Stranger in a Strange Land.

Vokab Kompany

2011-06-10T04:41:17Z

Are you sitting down?

I've got some news.

You should probably just grab a seat.

In July, I will be moving to Nashville, Tenn.

Stop it. Please. Don't cry. It's not you. It's me.

You're an angel, a snowflake. You're gonna make someone very happy one day.

I'm going to miss you at least as much as you miss me. Probably more.

Are we OK? You're composed? It's all good?

Good.

You know what I'm gonna miss more than you?

Harlow's.

Yeah, Harlow's. The nightclub.

‘Cause it's awesome?

To say that I like Harlow's would be a gross understatement.

I used to get my mail sent to Harlow's.

A little more than a year ago I went to my first show at the venerable J Street music venue. The headliner was a band called BLVD. They're awesome, but that's neither here nor there.

The opener, and therefore the very first band I ever saw at Harlow's, was a San Diego trip-hop act called Vokab Kompany.

Never heard of ‘em? Let one-year-younger Lindol enlighten you on the matter:

Vokab Kompany is another act that refuses to be pigeonholed. Two MCs might lead you to believe that it's hip-hop, but that doesn't begin to tell the story. The seven-piece band played for more than an hour, a set that was at times funky, jazzy, heavy, bouncy, even bluegrassy.

At one point, it eased comfortably in and out of Stevie Wonder's "Superstition." A moment later, during a long electric fiddle solo, a young lady joined the fiddler on the floor and did her best "Lord of the Dance." And it all made sense. Through it all, the crowd was treated to microphonic gymnastics of the dueling MCs, Rob Hurt and Burkey. The group is legit. See them.

Sounds awesome, right?

One more thing about Vokab Kompany: They'll be back in Sac, at Harlow's, on Friday night.

The first band I ever saw at Harlow's will also be the last (for now).

I'll see you on the dance floor (or I'll never see you again. Maybe.)

Vokab Kompany is playing Harlow's on Friday June 10, at 10pm. Tickets are $10. Yahtzee.

Dive Bar Grand Opening

2011-01-21T05:58:29Z

On Wednesday night, Dive Bar held its grand opening.
The "New K Street" has been covered ad nauseum here and (and here and here and here. . . .) and elsewhere.

George Karpaty's new "entertainment complex" is big news, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about, so I put on my press hat, my dance pants and my shiniest shirt and headed over.

The block was already bumping when I arrived a little before 8 p.m. I went to Dive Bar first, but my contact was nowhere to be found, the mermaids had yet to arrive and the bar was seatless. I decided to to take my leave and begin my night with a beer at the pizza "joint" next door.

Pizza Rock was bustling. The huge dining room was close to packed, and a handful of people were gathered by the host desk awaiting their tables. There were, however, a couple open seats at the long curved bar. I chose one directly underneath the grill of the Peterbilt DJ booth and made myself comfortable.

I am pleased to report that they have 24 oz PBR tallboys (In Wisconsin they call em silos!) for the relatively reasonable price of $4 apiece. Well, $4.40 with tax. Look, I ended up paying $11 for two of em with tip. Like I said, relatively.

I spent a little over an hour at Pizza Rock, taking in the scene and the end of the Kings overtime loss to the Trail Blazers. Some impressions:

– The truck/DJ booth and Sistine Chapel-esque ceiling art are as gaudy, cartoonish and over-the-top ridiculous as they sound. The room is like an Ed Hardy wet dream, which makes sense, seeing as chef Tony Gemignani teamed up with the ubiquitous graphic designer on a line of Ed Hardy pizza boxes. Seriously. That being said, the space is huge, open and comfortable in spite of itself.

– The food looks and smells terrific. (My girlfriend is currently doing a 21-day yoga cleanse, and as a show of solidarity, I am trying to follow her mostly vegetable diet. Except when Korean tacos are involved). The chef became the first American to win The World Pizza Cup competition in Naples, Italy, in 2007. The White anchovy and prosciutto de Pomodorini pizzas were eaten on either side of me, and they both looked outstanding getting rave reviews from their owners. Manny, a recent transplant from Hoboken, described the latter as an "off-the-hook Jersey-style pizza." The meatballs also looked phenomenal. These 21 days can't end soon enough.

– Mayor Kevin Johnson was in the building, and he gave the pizza a thumbs-up.

– In accordance with the name of the place, the music was kind of awesome. Skynyrd, Beastie Boys, Whitesnake, Bon Jovi, Nirvana, Faith No More, 311, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Pearl Jam, Dynamite Hack . . . They were all over the map, and I had several, "Hey, this song!" moments. Good stuff.

– A fellow next to me ordered a Malibu and pineapple for his lady friend, and after receiving the drink he asked the bartender to add a little more Malibu, and the barkeep gladly did so. A nice sign.

After the Kings game ended (badly), I headed back over to Dive Bar. Some impressions:

– Mermaids. They are there, swimming around, and it's kind of awesome.

– How awesome will it be six months from now?

– They turned away a few people who were under-dressed. Don't let the name fool you, this Dive Bar has a dress code.

– I think this spot, more than the other two, will have to find its identity. It's not really a lounge, not really a dance club, certainly not a dive bar. Dance music, mermaids, TVs with sports playing, patterned carpeting, no food, bottle service, $300 "booths" that are just couches against the wall.

– Someone offered that it is just a place to go for the people who can't get in to District 30.

– This proved prophetic, as it filled up as soon as a huge line of people who had been waiting to get into D30 were turned way, with apologies and passes to return at a later date.

– They should have called it "Overflow."

– It opens at noon, but doesn't serve food. We'll see how long that lasts.

After being rebuked in my initial attempt to gain entry to District 30, I was able to sneak in on my way out. (Not really, I got to speaking with the manager, who let me in on the caveat that I not take any pictures). A few very brief observations:

– The floor around the main dance floor is kind of bouncy.

– This will succeed. George Karpaty knows his nightclubs. It's everything you might expect from the guy behind Ruby Skye: clean, slick, cool, great sound, comfortable booths, full of beautiful people and at least one professional athlete.

All in all, the “New K Street” left a pretty good first impression. Karpaty knows night clubs, and Gemignani knows pizzas. I've got every confidence in Pizza Rock and District 30 being successes. As long as that happens, Overflow should be fine, too.

Steak beats sizzle

2011-01-13T04:58:22Z

I love to eat out. I mean, I love to eat in too, but I really love to eat out.

When I worked in the restaurant industry, in those heady woebegone days of the mid-aughts, I used to go out to eat four or five nights a week.

These days, I have less disposable income, so I rarely get a chance to indulge myself in such a manner.

When I found out about The Downtown Sacramento Partnership's "Dine Downtown Restaurant Week," I leapt at the chance to review one of the participating restaurants’ prix-fixe offerings.

I was given a 6 p.m. Tuesday reservation for two (I would be joined by my lovely girlfriend Jess) at Dawson's, a classic American chophouse found in the lobby of the Downtown Hyatt.

Dawson's is probably not a place I would have found on my own. I admit, when it comes to dining out, American cuisine is pretty far down on my list. I'm an unrepentant fusion-ophile, a sucker for all things nouveaux-ethnic. Korean Bul-go-gi tacos? Yes, please. Vietnamese Tapas? Sign me up. (I have my limits though, I consider California Pizza Kitchen to be an abomination).

A cursory glance at the Dawson's menu confirmed that there would be none of that tomfoolery on this night. Chef Ian Libberton has created a menu that is comfortable and comforting. The entrée list is textbook: four steaks and a prime rib, one chicken dish, one pork dish, one rack of lamb, two fish dishes (salmon and sea bass, natch) and a token veggie entrée (you bet your sweet bippy it's a mushroom tortelinni). Classic. Straightforward. Few frills. No tricks.

So it all comes down to execution, and I'm pleased to report the execution, though not flawless, was stellar.

We arrived five minutes before our reservation and were immediately greeted by the genial host, who, like all of the plentiful floor staff, was dressed in shirt and tie. He led us past the dimly lit horseshoe-shaped bar and the open kitchen into the main dining room.

We were seated at a comfortable two-top next to a deeply varnished wooden railing that separated us from a row of booths and the aforementioned kitchen.

As we were seated in our large, comfortable chairs, I was suddenly reminded of the immortal Ron Burgundy: "I'm very important. I have many leather bound books, and my apartment smells of rich mahogany." Though I didn't see any books, I feel the setting he was trying to convey to Veronica Corningstone was something akin to the one in which we sat.

The host, while lapping our napkins for us, informed us that Michel, our waiter, would be right with us, then returrned to his post.
The moment he left us, another fellow arrived with water, and hot on his heels, a third gentleman arrived with bread, butter, an olive tapenade and a caveat: "The tapenade has a little anchovy in it, in case you have any allergies".

Thankfully, neither Jess or I have such an affliction, so we dug in post-haste. (As a trained professional, I both buttered and tapenaded my bread. If one is good, both is better).

Michel arrived and, in a charming French accent (not to be confused with the oft-heard "condescending French accent." He was from Nice, not Paris.), asked us what we'd like to drink. I ordered an Anchor Steam on draft, Jess stuck with the water and Michel went off to grab us the Dine Downtown menu. (I'm not implying that Michel did this, but when I worked at a restaurant and we had special prix-fixe menus, I wouldn't necessarily go out of my way to make sure the customers got a copy of the menu. It's nothing personal, just business).

Jess and I decided to start out with a cup of the French onion soup and a Caesar salad. While waiting for the first course to arrive, I took a moment to survey the crowd. For a moment, I was struck by the fact that Jess and I were easily the youngest (at 20-something and 32) people in the dining room. Then I remembered that it was 6:10 p.m. on a Tuesday. We would be done with dinner in plenty of time to go home, watch Matlock and fall asleep in our Barcaloungers. As the meal went on, the crowd became far less senior citizen-centric.

The first course arrived, and we wasted no time in getting after it.

The French onion soup was beautiful: a small cup crowned with the perfect amount of evenly melted cheese, just slightly browned and capped with a few rings of green onion. The broth underneath was silky smooth with just the right amount of oniony sweetness and melt-in-your-mouth bread cubes. It was one of the better examples of the classic dish that I've ever sampled.

The Caesar, though promising, was tragically overdressed. The uncut Romaine leaves were generously garnished with anchovies and pesto croutons and needed only a slight drizzle of the bright, citrusy dressing to complete the dish. Unfortunately, the dresser had a very heavy hand, and it rendered the salad a shell of what it could have been. A case of less is more, where more was, most certainly, less. An unfortunate, but easily correctable misstep.

For her entrée, the lady went with the grilled hanger steak while I chose the braised beef short rib ragout with gnocchi.

The entrées arrived soon after our first course had been cleared. The steak was served au poivre, and it arrived classically accompanied with trios of asparagus spears and crispy steak fries. It's a dish that countless restaurants serve, but few serve well. Dawson's makes the cut as one of the latter.

The sauce was savory and served to accent the medium-rare steak without overpowering it. It was cooked perfectly for Jess's taste. I'm embarrassed to say that I prefer my steaks closer to medium. I've always wanted to be one of those guys, like my father, who order their steaks "bloody." I remember him once, at a chophouse, being asked how he would like his steak. He looked the waiter in the eye and answered, "still breathing." I always thought that was cool. Certainly cooler than "medium." I like my coffee with lots of cream and sugar, too. (Sorry dad).

The asparagus could have been a bit firmer, but I like my veggies very al dente. I built several perfect bites that included all three components and plenty of sauce, and I thought they were delectable. The crisp potato skins offered the crunch that the asparagus did not.

My short rib ragout was also very tasty. The gnocchi was relatively light, and the ragout was chock full of tender short rib, silky tomato and, to my delight, large slivers of garlic. The garlic must have been added very late in the cooking process, because it still had bite to it. Wonderful.

We finished off the meal with one of each of their desserts, a chocolate lava cake and a vanilla bean gelato. I took a cue from my earlier tapenade and butter experience and turned it into one single, uber-dessert. Chocolate lava cake with bittersweet chocolate sauce and vanilla bean gelato. The whole was even greater than the sum of its parts, and the parts were pretty good in their own right.

All in all, it was a lovely meal. The service was superb, the ambiance cool yet comfortable, and the food ranging from good to very good. Kathleen, the manager, described the place as "a diamond in the rough," and I would agree, to an extent. She went onto say, "We are the best chophouse in town. People always go to Morton's or Ruth’s Chris, or McCormick & Schmick’s, and they come back saying that they should have just eaten here."

This being my first chophouse experience in town, I can only say that I once had a miserable experience at Ruth's Chris that left me both unsatisfied and broke, and I've heard not-so-great things about Morton's as well.

Dawson's may be all steak and very little sizzle, but it's a chophouse, isn't steak what you came for?

A man called Moonbeam.

2011-01-04T07:36:56Z

"Noon-2 p.m.: A "people's party" with free hot dogs will be held at the Capitol Northwest lawn; (Jerry) Brown will speak." Steven Harmon, San Jose Mercury News, 1/3/11

As a political science major, a former intern at one of Washington D.C.'s most influential think tanks, and an all around amateur politico, I was very tempted to go to "The People's Inauguration Party 2011" to see Jerry Brown speak.

I'm tempted to do lots of things.

As a broke fat kid, I actually went to "The People's Inauguration Party 2011" to eat free hot dogs.

I kept a running diary of my experiences thereat:

11:50 AM- I arrived at the Capitol and immediately located the line for the free hot dogs. It was probably 150 yards long, beginning at the party tent on the Northwest steps and winding itself nearly all the way to the West lawn.

11:55 AM- I found my way to the end of said line, and jumped in. The line was moving briskly, and populated with exceedingly upbeat folks from nearly all walks of life. I say nearly all because there was one group that was conspicuously absent: the (apparently) homeless. I saw nary a one. At a downtown event, offering free food to "everyone". I'm not sure how they pulled that off. (busing?)

12:00 PM- The seven-piece mariachi band that had been "entertaining" those of us in line moved under the big top to "entertain" those of us who already had their hot dogs and were eagerly awaiting the governors arrival. Nobody in line was visibly upset by this development. Can't speak for those already in the tent. More on the Mariachi's later.

12:15 PM- I arrived at the hot dog tent, which featured three windows. At the first, I was flummoxed by the rapid-fire greeting I received:
"DoritosFritosCheetosorPlain?" "Huh?" I replied, dumbly. "Doritosfritoscheetosorplain" my inquisitor responded, exasperated. I went with Cheetos because it was what the person in front of me had chosen, and I didn't want to find out what would happen to me if I'd made the young lady repeat herself a third time. Thankfully there was no choice to be made at the next two windows, where I received first a bottled water and then two (two!) hot dogs. As far as condiments went, it was pretty basic: mustard, catsup and relish. I took three of each (if it's free, I'll take three!) and found a spot near the podium to get my grub on.

12:18 PM- Hot dogs, inhaled. Pretty solid dogs, would have been a lot better with onions and kraut, but they had a nice char on em. They were a bit small. I could have eaten six without hesitation or remorse. "This Jerry Brown guy is alright" I thought to myself.

12:20 PM- I joined the rapidly growing crowd in the main tent. There were four or five rows of chairs in a semicircle facing a stage with a podium atop it. Behind the stage hung a banner reading "The People's Inauguration Party 2011" with "JERRY BROWN" underneath. The seats had long since been occupied and the crowd was about five people deep behind them. Middle back of the room was a small raised area for the television news cameras. Beyond the news cameras was a covered area with 10 or 12 tables at which people stood and ate their hot dogs. The Mariachi band was playing to the left of the stage.

12:30 PM- Perfunctory "We want Jerry" chant begins.

12:30 PM- Perfunctory "We want Jerry" chant ends.

12:35 PM- From my vantage point, I can see all of the following things: a blood red feather boa, a pair of leather bike chaps, a VFW hat, a bald mullet ponytail, a bright yellow yarmulke, an eye patch, and a big blond afro (to be fair, the last three all belonged to the same person). Politics (and free hot dogs) makes for strange bedfellows.

12:42 PM- A half-hearted rhythmic clapping of the the sort you might here at a rock show when the crowd is trying to extoll a band into returning for an encore begins.

12:42 PM- Halfhearted clapping ends. If it had been at a rock show, the lights would have come up. No encore for you.

12:44 PM- I briefly, but seriously, considered re-entering the hot dog line. You know whats better than two free hot dogs? Four free hot dogs.

12:46 PM- As the Mariachi begins it's 20th (120th?) song of the afternoon, a woman to the left of me says what we'd all been thinking: "Enough with the music, already". Here, here. Mariachi music is best appreciated in small (two or three song) doses. And while drunk. Really drunk. Try listening to 80 minutes straight of mariachi music while dead sober sometime. I dare you.

12:50 PM- "Alright, now I'm sorry I voted for him" offered June, who was there playing hooky from work. "If he doesn't come out soon I'm gonna leave. He's not gonna pay my parking ticket". She was joking about being sorry she voted for him. I think.

12:51 PM- K.J. arrives, makes his way through the crowd, poses for a couple pictures and then poof, like that, he's gone.

1:00 PM- Nothing happens. Mariachis still playing. Huzzah.

1:12 PM- Another "We want Jerry" chant begins and ends. A modicum better than the first.

1:14 PM- June can't take it anymore, takes off.

1:19 PM- The Gubernatorial hype man (Gubernatorial fluffier?) takes the mic, exhorts the crowd "Let's get it going for the Governor !!!" and looks to his right where the man himself is exiting the Capitol and heading our way. The crowd goes respectably bananas. Finally, they are going to get to greet their champion! The wait was worth it!

1:21 PM- A funny thing happened on the way to the podium. J.B. took a b-line across the lawn and entered the back portion of the tent, to glad-hand his way through the hot dog eaters. For a moment it looked as if he was simply going to go up to the podium the back way, through the crowd, but then he turned right instead of left. He approached the hot dog tent.

1:25 PM- He ate a hot dog

1:27 PM- He left the tent, the same way he'd come in, and re-entered the Capitol, never to be seen again. To the consternation of his adoring supporters, many of whom had been waiting two plus hours to see the man.

1:28 PM - One of Brown's flunkies (Ed. note- it was Lou Correa, D- Santa Ana. Authors note- potato, potahto) took the podium, and offered a lame analogy about how the Governor had "visited the cheap seats" and had ignored "those with the most access". Which would have been fine and valid had the people in front paid money or exerted their political influence to get their seats. But they hadn't, they had simply taken more time out of their busy day to get their earlier. It was more important to them. And this is the thanks they got. Not even a cursory walk through from their conquering hero. Thanks for nothing, Moonbeam.

1:29 PM- It was all over. A flunky (The same one? A different one? I don't know. Stuffed suits all look the same to me) announced that "this is the people's inauguration" and sheepishly thanked us all for coming. The crowd booed. I thought it was a joke until I saw the TV news folks breaking down their equipment.

It's an interesting first act as Governor, to dick over your supporters like that. I don't quite understand the thinking behind it. Regardless, he's made a powerful new enemy. I certainly didn't see that coming while I was eating my free* hot dogs.

*There's no such thing as a free hot dog.

Reefer Madness. Redux

2010-10-09T06:26:25Z

In 1936, "Tell the Children" was released in theaters. You may know it better as "Reefer Madness."
    In the film, a group of high school kids are lured into using "marihuana" by a couple of "pushers." Their experimentation immediately leads to disastrous results, including vehicular manslaughter, attempted rape, insanity, murder, suicide, and (gasp!) really, really fast piano playing.
    It ends, famously, with a high school principal pointing at the camera and suggesting that the events just portrayed are likely to happen again, except this time, to your children (won't somebody think of YOUR children!?!?!?).
 This was the first time that anti-pot activists played on parents’ fears with over-the-top, exaggerated claims about the effects of marijuana, but far from the last.
    In fact, this has been, to varying degrees, the modus operandi for the anti-pot crowd pretty much ever since.  But not anymore, right?
 I mean, our last three presidents have all admitted to smoking weed. They turned out OK – or at least turned into presidents.
    Medicinal marijuana has been legalized in 14 states, plus the District of Columbia. Eight more states have pending legislation or ballot measures to legalize it.
    Heck, right here in California we have a proposition, No. 19, that  would legalize marijuana and permit local government to regulate and tax commercial production, distribution and sale of the dastardly weed.  You would think that we could have a straightforward honest debate about the pros and cons of the proposition, without resorting to fearmongering, right?
 Not so fast, Kimosabe.
    I recently received my "Official Voter Information Guide" for the upcoming California general election. As someone who has never missed an opportunity to vote, I eagerly await Nov. 2.
  The first thing I do upon receiving the OVIG is open to the propositions section and read the arguments for and against each one. It's similar to a Cliffs Notes version of the proposition. I was especially eager to read the “Argument Against Proposition 19" section, on page 17.

Or, as I have dubbed it, "Reefer Madness, Redux."

  Now, this new version of fear peddling is much more subtle than it has been in years past. There'll be no jumping out of windows or attempted rapes – although there is implied vehicular manslaughter. (Old habits die hard).
  Inconspicuous though it may be, "Argument Against Prop. 19" follows the exact same template set those many years ago in the film by renowned exploitation film director Dwain Esper.

  Why should we vote against prop 19?

A: Because the authors made several huge mistakes in writing this initiative, which will have severe, unintended consequences.

*Scared yet? We'll let this slide. Let's even pretend that these severe and unintended consequences outweigh those severe and unintended consequences that are a direct result of creating a dangerous black market for a relatively harmless and potentially beneficial plant.

 B: Mothers Against Drunk Driving strongly opposes Prop. 19 because it because it will prevent bus and trucking companies from requiring that their drivers be drug-free. Companies won't be able to take action against a "stoned" driver until after he has a wreck, not before.

*They won't be able to take action before someone has a wreck? Even if all three of the precogs predict it, and there is no minority report? I kid, of course, but it will still be illegal to drive under the influence of marijuana, just as it is today. The only difference is you won't be able to fire the driver when he shows up on Monday because he decided to unwind on Friday night with a doobie instead of a scotch.

 C: School districts may currently require school bus drivers to be drug-free, but if Prop. 19 passes, their hands will be tied until after tragedy strikes. (won't somebody think of YOUR children?!?!?!?!?!?!) A school bus driver would be forbidden to smoke marijuana on school grounds or while actually behind the wheel, but could arrive for work with marijuana in his system.

*Same scare tactic as before, but this time . . . it’s happening to your kids! Notice, it says "could arrive to work with marijuana in his system". OMG, not in his system! anything but that! Won't somebody think of th. . . what. . .oh . . .really? I've just been informed that marijuana can stay in a persons system for as long as 40 days. Having it in one’s system by no means indicates inebriation. Of course, the driver would not be able to work while inebriated, as that’s still illegal.

 D: Public School Superintendent John Snavely warns that Prop. 19 could cost our schools as much as $9.4 billion in lost federal funding.

*Should President Barack Obama and Congress decide to cut off federal funding, which is possible, this could conceivably happen. But there has been no indication that this would be their response. In fact, Obama has taken a very laissez-faire approach to the states with regards to their marijuana laws (unlike, say, immigration). Very unlikely.

 E: Employers who permit employees to sell cosmetics or school candy bars to co-workers in the office may now also be required to allow any employee with a "license" to sell marijuana in the office.

*I actually laughed out loud when I read this. I hope it is true. "Sure, Bobby can sell his magazine subscriptions to save the rec center, but only if Moonbeam over here can slang dank and kind ganja gooballs in the lobby." Perfect.

 F: Under current law, if a worker shows up smelling of alcohol or marijuana, an employer may remove the employee from a dangerous or sensitive job, such as running medical lab tests in a hospital or operating heavy equipment. But if Prop. 19 passes, the worker with marijuana in his or her system may not be removed from the job until after an accident occurs.

*Do you see what they did here? It's the same "in his system" bait and  switch as in example C. If the proposition passes, they could still remove the employee for smelling of alcohol or marijuana if they had reason to believe he or she was under the influence. They just wouldn't be able to remove the worker for simply having it in his or her system (40 days).

 G: The California Police Chiefs Association opposes Prop. 19 because proponents "forgot" to include a standard for what constitutes "driving under the influence." Under Prop. 19, a driver may legally drive even if a blood test shows they have marijuana in their system.

*Noticing a trend yet? They didn't forget to include a standard for what constitutes driving under the influence. There is already one in place. One more time, say it with me: It is, and will continue to be, illegal to drive while under the influence of marijuana. Also, having marijuana "in your system" is not the same as being under its influence. Also, it seems to imply that those in law enforcement are against Prop. 19, which is absolutely not the case.

 H: Gubernatorial candidates Republican Meg Whitman and Democrat Jerry Brown have both studied Prop. 19 and are urging all Californians to vote no.

*This isn't really a scare tactic. I just think it's a clear argument in FAVOR of Prop 19.

 I: Don't be fooled. The proponents are hoping you will think Prop. 19 is about "medical" marijuana. It is not. Prop. 19 makes no changes either way in the medical marijuana laws.

*No. No they won't. At least not the ones that I've seen. For example, the  “Rebuttal to Argument Against Proposition 19”, on the same page 17 of the OVIG, does not mention medical marijuana once. Nor does the "Argument in Favor of Propositon 19" on the preceding page. Fascinating that the opponents of Prop. 19 would accuse the proponents of trying to mislead the voting public. Pot, meet kettle.

J: Prop. 19 is simply a jumbled legal nightmare that will make our  highways, our workplaces and our communities less safe. We strongly urge you to vote "No" on Prop. 19. 

*The high school principal is pointing at you through the camera. Tell The Children. Version 2.0.

Go ahead, vote "No" if you like. Or, vote "Yes". But don't vote scared.

Next week I am going to visit some of our local dispensaries to find out how they stand on Prop 19. You might be surprised by what I discover.

Image #1 from nocconservates.org
image #2 from godandscience.org
Image #3 from Iloveweed.net
Image #4 from 420times.com

Image #5 is the work of Brandon Darnell

Saigon Bay. . . Pho Ga for the soul.

2010-05-29T03:18:07Z

Used to be, when I thought of Vietnam, I would think first of the war, and my stepfather Pieter, who spent two tours of duty in the Vietnam War in the Marine Corps special forces. Actually, Vietnam conjured up visions of a parade of Vietnam vets who came through my house and my life while I was growing up in Menlo Park.

My father specialized in treating Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and it seemed that in the 80's and 90's, Vietnam vets had cornered that market. We had a guest room out back where many a traumatized vet stayed while under my fathers tutelage. I had a lot of questionable male role models stay in "the study" for varying amounts of time, every one of whom had lost some or all of their $#!% in Vietnam. My future stepfather was my dad's star pupil, but that is a story for another time.

In 2003, I began working as a waiter and sometime bartender at an upscale Vietnamese restaurant in Palo Alto. I ended up staying there six long years (5 tours of duty?). Six years is a long time to spend working anywhere, but there were several contributing factors to my longevity at "Three Seasons."

* The pay was good.

* Many of my co-workers were very good friends, I had a lot of fun at work.

* I was able to drink on the job. Not allowed, but able. A lot.

* I was good at my job in spite of the imbibing. Although I'd argue that a small amount of drinking can be a performance enhancer in that line of work.

You know how an object in motion tends to stay in motion? Well, an object at rest tends to stay at rest. And I, my friends, was comfortably at rest.

But I would have broken free from the chains of inertia far sooner than I did had it not been for the food. The wonderful, mouth-watering, soul-filling Vietnamese food.

I probably averaged -- conservatively, counting vacations -- four shifts a week for those six years. That makes 1,248 shifts over my career at "Three Seasons." And for nearly every one of those shifts, I ate a meal, sometimes two: 1,248 meals, and I enjoyed almost every single one of them.

Vietnamese food was an epiphany. The fresh herbs -- mint, cilantro, lemongrass and basil -- brighten nearly every dish. The heavy-handed use of hot chilis and peppers and Sriracha hot sauce appealed deeply to my love of all things spicy.

I had honed my iron tongue on street tacos and jalapenos as a youngster, and by putting Tabasco on everything my college cafeteria had to offer. But I didn't find my food soulmate until I discovered Vietnamese food.

Now, when I think of Vietnam, I think first of Bun Thit Nuong ,cool noodles topped with assorted grilled meats; Bo Luc Lac, cubed sirloin steak wok tossed with peppers and onions; and Pho Ga, chicken noodle soup, and start drooling. Then I think back to the lunatics living in my study. But first the food.

When I relocated to Midtown, finding a new place to get my Vietnamese grub on was high on my list of things to do.

I tried Pho Bac Hoa Viet on Broadway, and it was good, but the search continued.

Then I tried Pho Saigon on Stockton, and it was even better, but the search continued.

Then I tried Saigon Bay, and I knew the search was over

Saigon Bay is at 1407 Howe St., and doesn't really look like much from the outside. Set back from the road and flanked by AT&T and Verizon stores to one side, and a business park to the other, it would be easy to miss.

I have eaten at Saigon Bay a half dozen times now, and have left exceedingly happy on each occasion.

By the time you read this, I'll have visited again. In fact, I'm probably there right now, as you read this.

Every time I go, Jess and I split one of their fresh spring rolls. The appetizer, common to Vietnamese restaurants, is rolled in rice paper and filled with lettuce, vermicelli and herbs.

Saigon Bay's lean pork and shrimp roll with peanut sauce is much like any other, but its lemon grass beef and pork spring rolls are something else all together. Meats are grilled to perfection and seasoned just as well. Served with peanut and the ubiquitous nuoc mam, or fish sauce, spring rolls are a fantastic way to start your meal.

From there, you can go in several directions, all of them delicious.

Jess usually gets the Pho Ga, which has white meat chicken and a light, yet soulful, broth with just the slightest hint of cinnamon. The soup is served with fresh bean sprouts, herbs, jalapenos and lime. Couple this with the two types of hot sauce, pickled jalapenos, hoisin and soy sauce that sit on every table, and you can get all mad scientist and doctor it up to your heart's content.

I usually get the shaking beef, a wonderful dish that I fell in love with at Three Seasons, but rarely ordered because it cost $22. At Saigon Bay, it's $7.95, and that includes rice and a small cabbage salad. Winner, Saigon Bay.

My other mainstay is the Bun, or Cool Noodles. This dish is almost a salad: cool vermicelli, shredded lettuce, cucumber and herbs, all topped with grilled meats of your choosing. The lemongrass pork and steak of the spring roll fame are my favorites, but you also can get other toppings like chicken, shrimp, egg rolls and shrimp cakes. The Bun is served with nuoc mam, which you pour over the top of the dish, much like you would a salad dressing. I, of course, add a healthy squirt of Sriracha before going to town.

Every time we have eaten at Saigon Bay, Jess and I have left totally satisfied. And we've left for under $28, including tip. And the only time it got that high was yesterday, when I decided to order an extra spring roll . . . you know, for research purposes. Jess ended up taking half her soup home. I ate it as a 4:30 meal; linner, I've taken to calling it.

When we go tomorrow, we'll be out the door for under $24. See you there.

They say breaking up is hard to do. . .

2010-05-01T02:23:08Z

Dear "Cheaters",

There is no easy way to say this, so I'm just gonna spit it out: I've been seeing someone else.

I want you to know that I'll always have love for you. When I was new to town, you took me in, and I'll never forget that. We'll always have Oregon basketball; who knows, maybe we can ring in the new arena together next fall.

You need to understand that it's not you, it's me. Please, don't cry. Stop it. You're a still wonderful bar, I've just found someone I'm more compatible with.

It's been going on a few weeks now. I wanted to watch the Giants game and grab a beer, but it was raining, and I didn't want to go all the way down Folsom to do it. I'd noticed this place on 19th that looked pretty cool. I went in, had a drink and, well, one thing led to another. Next thing I knew, the Giants game was over and the NBA playoffs had started and I was still there, having a great time. It was as if we'd known each other our whole lives.

O.K., O.K., I'll tell you who it is, but you have to promise not to make a scene. You probably know her, and this is already awkward enough. Are you gonna be chill?

It's The Zebra Club. I'm sorry, it just happened! I think I may be in love. Don't say that. Please don't cheapen what we had. Fine, you wanna know why? I'll tell you why:

The Zebra has everything you have: the flat screens, the sports packages (all of them), the Golden Tee, the wireless, the jukebox, the darts, the hugely eclectic group of regulars, the friendly bartenders playing dice with the customers for drinks. It has all that, and it's right in the heart of Midtown!

No, I'm not too lazy to go across town. If it were just that, I'd be comfortable with a long(er) distance relationship. The Zebra has plenty of things you don't: a large, covered patio out back complete with plenty of tables and an outdoor big screen.

Inside, to go along with the Golden Tee, there are two pretty sweet old-school pinball machines. Sometimes, I like to get my "Simpsons Pinball Party" on, and I just can't do that with you.

Also, the drinks are a little cheaper, and they have, like, 20 beers on tap. You don't have an answer to $1.75 draft PBR, do you? And don't tell me about $2.25 Olympia cans. I don't want to hear it.

All these things are nice, but what really sets the Zebra apart is the tiny kitchen and the fantastic pub fare that flows from within.

On the day I had lunch, the specials were spaghetti and meatballs, a chicken club, and a pastrami and bacon cheeseburger. I saw all three, and they looked great, especially the burger, but I went with the New York steak sandwich. The garlicky steak was as tender as can be, smothered in grilled onions and mushrooms and served on a toasted soft roll. I got it with a crisp green salad as well as a side of very well prepared fries. Thanks, Bert! I got all that and six PBRs for under 20 bucks. You can't beat that with a stick.

There is nothing fancy about the menu. For lunch, they've got burgers, hot and cold sandwiches, hot wings and a couple of salads. That's it. The chefs, Bert and Eric, don't do too much, but that which they do, they do very well. A huge plate of the wings just walked right by me. They look and smell amazing.

And they are awful accommodating. I was there in the late afternoon two weeks ago, and one of the regulars returned from the coast with a bunch of seafood he'd picked up. Bert took it back into the kitchen, and emerged an hour later with piping hot bowls of cioppino, complete with crusty slabs of garlic bread. Maybe one day I'll go to the coast and get some seafood. You'd probably kick me out if I pulled a stunt like that.

Oh yeah, did I mention that The Zebra is open for breakfast every day? Breakfast? At a dive bar? Yeah, breakfast. At a dive bar. And you know what? It's fantastic. Jess and I went in around 11:30, but Eric was happy to prepare us breakfast even though the lunch crowd had started arriving. We split the chicken fried steak and eggs and the biscuits and gravy. They were among the best examples of each dish I'd ever had. The biscuits were perfectly fluffy, and the sausage gravy surprisingly light and tasty. My only complaint is that I didn't get quite enough of the creamy goodness atop the lightly breaded steak, so I had to steal some from the biscuits. Kinda like stealing from Peter to pay Paul, but I couldn't help myself.

We got all that and a PBR for $15.00, including tip. Game. Set. Match.

I'm sorry "Cheaters," but I just couldn't go on living a lie. Good food is a trump card that you just can't beat. And, let's be honest, you're called "Cheaters" -- you probably should have seen this coming. I hope we still can see each other from time to time. I mean, college basketball season will be here before you know it. Until then, well, you know where to find me.

If you can't find me at The Zebra, you can always try lindol@gmail.com

Through the Looking Glass. . .

2010-04-17T16:48:28Z

"Don't forget your pitchfork!" - a friends response when informed that I would be attending a Tea Party.

Over the past year, I have heard a lot about the Tea Party movement, much of it negative, some positive. I do, from time to time, listen to conservative talk radio.

The Tea Party bashers would have you believe that these events are akin to that very famous tea party in "Alice in Wonderland." I'm talking about the cartoon classic here, not the Tim Burton rehash. A few irrationally fearful lunatics, totally out of touch with reality, brought together by nonsense: "Unbirthdays" in one, "America's rapid deterioration into a Marxist state" in the other. And the Tea Partyers' solutions to the "problems"? Cutting government tenfold, ending federal income tax? Why, that's like fixing a watch by taking the wheels out and replacing them with butter, jam, sugar and tea. But never mustard, don't let's be silly!

Of course the Tea Party supporters harken back to that other famous tea party, the one that took place in Boston some 230-odd years ago. A bunch of educated patriots, including some of the greatest men of their time, lashing out against an unjust and tyrannical government. Back then, it was Sam Adams and Paul Revere leading colonists (many dressed as Indians) in revolt against King George and the British Parliament after the passage of the Townsend Acts. Today, it's Sarah Palin and Sean Hannity leading Americans, many dressed as colonists, in revolt against King Obama and the Congress after the passage of the health care bill and stimulus package.

Which is it? Are they moronic, racist, fear-mongering homophobes spewing disinformation and conservative rhetoric? Or are they true patriots, the watchdogs of freedom, sounding the alarm before it is too late? Or could it be that the truth lay somewhere in between?

I decided Thursday that it was time to see for myself. I headed down to the Capitol at noon, ready for anything and everything. And that's about what I found.

I arrived at the West Mall just as the rally was set to begin. The lawn in front of the stage was teeming with people. The Tea Party organizers, who had predicted more than 10,000 spectators, were overly optimistic. The evening news reported 2,000 in attendance, a gross underestimation. If I had to put a number on it, I'd say there were close to 5,000 people. Keep in mind, I don't count crowds for a living, but I had almost 2,000 people in my high school. I know what 2,000 people looks like, and this was at least double that.

Jess and I began milling through the crowd, keeping a keen eye out for the racist rhetoric, angry protesters and general redneck buffoonery we had been warned to expect. I hate to disappoint the "Through the Looking Glass" crowd, but we found none of the first and very little of the latter two.

A lot has been made of the tea partyers being a bunch of middle-age, racist white males. Several well educated friends of mine warned me to expect to witness overt racism at the party. I witnessed none, overt, covert or otherwise. As far as the attendees being white, the majority may have been, but it was far from a homogeneous crowd. Maybe it didn't look like a Benetton ad, but other races were well represented, and without incident. On the other hand, Larry Elder, a libertarian radio host from Southern California, who is African-American, did begin his speech with a "Hello, fellow racists," so maybe there were some there, I'm not sure. Larry would know better than I.

Were there a lot of men in attendance? Absolutely, but there were also a lot of women. And families. This was not a boys club.

What of the furious, combative protesters? A man on stilts dressed as a cross between Uncle Sam and "Where's Waldo," preaching loudly about what an "Obamanation" America has become, made Jess a bit uncomfortable. But I think that had more to do with the stilts than the angry rhetoric. And it certainly didn't help that his "feet" (stilt shoes?) were skeletal and creepy as hell. The Uncle Waldo experience was the closest we came to a frothing protester, and it wasn't very close.

I asked a group of mounted police if they had had any trouble from the protesters. I got a "I think there may have been one arrest this morning."

How about the "morons" who make for such great soundbites and video clips with their inability to speak intelligently when pressed on why they feel certain ways? I'm sure there were some there, but when you have a group that large, they're not all gonna be Rhodes Scholars. I did see a couple of signs with "your" instead of "you're." Kinda kills you're credibility. (you see what I did there?)

All told, I was there about two hours. I would have stayed till the end but the guy onstage started talking about political action committees and I almost swallowed my tongue. When I can't sleep, I don't count sheep, I count PAC's and I'm out like a light.

I saw a lot of funny costumes, heard some cheesy protest songs ("Obama, Keep the Change" by Boo Reed, available now on iTunes) and witnessed a few less-than-tasteful signs. I'm not a big fan of pasting "choose life" and "former fetuses" stickers on the side of your toddler's wagon.

Mostly what I saw was a lot of people from all walks of life getting together to voice their displeasure with the state of affairs in this country, as American a practice as ever there was. Dismissing the Tea Party movement as a lunatic fringe is clearly a mistake. Janeane Garafolo and Keith Olberman may disparage them as a bunch "of racist tea-bagging rednecks", but they're either misinformed or deluded. (And they have had far too much fun with the "teabag" double entendre. It was funny for a minute, but we're not in junior high. Grow up). These are basically "normal" Americans. Maybe comparing them to the Boston Tea Partyers is a bit of a stretch. But then again, maybe not. I mean, the Boston Tea Party wasn't always the "Boston Tea Party." It once was just a bunch of yahoos who dressed funny and were pissed off about taxes.

Suburban Cowboy

2010-04-13T17:34:05Z

For the last week, I've been living the life of Riley. Jess' aunt and uncle took her little cousins on vacation to Hawaii. We've been housesitting their place in Land Park. Riley lives in a three-bedroom house in the suburbs, he's got a cat and a dog. And this week, so do I.

I thought I'd share with you some of the people and places that I've experienced during my week as a Sacramento suburbanite. A Suburban Cowboy, if you will. While I'm not ready to trade in my 'Vette for a minivan a la Steve Sanders, BH 90210, Episode 7, Season 10 (a part of me died that day. Also, no one's gonna mistake my 1990 Honda Accord for a Corvette with plates that read I8A-4RE), I found that Land Park has a lot to offer a (quasi) young man about town such as myself.

Saturday morning I had some friends in town, and we went to Tower Cafe for breakfast. This probably isn't a groundbreaking revelation for you locals, but the meal was fantastic. A house french toast with fruit compote and whipped cream that is the best in the state, and a crab cake benedict with avocado and Bearnaise sauce, instead of the usual Hollandaise, that was a revelation. I'l put it this way. Jess and I came back the next day and ordered ... the crab cake benny and house french toast. I never, ever do that (unless it's at a taco truck).

Saturday night (and Monday and Wednesday) we went to Big Spoon Yogurt. At the risk of hyperbole, it is the single greatest place on Earth. It is just stupid how many toppings they have for their yogurts, which also come in many flavors. And the best part about it is that the yogurt is low fat, or even fat free! Granted, I got cheesecake, brownies, chocolate chip cookies, hot fudge and about eight candy bars on mine, but that's not the point. Yogurt is good for you! Just ask Jamie Lee Curtis.

On Sunday, after our second-straight breakfast at Tower, we rode our bikes to the farmers market under Highway 80 at 8th and W. Very impressive produce selection. I highly recommend checking it out despite the less than aesthetically pleasing locale. The venue just screams for strategically located trash can fires. When we arrived, we realized that we only had 6 bucks on us, but that was more than enough to procure some fantastically thin asparagus, a couple of Meyer lemons and a large sweet potato. For dinner we had a wasabi-pesto crusted salmon with teriyaki stir-fried cashew asparagus. It was great. The sweet potato ended up being fed to the dog, but she enjoyed it immensely.

Monday I went to the DMV in Oak Park. Now I know it's cliched to whine about trips to the DMV. Everybody has to do it, and everyone gets a little taste of what hell may be like. Suck it up, rub some dirt on it, whatever. But my story has a twist. Monday was my third trip to the DMV in the last week, all for the same thing. The first time I threw in the towel before making it through even the second level of front doors. The next time, I left for lunch at Jarritos on Broadway. It was my most disappointing meal in Sacramento; I still think about it *shudders*. When I got back to the DMV, I still was 120 people away. So I went back to Jess' aunt and uncle's house to get schooled on our housesitting duties. When we returned, they had just called B215. I was B213. What is it the kids are saying these days, FML?

Which leads us to Tuesday, our third trip to the DMV. Once you park at the Oak Park DMV, don't even think about leaving till you've handled your business. You may end up parking a half mile away. I made that mistake the first time around.

Got our numbers and walked down to the Boom Boom Cafe, without a doubt the best restaurant within walking distance of the DMV. Outstanding Asian fusion at a very reasonable price. I got the Korean pork bul go gi, Jess got a Thai curry eggplant, and we both were exceedingly pleased with our choices.

Don't worry, we got back to the DMV well before my number was called. We got back, suntanned a bit by the car, signed some petitions. Then I decided it was time to head back in. So I locked the car. With the keys on the center console. I locked my keys ... in the car ... at the DMV. So next time you're at the DMV and cursing your luck or lack thereof, consider this. At least you didn't lock your %^*&#@& keys in the &#*@%#@ car! On the bright side, AAA got there a good 20 minutes before my number was called.

Tuesday night, we tried Oscar's Very Mexican Food, whose name is oxymoronic. If it were so "Very Mexican", wouldn't it be "Mucho Mexicano"? A decent Americanized taqueria (Very Americanized. It has a "California" burrito with french fries in it), its saving grace is the salsa verde, which is reminiscent of the one at La Taqueria in the Mission. Unfortunately, the resemblances end there.

Wednesday was our big night out. We got all gussied up (I wore a shirt with a collar on it! And considered shaving!) and walked up the street to Taylor's Kitchen. A little American bistro attached to a gourmet market, Taylor's Kitchen somehow manages to be both elegant and homey. Jess and I, as we often do, eschewed the entrees in favor of a larger selection of small plates. We started off with steamed clams with chorizo and a lovely Dungeness crab salad. It took all my considerable restraint not to lick the bowl the clams came in. The crab salad was lovely as well, though I'd have preferred it been served with fresh avocado rather than the avocado panna cotta it was paired with. John Paul, our waiter, then brought over a pot of macaroni and cheese, gratis. They had forgotten the bacon, thus the freebie, but it still was outrageously rich and tasty. We finished with the mushroom gnocchi in a Parmesan cream sauce, and this time, they remembered the bacon. A wonderful end to a wonderful meal. We took our desert at Big Spoon.

Thursday was our final day of suburban bliss, and I finished it off with gusto. Chloe, the family dog, is 14 years old, a cancer survivor, and suffers from severe arthritis. The family recently had enlisted the services of Karen Krstich, DVM. Karen makes house calls, and she put Chloe on some new meds and a new diet. I would have gladly eaten everything that I fed the dog while housesitting. In fact, I did eat a bowl of the last meal I cooked for her: a chicken, yam, carrot, zucchini, celery stew. It was yummy. Pretty standard vet stuff, right? Well, Karen also practices the ancient Chinese art of acupuncture. Doggy acupuncture. And so, I spent 20 minutes Thursday morning assisting in that most suburban of activities, a doggy acupuncture and electrotherapy session. Much as I once scoffed at yoga, there was a time where this whole procedure would have led me to offer up a dismissive wanking motion. But I can say unequivocally that Chloe is markedly improved from just two weeks ago. Her energy is up, she walks less gingerly and seems much happier. Doubt the healing powers of pet acupuncture at your peril.

It was an eventful week in the suburbs. I laughed, I ate, I helped a woman stick pins in a dog and then run electricity through said pins.

I'm ready to get back to Midtown.

I Like Mine With Lettuce and Tomato. . . .

2010-03-29T02:49:16Z

The cheeseburger. Is there anything so uniting and yet polarizing at the same time? Everybody loves cheeseburgers. What about the tree-hugging vegans, you ask? They love cheeseburgers too, but the burger is made of bulgur and whey and twigs, and the cheese is made of soy, whatever that is. The top-selling vegan product today is the veggie burger. That's a fact. Look it up. And when you do, let me know what you find out, because I'm using the word "fact" very loosely here.

The point is, everyone loves burgers. There you go, we're united. So if we can agree that everyone loves burgers, why are they so polarizing? Because your favorite burger probably isn't my favorite burger. And that bothers you. That's not true? Well, how about this: My favorite burger isn't your favorite burger. That does bother me.

We Americans are passionate about our burgers. We don't think that such and such is the best burger in town. We know that such and such is the best burger in town, and to disagree with us is a personal affront.

In the town where I grew up, Menlo Park (and this applies to Palo Alto as well. This dismissive wanking motion is for the $10 burger at the Peninsula Creamery), you are either a Dutch Goose person, or an Oasis person. A simple "Oasis or Goose?" status report on my Facebook page elicited 70 responses, several of which invoked the name of the Lord, others openly hostile to the nonbelievers. I was born and raised an Oasis kid (Thanks, Dad!), had a brief dalliance with the Goose during college (the fact that they were less than vigilant when it came to checking I.D.s probably had a lot to do with it), before settling back down with my first love. Some people consider this blasphemous, but I don't agree. It isn't the first time a young man was led astray by booze, and it certainly won't be the last. I was young and experimenting; it never meant anything. That's not really true, if I'm married to the "O", the Goose is my "gumar." I love them both.

Today marks five weeks since my arrival in Sacramento, and in that time, I have eaten many of the fine burgers that the city and surrounding area have to offer. Does this qualify me to pontificate on the best burger place in town? Most assuredly not, but I'm gonna do it anyway.

Let me preface this by saying that we have a thriving burger scene in and around our state's capital. Every burger I've tried here has been in the good-to-very- good range. Nary a dud in the bunch. These rankings are based on a single visit to each venue, so if someone was having a bad day, that's unfortunate. Also, I am taking other factors into account in my rankings. Ultimately, the winner is the best burger, but fry quality and cheap beer can serve as a tie breaker. Enough with the niceties, let's get some people riled up.

Seventh place: The Squeeze Inn. Sorry, but that cheese skirt is superfluous. I don't get it. If I wanted a disk of burnt cheese, well, I wouldn't, 'cause I'm not 7 years old. Worse than that is the bun on which it's served. Heavy and unyielding, it's about twice as much bun as you need. And the long lines and short hours didn't help. We got there at 6:30 p.m. and had to take our burgers to go because they were getting ready to close. It's a shame, because if put on a good, soft bun with a reasonable amount of cheese, the burger may have been the winner.

Sixth place: Jim Dennys. I'm a sucker for the old school diner setting, and the burger was solid. Unfortunately, it was cooked to death. Well beyond well done. Pink was a distant memory. The chili cheese fries were really tasty, however.

Fifth place: Jamie's. After finding out that Jamie's had been featured on "Diners, Drive-ins and Dives," I was really fired up to try it. I love the venue itself, top- notch food in a dive bar setting is tough to beat. The burger was good, but it was really overshadowed by the phenomenal garlic steak sandwich. That thing is amazing. A bit pricey, but if you want a bourbon with your burger, this is your spot.

Fourth place: The Habit. This was probably the best burger bang for your buck. At just $2.95, you get a high-quality burger at fast-food prices. The fries and onion rings are both top notch, and they have three kinds of peppers at the condiment bar. I wasn't sure whether I should even include this because it's a fairly large chain, but a great burger is a great burger, and I'd never tried it before moving here.

Third place: Nation Wide Freezer Meats. I don't think you could come up with a worse name for a burger joint. What, "Ivan's E. coli Eatery" was taken? The name aside, the burger was one of the best I've had. You can't go wrong with ground Harris Ranch steakburgers. The quality of the meat shines through, and that's what will bring me back. The steak fries and chili were disappointing.

Second place: Murder Burger. I know, it's called Redrum Burger now, but I'll always call it by its real name. I had a lot of friends at UC Davis in the late '90s, and they introduced me to the burger: "So good, it's to die for." I went back on the way to the Bay Area, and was very happy I did. The burger was big enough to split and was a cheesy, oniony epiphany. Also, the fries are outstanding; thin cut, crispy, but moist on the inside. Murder Burger would have been the best if it weren't for ....

First place: Suzie Burger. Or, as I call it, the Truth. This is the only place I went to twice. Their burger is close to perfect. Moist, juicy and cheesy on a soft, buttery bun. Free toppings include grilled mushrooms and onions, and jalapenos (I got all of them). The second time I added bacon, which was well crisped and hung out the sides. Oh my, it was good. I'm getting emotional just thinking about it. To top it off, their fries are fantastic. Thin-cut slivers of potato with the skin still on 'em. I don't know that I've ever had better. Throw in $5 pitchers of Pabst, a couple of flat screens, and an old school Chevy parked out front, and we have ourselves a winner.

If I missed your favorite, or you feel it wasn't done justice, feel free to voice your displeasure at lindol@gmail.com.

I'm really starting to like this Sacramento place.

2010-03-10T17:42:27Z

(Note from the author- I found a lot to like this weekend, instead of doing 5 different "stuff I like pieces", I did 1 "Discovering Sacramento" piece. Among the places/things discussed here in- The Torch Club, Final Final Band, Michaelangelo's, Walmart bikes, Los Gallos, and The Old Spaghetti Factory. I hope you enjoy)

So, how was your weekend? Good? Got out and enjoyed the spring weather? Oh, you didn't get to? You were stuck in the office, finishing those TPS reports? I'm really sorry to hear that. Man, that is rough. Hey, let me just stop you there. To be honest with you, I was really just hoping to segue into a conversation about my weekend.

I had a fantastic weekend. It all started Friday afternoon with my discovery of the Clarion Hotel happy hour, although the joy of this discovery was later tempered by the fact that management is closing the restaurant and bar this week due to a lack of bookings at the hotel.

Now, I'm no economist, but this seems counterproductive to me. I’m pretty sure that closing the restaurant and bar isn't going to encourage new visitors to come, nor current visitors to return.

Oh well, I hope they return next week, healthy and happy, and ready to reap the benefits of my glowing review, or at the very least, my regular patronage.

After I left the Clarion, I met up with my girlfriend Jess for a surprisingly good meal at The Old Spaghetti Factory. It was nothing fancy, but we split a large, hearty platter of spaghetti and meat balls along with broccoli, salad, soup and a scoop of ice cream, an iced tea and a large hefeweisen for 25 bucks.

We were home by 10, she was sated, and I was pleasantly buzzed. In the immortal words of Frank the Tank, we had a big Saturday planned.

Have I mentioned that Jess's mom spent the weekend with us? ’Cause she did, and actually played an integral role in the weekends awesomeness.

I know this must come as a shock to those of you dread your in-laws, but I get along famously with Kim (at times, better than with her daughter). Besides, if she hadn't brought home leftover rack of lamb from her Friday-night dinner, I wouldn't have been able to make turkey bacon, spinach and rack of lamb hash the next morning, and then what would I have served with my three-cheese scrambled eggs and fresh avocado slices? Breakfast was amazing.

The ladies went off for some retail therapy and left me to watch some college basketball (I won a 3 team teaser!) and put together our dining table. Kim had brought up our nearly four-foot-tall "bar table," which we'd had to disassemble to get out of our old apartment.

Unfortunately, and totally predictably, the screws and bolts needed to reassemble said table did not make the trip up from the Bay. This is what I explained to the good people at Ace Hardware, to which I walked carrying a 40-inch-long solid wood table leg over my shoulder.

A young couple that saw me walking towards them in all my mohawked and bearded glory wielding this behemoth table leg suddenly remembered they wanted to be on the other side of the street. But I was able to get the correct screws, and we now have a dining table. Winner.

Maybe the highlight of my big Saturday was a trip to Wal-Mart. (We wanted to go to Bed, Bath and Beyond, but we didn't have time). Now, I admit to kind of liking Wal-Mart. It may be due to my redneck roots in southern Ohio, or possibly a highly acute sense of irony, I don't know. But this wasn't just any old trip to Wal-Mart.

We were on a mission – a mission from God. No, not really, but don't you just love the Blues Brothers?

We were on a mission to get new bikes. I haven't bought a bike in 15 years, and I was pretty excited (I used to *ahem* "borrow" bikes in college, but the last bike I bought was in high school).

As soon as I arrived in Sac, I knew it was time to end my personal bike drought. Midtown specifically, and Sacramento in general, seem to be very bike-friendly and, lord knows, I can use the exercise.

We headed to the bike section where there is a broad selection of bikes in the $100 range. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm not going to invest the equivalent of 20 meals at the taco truck on a bike without first taking it for a spin.

So, this is how it came to pass that Jess, Kim and I were all biking around the aisles of Wal-Mart.

At one point we were chastised by an older lady who seemed to think this was dangerous behavior. And lets be honest – she was probably right. But until they put a test track in the bike section, I don't really see how this problem can be avoided.

There were several bikes I considered: I had to see how they handled in real-life biking conditions. I finally chose a sweet orange cruiser, and Jess took a blue one complete with basket. We brought them home and took a Saturday afternoon ride all the way to Taylor's in Land Park. I'm seriously considering buying a pack of baseball cards to put in the spokes, and you know I'm getting a bell.

Following the epic bike ride, we prepared for the evening’s festivities: dinner at Michelangelo’s and Final Final Band at The Torch Club. This was to be my second meal at the little bistro just a block from our apartment, and it was another rousing success.

It has one of the best Caesar salads I've ever had. Fresh and flavorful, heavy on the garlic and citrus with big sardine saltiness, it's fantastic. I also recommend the small plates. I like trying lots of different things, so this is perfect. Try the gnocci. It doesn't hurt that both times there, Sarah Jean waited on us.

Sarah Jean is a terrific server: friendly and attentive. She seems to enjoy her job, and it really shows. They're lucky to have her. We had been joined for dinner by Jess's aunt and uncle, Marika and Scott, and their friends Don and Wendy.

The seven of us finished dinner around 7:30 and walked the three blocks to the Torch Club. Final Final Band is an up-and-coming rock and roll band with all seven members living in Land Park."

They don't look like an up-and-coming band (imagine five high-school gym teachers joined by two lovely female singers), but they sound pretty darn good.

They play a broad range of covers (Ben Harper, complete with Ryan on beatbox, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Young M.C., with a guest rapper from the audience, Stevie Ray Vaughn, a great Otis Redding, an unfortunate Stone Temple Pilots, and more). They also had at least one original song.

They are a party band, and as such, an unmitigated success. The line was already starting to form when we arrived before 8 p.m., and by 10 p.m. the club was full to capacity with another 40 or so people waiting in line to get let in. I saw 4 girls get lifted in through an open window – this was a hot ticket!

And this was about as eclectic a crowd as I have ever seen at a show. The audience looked like a Benetton ad, if they had old people in their ads. The dance floor was packed and raucous, full of all different ages, races and sorts. I saw a few couples who looked to be in their 70s dancing right next a bunch of 20-somethings, intermingling with a bunch of middle-aged professional types, next to a couple of boozefighters and the motorcycle gang from "The Wild One." Can't we all just get along? If Final Final Band is playing, apparently so.

I left the club around 12:30, thoroughly enjoying my first Final Final Band experience, and the Torch Club as well. I gather that there is music almost nightly, the sound is good, the owner is friendly and the Pabst cans are $2.50. The booze is $7 for undersized tumblers and martini glasses, so if you're looking for value, stick to the beer.

Sunday was fairly uneventful, although I did bike all the way to Northgate in the hopes of getting some taco truck, only to find out that the trucks aren't out on Sundays. Most troubling, I was reminded once again how much I don't want to live in a world with no taco trucks. Thankfully, Los Gallos was open, and they will more than do in a pinch.

A very good pollo asado super burrito and a Jarritos mandarin later, I was feeling a lot better about things. I spent the evening in quiet reflection of the weekend that was, nursing what turned into a pretty solid hangover.

I suppose I could have done without those last couple cans of Pabst. If you are interested in joining the lovefest that is the audience at a Final Final Band show, the next one is at the Riverside Clubhouse April 24. Come one, come all – you'll fit in fine.

I'll Drive This Car into the River!. . . or maybe just along it. . .

2010-03-04T23:34:10Z

It had been one of those mornings. The sky was an angry sort of grey and the rain pounded down on the roof, mercilessly. I'd had trouble sleeping the night before and my significant other had an early appointment at a government office. It doesn't matter which one, just that she was facing up to a couple of hours of dealing with bureaucrats who were trying to separate her from her money. With the little lady already on edge, I'd gone and absentmindedly wiped avocado on the kitchen hand towels that aren't really for wiping your hands on, you know the ones. To make matters worse, I then half-heartedly tossed the "decorative pillows" on the bed in a manner that could easily be (mis?)construed as mocking. Well, that did it. The fit, direct hit to the shan. Voices were raised, things were said. . . We were both in direct violation of Assembly Concurrent Resolution #112 that passed a few days ago up the street at the State Senate. It may be "No Cussing Week" in California, but it ain't at my house. Needless to say, we had a less than pleasant ride to her appointment. At one point I may or may not have threatened to drive the car into a ditch. I'm certainly glad I didn't, doing so would have been counterproductive, I see that now .

By the time I dropped her off, we had regained an air of civility and I sincerely wished her luck. Any lasting bitterness I may have had was far outweighed by the knowledge that she was entering the engorged belly of the vast Government bureaucracy, hoping that they could do something for her. That is a scenario I wouldn't wish on anyone. As I drove off, I felt a little badly about the way I'd handled myself, but I hadn't meant to disregard her little rules. Well, maybe with the pillows, man I hate those things. As far as Im concerned pillows are for laying on and, by definition, should be comfortable. Whoever invented the itchy, uncomfortable pillow that "looks pretty" can take the proverbial long walk off a short pier. Now that I think about it, whoever invented hand towels that are only to be touched with spotlessly clean hands can join her on that walk. But I digress, I am living in Jess' home, and as such, have agreed to certain rules. Among them is respecting that some things in the house are functional, while others are decorative. I had forgotten to abide those rules on a morning where I knew full well her tolerance for my bs was slim to none. If the Department of Homeland Security Advisory System had been applied to her chances of going off on me, we'd have been a full code red. I'd ignored the warnings, and I'd gotten what I'd deserved.

But this story is not about my ubiquitous missteps with my better half, this is a story of discovery. Not knowing how long her appointment would take, I decided to drive around a bit and take in a little more Sacramento. I ended up at the intersection of Gateway Oaks and Garden Hwy. I decided to head west on the aptly named highway and was immediately glad that I did. The Garden Highway, as I'm sure most of you know, runs atop a levee along the banks of the American River. Just a few short miles from our home in bustling midtown and I found myself in a totally different world. Once I passed the Riverbank Marina with its restaurants and shops on my left and a few necessarily evil cookie cutter residential developments on my right, I came upon the Virgin Sturgeon. I had heard from a friend of mine who works up here, that the Sturgeon is the best bar in all of Sac, and Jess had mentioned wanting to go there as well. Well after seeing it with my own eyes I can tell you that I am downright giddy with anticipation for the first summery day when the opportunity presents itself to take in the view from their patio while sipping on a bloody mary. I kept on going, passing first dairy farms, then horse ranches on my right, and a mixture of spectacular waterfront mansions and older, funkier, but still beautiful homes on my left. The sun peaked through the clouds as I came around a bend and suddenly dozens of small birds alit from their perches on the levees side and flew out over a field of bright yellow wild flowers. I was struck by what a wonderful intermingling of urban and rural life we have here in Sacramento. Horse farms and wildflowers on the banks of the American River just a few minutes away from the Capital building. It is fitting that the State Capital would be very much a microcosm of the diverse state which it represents.

I drove out as far as the sign which indicated the Woodland Airport being thattaway, before heading back. What had started as just a way to kill time after a rough morning, had turned into a wonderful Sunday drive, and here it was, only Wednesday. I took my time on the meandering trip back, enjoying the brief respite from the rain and the lovely scenery on both sides. When I got back to where I'd dropped Jess off, I found her as she found me, in a much better mood. The appointment had gone as well as could be hoped, and finished in a reasonable amount of time. Huzzah. We headed back home, with a brief detour to share my Sturgeon discovery with her, and I apologized for my role in the mornings, ahem, unpleasantness. And just like that, on the side of the Garden Highway, all was forgiven*. I can't wait to explore the Garden Highway more thoroughly in the days and weeks to come.

*just to be safe, I took her to lunch at Thai Basil on J Street, which is her favorite. I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid.:-)

S.W.M, 31, Seeks Sports Bar for Committed Relationship. . . No Weirdos.

2010-03-01T21:43:05Z

Hi, my name is Lindol, and I am a sportsaholic. It's been 15 minutes since my last fix. It was an Oregon Duck basketball game, possibly my favorite of them all. We (I graduated from the U of O in 2001, kind of by accident, but that's a story for another time) beat UCLA at home. If there is one thing I love more than a victory for one of my teams, its a victory for one of my teams over a team from Los Angeles. BEAT LA. I am a die hard Oregon football fan, I almost cried when "we" got smoked in Boise the first game of the season this year. I couldn't bear to watch the end, so I saved myself the misery of watching the Legarrette Blount meltdown live. Of course, I couldn't avoid the replays. I live and die for Oregon sports, but thats not my only poison. . . not by a long shot. Heck, I drove from Menlo Park to El Paso to see Stanford play in the Sun Bowl over New Years, and I'm not even a Stanford fan. I never miss a Niners game. One of my very first memories (not just of sports, but of anything at all) is of "The Catch" Montana to Clark, NFC Championship game at the Stick. January, 1982. I was three and a half. I don't actually remember the play, but I distinctly remember my parents raucous reaction to it. It totally disrupted my game of "Hungry, Hungry Hippo". I must admit I lost some of my fervor from ages 4 to 6, being more focused on, I don't know, eating grass and legos (building with them, not eating them. . . . well. . . .sometimes eating them.) I can, however, vividly recall Super Bowl XIX. Thanks to football I knew my latin numerals all the way up to L years before being taught them at school. That day was cake. The Niners played in Super Bowl 19 against the hated Miami Dolphins. Dan the Duck (my dads nickname for Marino, owing to the way he waddled around in the pocket) and the Marks Brothers (Duper and Clayton) got their butts handed to them by Joe Cool and the boys, right in my backyard. I grew up 2 miles from Stanford Stadium. When they released thousands of helium balloons during the presume show, I could see them floating away from my front yard. I think thats when the obsession began in earnest. I also am a huge Giants fan. HummmmmmBaby! I probably watch or listen to 150 S.F. Giants games a year. I camped out on the streets of San Francisco to get Giants playoff tickets in 2002. Damn you, Dusty Baker, its all your fault! Who gives out a game ball in the 7th inning? Honestly? JT shoulda let your kid get trucked. I even love the Golden State Warriors but, good lord, there is only so much punishment one man can take. The point is I love sports, maybe as much as I love taco trucks. And I frigging LOVE taco trucks.

Being that I am such a rabid sports fan, I tend to spend an inordinate amount of time in sports bars. Actually, one particular sports bar. I'm fairly monogamous when it comes to sports bars, I don't really like to play the field. I find a place that suits my needs (close to home, has all the games, plentiful TVs, strong drinks, convivial atmosphere, preferably a bit divey) and treats me well (takes requests, amiable service, turns the sound on, a drink on the house every so often), and Im like a penguin. . . I mate for life, or at least until I leave town, or they do. I used to get my mail sent to The Old Pro in downtown Palo Alto. Many a night I'd help them bring chairs in from the back patio when last call had come and went. The drinks are more expensive than I'd like, but the hands are heavy and the waitresses suffer from selective memory loss. When I went to school in Washington DC, Babe's Sports Bar (may she rest in peace) was the only one for me. 5 dollar pitchers and 25 cent wings, all weekend long. I happened to be there during football season, and there is a lot to be said for football in the Eastern Time Zone, at least for the 18 to 25 age bracket. On Saturdays, the games start at noon, and run till 1:30 AM. I could wake up from the previous evenings shenanigans at 11:30AM and be comfortably posted in front of one of their plentiful big screens by 11:55. More than one Saturday I ate all three meals there. My Duck games would often not start until 10:30 at night. One such game, against Arizona State, went to to double overtime. They stayed open till 2:20 AM so that we were able to watch the end (We won 56-55 after being down 2 scores with 4 minutes left. Joey Harringtons coming out party.) . I was back the next day at 12:55 for the first NFL games. "Babes" had numerous other perks such as Golden Tee, several pool tables, and a great jukebox (which, unfortunately, featured "Who Let the Dogs Out?" It was the year 2000, and not a day went by where it wasn't played at least once. Sometimes, after particularly stellar Oregon victory, I'd run around screaming "Who Let The Ducks Out? Quack, Quack, Quack, Quack Quack! Im not proud of it, but the fact that they didn't forcibly remove me from the bar that instant speaks to how well I was treated there-in). Man, I loved that place. It's astonishing that I was able to get any work done at all that semester.

After arriving in Sacramento and getting settled, one of the first things on my agenda is finding a new sports bar that I can call my own. To have and to hold, in sickness, and in health, for as long as we both shall live (in Sacramento). And I am happy to report, that I've met someone, and I think she could be the one. (hope,hope, hope, crossing fingers and toes) The lucky lady? "Cheaters" on Folsom. I was introduced to her by a friend of a friend (yelp) who was sure we'd hit it off. Boy was she right. I went there on Saturday afternoon for the aforementioned Duck game against UCLA. I'd received phone confirmation that they had the game. They have all the packages except for hockey, and I can live with that. Although Im a Shark fan, I really don't watch hockey until playoff time. Unless its an Olympic year, cause how awesome was that tournament, especially the gold medal game? I even got Jess to watch, and she was soon nearly as into it as I was. I called my mom to tell her to turn it on and she answered the phone with "are you watching?" Olympic hockey is phenomenal. It must be, my mom and my girlfriend were both enthralled by it, and the last thing I'd call either of them as a "sports fan". But I digress, I was headed into "Cheaters" when I noticed a thrift store next door. Being a thrift store aficionado, I popped in for a moment, to give it a once over. I noticed a Tee Shirt clearance rack to my right, and was amazed to see a bright yellow Oregon Duck shirt at the front of it. It was about a half size too small, which is to say it fit perfectly. I coughed up the buck oh nine and headed next door with my new purchase in hand, feeling quite good about the way my day was going.

I walked in to a madhouse. Actually, I walked into a yoked gentleman with slicked back hair, an Ed Hardy Tee-Shirt, and a name tag that read "Dookie". Another fellow, similarly dressed and built, with a name tag introducing him as "The Predicament" hollered "The bus is about to leave, finish your $%&#ing drinks." The place was wall to wall Guidos and Guidettes on a "Jersey Shore" pub crawl. And, I must say they had gone all out. They were having a grand old time, and the bartenders seemed to be enjoying the rush. The regulars, who were easy to make out, seemed a little unsure what to make of the hubbub. They watched the rucuss going on behind them with an amused curiosity, particularly that involving the leopard printed, spandex wrapped, cleavage laden Guidettes. I was able to find a seat at the back (next to the Golden Tee and jukebox!) and gain the attention of the bartender without much trouble at all. I ordered a drink, and asked about my game. Two minutes later I was watching my game and sipping a stiff Makers Mark and Ginger Ale. After about 20 minutes, The Jersey Shore party managed to stumble it's way out and back on their bus, and aside from a few stragglers running back in to reclaim their forgotten credit cards, things were back to what I would guess is normal. About 15 regulars sat at the bar, some of whom were playing dice and trading jibes with the bartenders. The 2nd bartender, Jeff, saw me watching the Duck game, and asked me if I was "the fella who'd called earlier". "Sure am" I replied. "Glad you made it" he said as he turned the volume up on my game. Well played good sir, well played. We were up 16 early on in the second half when UCLA went on a run. With about 5 minutes left they had come all the way back to tie it. I knew then what i had to do. I ordered another drink and put my new "Extra Medium" Yellow Oregon shirt on over the top of the green Duck shirt I'd worn in. As Jeff handed me the drink, we regained the lead and all was once again, right in the world. We managed to eke out a victory to complete the season sweep of the LA schools, (EFF! U! C! L! A! if only we weren't 2-10 against the rest of the league. . . ) I paid my tab, (9 bucks. . . or the price of one drink in PA) was congratulated for "my" victory, thanked for my patronage, and told to come back soon. Thanks fellas, I plan on it.

Now, I am not saying that I've decided for certain that "Cheaters" is the one, but it has passed it's initial test with flying colors. Its very name, however, screams for me to be wary, to see what else is out there before I commit. And I probably will. If you, dear reader, have any thoughts on the matter, I would love to hear them. I think you know what Im looking for, and it has to be reasonably close to 18th and G. Remember, though, we are on deadline. There are only two short weeks until March Madness. Or as I like to call it, mating season.

First they came for the taco trucks, and I did not speak out. . . .

2010-02-26T03:32:02Z

I had meant for my second article to be an ode to my new neighborhood, Midtown. In my brief time here, I have found a lot to love about the area around my 1 bedroom on 18th and G. I would love to wax poetic about the virtues of having two dope, locally owned, coffee shops within a five minute walk (Butch and Nellies, Old Soul at the Weatherford). There's nothing I'd rather do than tell you about the lovely dining experience I had my first night here at Michealangelos, a little Italian Trattoria a stones throw from my front porch (Thanks Sara Jean!). If I could, I'd spend an entire paragraph extolling the virtues of "Streets of London", a British style pub that has "football" on the tube, Guinness on tap, moist and flaky fish and chips coming out the fryer, and is happy to switch one of their TV's over to Pac 10 basketball when asked by a grown man wearing a beard, a mohawk and a Malik Hairston jersey (Go Ducks!). These are all things I'd like to do, but can't. Not now, not in good conscience. Not when I know how perilously close we (the first time I've ever used "we" to describe myself and other Sacramentoans, it's really happening!) are about to lose one of our greatest cultural and culinary resources- the taco truck.

I love taco trucks. Some might say I am obsessed with taco trucks. I would disagree, but I can certainly why one might think so. I'll never forget the first time that I ate at a taco truck. It was a fall morning (there is nothing better than tacos for breakfast!) in 1993. I was a sophomore in high school. We cut 3rd period (Sorry Miss Galeano) and a friend of mine took us to a truck parked in front of a small church on Middlefield road in Redwood City. (I don't know if I ever thanked you, Greg Lomba, but I am forever grateful) Now, saying we went to "a" truck is a little misleading. We went to "THE" truck. El Grullo. The Gold Standard. The Truth. The One Truck to Rule Them All. Their salsa roja is so good that Im getting emotional just thinking about it. The salsa verde? The best I've ever had. The two of them together, with a meat of your choosing, onions (mucho cebolla por favor), cilantro, a squeeze of lime and jalapeno OH MY GOD I would strangle a newborn kitten for an al pastor taco from El Grullo right now. . . um hey . . . didn't see you there. . .I was just kidding about the kitten. . . as far as you know. What Im saying is it's a little slice of heaven on two grease soaked tortillas and not to be overly dramatic, but it will change your life. Once you've tried it, you're not the same as you were before, you're changed (ed. movie?). Since that day I've constantly sought, yet never found, a taco its equal.

I moved to upstate New York for my freshman year at Hamilton College. Now, there are some who will insist that you can't get a good taco in New York City, I won't go that far, but I can state unequivocally that you can't get one in Clinton, New York. The only place to get tacos in Clinton are an Italian restaurant that has a taco night, Taco Bell, and the cafeteria. By far and away the best of the three is punching yourself in the groin and skipping dinner. By the end of October, when my parents asked me what I would like sent to me in my "care package", there was only one thing that I wanted. My parents didn't balk at my request, they didn't hesitate for a moment. Two days later, I received an overnight delivery of 50 El Grullo tacos, sent on dry ice(my parents are freaking awesome). I was the most popular kid on the floor of my dorm that week, at least with those of whom I deemed worthy of sharing my loot. The others were taunted and tormented by the sweet spicy aroma of authentic California taco truck tacos wafting out of the communal kitchen at all hours of the day and night. Those poor East Coast prep school saps didn't know what hit 'em. It must have been torture.

Before my sophomore year, I transferred to the University of Oregon, mainly to be closer to El Grullo. That's not entirely true, but who knows why anybody ever does anything? I'm certain that, deep down, being so far away from El G played a role in my decision. So, in February of my sophomore year, 1998, I flew out to Reno for a good friends 21st birthday. As you can imagine, an uproariously good time was had by all, and by the time my buddy and I were set to return, we were feeling A LOT worse for wear. Hmm if only there were some magical elixir that cures epic hangovers. . . Oh wait, there is! Taco truck tacos! (ed. Its a fact, there's been numerous studies) We had an hour and a half layover at SFO, not long enough to leave and come back, but if we could just find someone willing to make the taco run and drop them off. . . Our flight arrived at SFO twenty minutes behind schedule. I hurried outside to the "departures" area and de facto smoking section. I had time for a smoke and, hopefully, a delivery. I was beginning to think all was lost, 15 minutes to take off, when my stepdad pulled up to the curb in front of me. He popped out of the car, duffel bag in hand. Wordlessly, he handed the bag over to me, gave me a hug and I was off (Pieter is the man). It probably looked like a drug drop. . . in a way it was. Suffice it to say, it would have been far trickier to pull off post 9/11. I'll never forget the look on the face of my traveling partner, Mike Meisel, as I sprinted up to the gate, Orenthal James style, duffel bag under my arm full to bursting with mexican street food galore. Tacos, Burritos and Tortas, Oh My! My housemates would be ecstatic. The same can't be said for the rest of the passengers on Alaska Airlines flight 221, nonstop from SFO to EUG. I would venture it was the finest smelling flight I've ever been on.

Which brings us back to the here and now. In 2008, the Sacramento City Council voted unanimously (ed. WHAT?!? I may have to run out of principal, on the platform of "All these other A-holes want to exterminate taco trucks") to pass a measure that effectively abolished taco trucks in the City of Sacramento. Even from private parking lots where-in the owners have given the trucks their permission to operate. THIS ISN"T RUSSIA! This isn't Russia is it Danny? Where there were once twenty some taco trucks, there remain only nine which were grandfathered in until the year 2012. Hmmmm, 2012. . . . eh. . . . why does that year sound so familiar? . . . isn't something else supposed to happen in 2012? Oh yeah, thats right, THE END OF THE &%$#@%& WORLD!!!! If you think that the two things are unrelated, you're deluding yourself. The two go hand in hand, skipping down the road toward Hell, paved, no doubt, with the good intentions of the Sacramento City Council members. Who am I kidding? Their intentions aren't good. There are still nine trucks left, and they're great. I ate at three of them yesterday! LA MEX! EL TIGRE! LOS TRES HERMANOS! All of them are worth fighting for! Hell, two of them have salsa bars ON THE OUTSIDE OF THE TRUCK! You can take as much salsa, as many onions, jalapenos, carrots, napkins as your heart desires! Id heard rumors that such trucks existed, down south, yonder, always just out of my grasp, but never actually dared dream they really existed. Until yesterday, when I experienced it first hand, right here, in Sacramento of all places! To quote a friend of mine, Calvin Racine of Raleigh, North Carolina "taco trucks are a sacred resource that needs to be protected". It is up to all of us to save the Sacramento taco truck. We must not, neigh, CANNOT let them go the way of the Dodo. We have to draw a line in the sand, if not us, now, then who? When? Carne Asada is not a Crime! End the Taco Truck Haulacaust ! Won't somebody think of the children? Won't somebody. . . . . think. . . . of the children? * a single tear slides down the cheek of a 6 year old girl as the last taco truck is dragged away* END SCENE

Home Sweet. . . . Sacramento?

2010-02-24T18:48:19Z

"You moved where?"

"Sacramento"

"Why?"

Sacramento is not thought of very highly by a lot of Bay Area-ites. I'm not entirely sure why. I suppose many cannot separate the town from the stink wafting up from the State Assembly and Capital. Politics as a whole is repugnant to your average person, and California's is especially loathsome. It's an unfortunate metonymy, "Sacramento" for the sludge that leaks out of the State Assembly, but it is to be expected. When one considers "Washington DC", its a rare soul who thinks of the Smithsonian first and the politics second. I grew up in Menlo Park, decidedly Bay Area-centric. In the circles I came of age in, Sacramento wasn't thought of negatively so much as it wasn't thought of at all. To many, it was simply a road marker, signaling the halfway point to the slopes or the lake house. That may sound snobbish and condescending, but so is Menlo Park.

Up until a week ago I was living in Menlo Park. I had moved back in with my folks in November. The plan was to help them finish an addition that my stepdad has been building since the mid 1990's so that they could sell and enjoy their retirement in the peace and tranquility of the midwest. My stepfather, Pieter, was born in Holland and grew up in South Africa. He moved to the States when he was 15, lied about his age in order to join the Marine Corps just after his 17th birthday. He is a veteran of two tours in Viet Nam. He was involved in Operation Phoenix and the Tet Offensive. He lived in Hell's Kitchen in the '70's. When we met him, in '86, he was an inpatient at the Menlo Park Veterans Hospital. . . the setting for Kesey's "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest". Books could be written about the crazy crap that he has done and seen in his life, but that isn't the point right now. The point is, he is a hard man. . . a good man. . . .but a hard man. I love him, he loves me, but we have had more than our share of problems in the last 20 odd years. And a week ago one such problem reached a boiling point. The living situation became untenable. I had to leave. Sacramento was my port in a storm. I left the next day.

Sacramento , despite living just 2 hours away for most of my life, is a place that I had visited exactly twice. The first time was for a Phish show at Cal Expo in '95. (http://http.phantasytour.com/phish/shows.cgi?showID=1006) I enjoyed the hell out of this visit, but Sacramento had very little to do with it. The second visit was this past november, when I spent a day and a night visiting an ex-girlfriend in LandPark. (The ex, Jess, is the reason I moved here this week, we are giving it another shot). I had a nice time, we had a lovely dinner at her aunt and uncles who spoke very highly of their adopted home. Second Saturday was brought up more than once. The next morning, Jess and I went to breakfast at Tower, then wandered around Old Town for a bit. I ate a chocolate covered cricket at one of the candy stores. Then I left.

Thats it. Until one week ago today, when I packed up my crap and moved here. . . . Sacramento. . . . . Midtown. . . my new home. I've decided to document and share my upheaval and subsequent discoveries, with all of you lovely people. It's a unique situation I find myself in, had you told me 2 weeks ago that I would be here today I would have scoffed at the notion, and yet here I am, with an open mind and open heart. Alright Sac. . . . show me what you've got.