I rented a Chrysler. For some reason it seemed to fit. My official work here is a subject of some personal reflection, so I chose to start with appropriate transit. This would be a trip of perpetual dusk.
Any good theme needs to be extended. So, the hotel of choice was one that was once owned by silent-film star Lillian Gish. My room is an extravagant and somewhat nauseating pastiche of pink. Striped pink wallpaper. Pink paint, applied all too recently. Pink pillows. Thankfully the bed is white and the windows are operable.
Dinner was a natural. A short walk and a cigarette away. An incongruously expensive Italian joint that caters to Hollywood’s wealthy elderly: La Dolce Vita. Ironically named for a Fellini film about emotionally vacant jet setters. The film also has the unlikely distinction of having added the word “paparazzi” to the universal lexicon. I sat at the bar.
There were only two of us sitting there to dine. I left an extra seat as a buffer and ordered a glass of Chianti. A few pregnant moments later, I added a chopped salad and a filet mignon. If one is to presume a theme, it must be extended to natural endpoints. The bartender was perfectly platinum. Her name was Kira. I looked over at my dining companion. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Forrest Whitaker. “Ghost Dog” Forrest Whittaker. We nodded. He was about to finish a thought that had started before my arrival.
“There’s a lot of people who work in security who don’t really know what they’re doing,” he said. “They aren’t much use.”
He was talking to Kira, but I didn’t care. “You working now?” I asked.
“Yes I am.”
“It sounds like rough work if you’re serious,” I said. “The party’s over by the time you get to enjoy anything.”
“It is,” he said. “Actually,” he turned back to Kira, “You have any good wine recommendations. For later? Something I can have at the house? You know, that I can pick up at the store.” After a waiter was summoned, he settled on a bottle of Hess Select Cabernet. To be procured later.
Friends of Fear the Beard stretch far and wide. So it is with pleasure that esteemed colleague and former resident of the Bay Area and greater California, Ms. Buzzy Jackson, is introduced as a new voice. Author of a critically acclaimed history of women and the blues, she submits the following entry in an ongoing series that examines California through the sometimes opaque lens of distance. Ladies and gents, Ms. Buzzy Jackson.
***
Dear California:
I miss you. Not just your beauty spots: Point Reyes, the redwoods, Zuma Beach. No, I miss the awkward bits, too: the Bay Bridge, Little Santa Monica Boulevard, the Nut Tree. I’ve lived in the Southland (greater Los Angeles) and I’ve lived in the North (the even greater Bay Area) and I grew up in your inner eastern elbow (Truckee, period.). The only part of you I’ve yet to pay rent in is your True North — everything above Santa Rosa. Though I did spend a fantastic week in Elk (Mendocino County) once. I hope to sign a lease somewhere up there one day.
In the meantime, I reside in suburban Colorado. I’m not too proud to admit it. Actually, I hear admitting it is half the battle. But I’m not going to dwell on this. The point of these Letters from Exile is to extol your virtues. Here goes.
A few weeks ago, a friend in San Francisco mentioned that just that day she’d seen a buck-naked dude strolling down the street, and not your average, you know, Berkeley Naked Guy type, but “a hot, buff, tanned naked guy, wearing cool sneakers.” Now that’s the kind of thing you don’t typically experience here on the front range of the Rocky Mountains. Another thing you don’t typically experience: “Enviro-aesthetics.” Well, you might, but you probably wouldn’t know that it was called by that name. In the Bay Area, you can not only experience Enviro-aesthetics, you can take the bus tour! Seriously, check out BARGE, the Bay Area Research Group in Enviro-aesthetics (now you see why the “aesthetics” is lower case) and their new project, Buried Treasure Island. This “multi-platform investigation” is, let’s face it, probably the closest you’ll ever get to actually stopping at Treasure Island as you whiz past en route to Oakland or San Francisco. What is Treasure Island? Is there actually, like, treasure there? Is it the Bay Area’s own Area 51? Or is it just a glorified offramp? BARGE offers audio tours, podcasts, an original soundtrack and, yes, Virginia, a real bus tour! No, there’s nothing quite so multi-platform going on in my current ‘hood.
So why won’t you see me on the bus? Because I, dear friends (to paraphrase John McCain) will be in Truckee on October 11th, attending my very own high school reunion. Rumor has it another FTB contributor will also be in attendance. It’s up to you to get on the bus (to paraphrase Spike Lee) and let us know what treasure awaits.
Ever hear a hundred thousand people groan at the same time? Well that’s what happens if the most popular driver in Formula One takes out the number one driver on the most popular team. The groans get louder if the accident happens in the pits instead of on the track. The circumstances were a true head-scratcher. Basically, Hamilton failed to see a red light at the end of pit lane; worse it was a red light that Ferrari’s Raikkonen and BMW Sauber’s Robert Kubica had stopped for. Hamilton hits Raikkonen. One hundred thousand groans as jumbotrons tell the tale.
The only people not groaning were the rather substantial Polish contingent and related sympathizers (above right). Suddenly, their guy was in the lead. The fact that he had nearly been killed here a year earlier in a horrifying accident gave the story additional nuance and likeability. But moreover, his would be the first-ever F1 victory by a Polish driver and the first win by BMW Sauber as a team.
I’m not sure that any of this can convey the spectacle though. There is a certain orientation to the event here that’s more like an Olympics than anything else and that has to be experienced to be believed. For right now, I’m hoping to be back next year. I’ll submit photographic evidence as a follow up.
Hamilton waves to the crowd. Photo: Adrian Alleyne, man-cation veteran.
Sometimes, Grand Prix qualifying runs unfold predictably. Sometimes, they do not. Today, looked like it was unfolding predictably enough for the first hour or so. Then there was some movement at the top. After setting a fast lap early, Lewis Hamilton looked secure as the pole sitter. But BMW Sauber driver Robert Kubica put in a remarkable lap with time running down and rain imminent and briefly held the top slot. According to the post-session interview, this information was not even relayed to Hamilton until after he started his final run. No matter. The kid put the hammer down and recaptured pole position as the clock wound down on the day’s final efforts to take the top of the grid. The Ferrari faithful had to settle for a third from Raikkonen, who then went on a well-recorded tirade about track conditions.
“The car has been good all weekend but going into qualifying is quite a joke with the circuit,” Raikkonen said. “The circuit breaks down and it is like you missed the corner because there is so much sand.”
Uh, okay party boy. Quit crying and go have a Finlandia and tonic. Speaking of drivers out on the town, Honda pilot Jenson Button slipped to the back of the grid after dissing me at dinner last night. See, we got seated at an adjacent table and homeboy had the nerve to ask for another table after we had sat down. I think he just wanted to make sure that he was seated front and center, instead of being holed up in a “VIP” corner next to some off duty Internet types, but still. Dude! My name was on your frickin’ car last year. I even installed some energy-efficient light bulbs to make it happen bro. That was messed up.
Turman
PS. Somewhere, there is basketball being played? I’m not sure any more.
During F1 weekend there are a lot of support races to keep 300,000 fans busy. This makes for all kinds of mayhem. Today, for a split second at the end of the Porsche GT3 contest, I really thought that the winner was going to get all sideshow on us. After stomping everyone up, when he threw open his door and started waving to the assembled, for a moment, I was positive that he was going to go 18 dummy. Door open mayne! But he didn’t, and I’m sad to say that the world would have been a richer place if he had burned a lurid donut then undone the safety harness and ghost-rode the GT3.
Yeah, you heard me. P. Diddy isn’t the only one who can enjoy an international weekend of fast cars and overpriced meals. Some months back a friend invited me to jump onboard for a “man-cation” of epic dimensions: Formula One weekend in Montreal. Turman approved.
So, today’s two-part practice at Circuit Gilles Villeneuve marked my first experience watching the marquis level of international motorsport. For those not familiar, the rising star of Formula One is Lewis Hamilton. Because of his mixed-race heritage, he also owns the distinction of being the first driver in the nearly sixty years of the series’ history to claim African lineage. Basically, he’s a younger and (ahem) “cooler” Tiger Woods. He also missed out on last year’s driver’s championship by a whisker after dominating much of the season and displacing reigning World Champion Fernando Alonso as the number one hot shoe at Mercedes McLaren. This year? More of the same. He currently leads the driver’s standings, and is coming off of an epic win in the wet at the storied Monaco GP two weeks ago Sunday.
With qualifying scheduled for tomorrow, today’s practice is mostly about getting the cars dialed in. Well, after a morning dominated by Ferrari and an early afternoon surge by BMW-Sauber driver Robert Kubica, Hamilton found his line and set fast lap for the day on his final turn around the circuit. Nice last-minute psych job, if you ask me. Especially, since he took his first-ever win here last year.
But that’s enough about racing for today. The city awaits. Updates to follow.
The next member of the honor roll is our main man Diego. He makes the grade for several reasons, not the least of which is the fact that he’s doing more than helping beard up the Bay Area. He hails from New Mexico and thus becomes our first operative in that great state. But better still, Diego ain’t letting the fact that there isn’t a pro team within a thousand miles keep him from his beloved Dubs. That’s right. For those of you who think not shaving for two days and driving to the Oracle in rush hour traffic makes you a martyr to the franchise, peep Diego. He’s on a mission.
Sometime in the next few hours Diego is leaving New Mexico for Denver. For Saturday’s game. Did I mention that he grew a beard for the occasion?
We don’t know if he’s flying or driving, or have the exact coordinates for his residence, but the minimum number of miles he could log on his journey is 400. If he’s living hard on the southeastern border of the state near Midland, Texas, he could be putting in 1,000 miles each way. Albuquerque? It’s either a Southwest fun fare and a couple of hours in transit, or a cool 10 hours at the wheel.
Now, lookit. Bearding up the Bay is easy by comparison. Diego’s ready to build a spaceship to see the Dubs play on Mars. Now quit saying that your boss won’t like a beard, or your girlfriend says it’s scratchy. Put some man moss on that chin, son. And get some tickets. It’s clutch right now. And if you can’t beard up, or perhaps you represent the less-hirsute gender, then Paperbeard it up already.
Indeed, the FTB inbox is a wonderous land where questions that might otherwise be awkward make perfect sense. A couple of weeks ago, we received the following letter.
I like you guys already. Great site. Hilarious and clever writing! DIG IT. Can I send you guys some jerky? We started a new brand of jerky and I’d like to share my goods!
Let me know.
KLappDOgg
Owner
Green Light Jerky Company
Now, I like me some jerky. Answering was an easy, “Hells to the yes, bro.” Even if the purveyor of same goes by a slightly syphillitic handle. But jerky and I have a peculiar relationship. It involves long drives for the most part. So, even though the esteemed KLappDOgg has become a valued commenter in the intervening weeks since he first sent us some product, I had to wait for the proper opportunity to put it to the test.
As it would happen, opportunity knocked. Last night, Pete Kang of WORKS Motorsports dropped off a blown Eclipse show car at the ol’ FTB HQ. More on them is coming in a subsequent post. They’re local. They’re goin’ racin’. Big-time racin’. Not like the LeMons thing that my other alter ego did with them last year. Serious like. But my current task, under the auspices of my unnamed day gig, was to drive said show car to an undisclosed video shoot in the LA area.
That, my friends is when you reach for the jerky.
In my case, I went for The Classic, Flavor #1. Make the jump for the full review. Read More »
We’ll I’ve been sitting at Chicago O’Hare for almost three hours, and, snow willing, I’ll only be here another three. I’m my way to Vegas, on a business trip, part deux (the better half I hope). And although my journey from Appleton, Wisconsin to Sin City has been delayed, it feels good to be in the home state of the future President of these here United States of America.
As I write this, news of the sixth straight victory has come in (smart move Virginia). My guess is that DC and Maryland will follow suit. It got me thinking and surfing on the topic of DT’s last post – the Obama shoe. Although I don’t have any appreciable ideas in the footwear department, I did find a plethora, no a cornucopia, of homespun Obama branding on Café Press. In fact, the search result returns 555,000 products when you enter “Obama”. And I must say, that some of them (with “Bro’s before Ho’s” as a notable exception), are actually pretty cool. God bless the Internet and God bless user-generated content.
Perhaps there is hope. And, yes we can, all make t-shirts.
