't work until I was paid over $1,200 in expenses I submitted on August 3, and the still haven't been paid. I still worked for a few days, but it became obvious that payment wasn't forthcoming any time soon (I was offered $100 to work for one day). I packed up my things yesterday. I feel much better now, but also a bit scared about facing unemployment and being owed so much money by someone who has a bad history of paying ex-employees.
I've been told that he's been telling people that I left because I'm weak (he says this about everyone that leaves), but I've never felt more empowered in my life. It's always been difficult for me to stand up to tyrants, and I've faced a lot of them in my life, but this time I did it with dignity and strength. I don't feel weak at all—just the opposite. Perhaps that's the wisdom the journey that last few years has brought me: to finally put myself first, not accept second best (I almost did this time), to make decisions based on my heart and personal standards, and to do what's right.
Time and time again, I keep coming back to the two Jewish values I try to define my life by: tzedakah (acts of loving kindness) and tikkun olam (healing the world), and I almost lost sight of them by a force of evil who waived money in my face.

Will Write For Food

I finally quit my job today and I better find one soon or the above title may come true. I was surprised that I hadn't done any writing whatsoever on this job, but was simply dictated to. Dictated seems to be the keyword to this job, and I'll elaborate on this at a later date, suffice it to say that this is the worst job I've ever had. I actually feel relieved not to have to go into this cauldron of hell every day and can't wait until my two weeks notice is over. As those who know me can attest, I am the most cooperative person in the world and it takes a lot to make me take action for my self-preservation, but once I'm crossed-look out.

SF Eats: First Entry

I tried a new restaurant last night I highly recommend. It was my boyfriend's birthday, and I wanted the night to be memorable. He'd never had French cuisine, so after doing so Web research, I settled on Garcon! in the Mission district, and I happy to report an excellent evening of fine cuisine, attentive but unobtrusive service and romantic atmosphere. Garcon! has an extensive wine list (it comes in a binder), but since the evening was a celebration, we had delightfully fruity Champagne whose name I can't recall. It had a touch of yeast and at $35 a bottle was a bargain. For appetizers, we went for their generous charcuterie platter and a warm and hearty foie gras mixed with egg and served with bread-French comfort food of the highest degree. The entreés were generous and satisfying. I had a wonderfully rare steak with spinach and pomme frites, while Eddie dined on a pork chop with fava beans and artichoke hearts. As it was his birthday, our waitress (she was delightfully friendly) brought a light merangiue floating in a sweet creme sauce, topped with a candle and sang happy birthday in French. The restaurant has a fair sized dining room, but we sat in the back lounge, which made the evening even more romantic-this is a great place for a date. An added attraction for the back room (for me at least) was watching and smelling everything coming out of the kitchen. Apparently, Garcon! is famous for their mussel dishes, because at least 20 plates went by in the course of the evening-that alone is reason enough to go back.
Garcon!
1101 Valencia St.
San Francisco
(415) 401-8959
www.garconsf.com
Reservations recommended

On our way back, we stumbled on a place I heard about from some friends: Weird Fish. This restaurant is a hole in the wall, which is my favorite kind of place. My friends raved about it, and it was packed at 10 p.m. on this Saturday night. I'm going back soon to try it and will report on the results, but in the meantime, I grabbed the menu. Among the highlights are Hell Fish (seitan with sesame ginger and vegan wheat-free batter), Suspicious Fish Dish (the menu simply says "take a risk"), and dijon-almond encrusted rainbow trout. Nothing on the meno is over $12 and most fall into the $5-$7 range.
Weird Fish
2193 Mission St
San Francisco, CA 94110
(415) 863-4744
www.weirdfishsf.com

Bad Craziness

I was hoping to blog everyday, but that road to hell just got paved a little more. Actually, I needed some well-deserved rest after my three days in Vegas. Due to various problems that I won't go into (except none of them were personal), the trip was pretty bad. In addition, I'm totally bored with the place. I had a wonderful, relaxing weekend, but the craziness is back with the work week. The best lesson I've learned through all of this is that I actually can stand up for myself and win. Yes, today I am a man—I thought that was at my Bar Mitzvah, but it's all part of the journey. I've also learned that it's OK to take risks once in a while because the rewards make it worth it.
So to sum up: Life is crazy, stand up for yourself and take risks or you'll never get what you want.
Say goodnight Gracie.....

Raoul was Right!

This was supposed to be posted the night of 8/01, but my connection went down: I've just spent an evening among the great unwashed on the strip in Vegas (unfortunately, I forgot to take my camera). I have to say that even though "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" was published over 30 years ago, if I'd been taking what the good Dr. Thompson was ingesting that fateful week, I would have had the same visions. Tonight I saw too many overweight people in overly tight clothing. Too many images and snipets of conversations to remember, except the wiff of backslapping, general yahoo ugliness and the voice of Judy Garland. Perhaps Thompson had the right idea about checking out. I know that most of his decision was based on his physical infirmities, but seeing the crest of the wave of the Bush/Cheney years breaking in Vegas like I did tonight reminded me of how we got into the sorry state we're in today. Thompson knew this and it was too frightening for even him to stand. I need to get back to the Bay Area and leave these people behind.

Sunset

This long day is finally coming to an end as the shadows fall across the desert. The only real sunshine is on the hills to the east. It's been like a monsoon here all day and everyone's drenched. I've been to Vegas many times, and it just seems to get worse—the fantasy world and unobtainable dreams. I watched "Fear and Loathing" recently, and the only difference I see is that Vegas is more "family friendly," whatever that means. There's still plenty of debauchery under the surface, and I guess the food's better—if you can afford it. I suppose I'm going to spend my eveing doing what I love best: watching the freakshow, taking pics of whatever catches my eye, looking at kitsch and playing the penny slots.

In search of the American dream

It's morning in Las Vegas. I'm here in my non-luxurious suite at the Saharah getting ready for a full day's work with a slight sense of fear and loathing. Compared to the other resorts, this place is stuck in time—there are tributes to Buddy Hackett everywhere! The Sahara has seen better days, as evidenced by the guy who came up to fix my TV last night, grumbling about how the place was falling apart the whole time. No American dream here, especially this morning, just senior citizens trying to squeeze some meager winnings out of the slots at 8 a.m. We'll see how the day develops.