The comfort of chaos

I undoubtedly have far from a ‘normal’ daily routine. No one I know would accuse me of that, I am sure. However, I’ve got my normality in some regards: Sleeping through alarms, coffee and cigarettes, admiring the peacefulness of morning, more coffee, and cigarettes, tardily nuzzling into my chaotically comfortable office, catching up with the world via the New York Times, Toronto Star and BBC, and keeping up with other news of various interest at my favorite online stops—arguably the most subconsciously, regimented, and enjoyably consistent part of my weekday. My fellow eight-to-fivers know the routine.

You Ain’t no Picasso is one of these regular stomping grounds, and here is exactly why: Great music reviews and sample tracks, artist interviews, heads-up on happenings in the independent recording world, words that teach you things, and thoughts that make you think. Recently they interviewed musical mastermind and drummer extraordinaire, Martin Dosh. When asked about the first live show that ever blew him away, he offers an amazingly beautiful response:

“The first concert i saw that totally, absolutely blew me away was the Grateful Dead in Albany, New York in 1990 … I liked some of their songs, but i was not really prepared for that show. The parking lot. The way people cheered after songs. The lights and the sound. Holy crap, that was probably, to this day, the best live sound I’ve ever heard in a room that big. The music was so fragile and beautiful. I couldn’t figure out how it was holding together.”

Dosh describes his first experience with the deadhead community with passionate intrigue … as if he had stumbled upon the start of a passionate love affair or some personal revelation. Ironically, his description bears an uncanny likeness to how I felt wandering about the streets of San Francisco a few weeks ago. I’m not talking about this comparison on any kind of musical level (that comes later) but truly about the city itself.





It was my first time to this strange and wonderful place, and I’m not sure if anything could have prepared me—or any other first-time visitor to the Bay City—for what it bestows. I was confused by and simultaneously in awe of the fact that this city was, in fact, holding it together. Not necessarily because of any fragility, but in a sense of chaotic rhythm that just seemed to work harmoniously.





The sounds of this majestic city, possibly uncomfortable to the green visitor, were haunting, overwhelming, familiar, intriguing and sedative all at once. The clatter of the cable cars, the staccato of chatty Chinatown bag-lady passengers, the barking of sea lions that have taken over the pier’s marina, and the hollered sales pitch of vendors at the fresh fish market all combine to create a fragrant, exotic bouquet—beautiful in ways that even the most experimental florist could never have anticipated.





The night before I left for my west coast adventures, I stayed over with Tenley Sage and Kate Hanna, two Northern California girls whose sense of adventure and love of exploration led to them to become Austin transplants. We talked over Chinese take-out about everything that NorCal had to offer and they inundated me with the best of’s and must-sees: unforgettable Indian cuisine, North Beach Italian, Haight Street cafes, pier spots for fresh crab, bay view look-out points, gardens, parks, bookstores, museums, architectural masterpieces, market street fare…



With to-go boxes empty and minds, hearts and bellies full, we realized that we had (in good fortune) each been given two cookies within the sweet crispy folds of which our fates could be determined. Always weary of unfavorable fortunes that pose questionable warnings or induce theoretical regrets, I saw hope in this double opportunity. If in my first attempt, the cookie crumbled to reveal some looming message of ambiguity, at least I still had another nickel in my pocket for one last shot at the jackpot. I may never know whether positive mindset breeds positive outcomes or if the stars were in my favor, but on this fateful night of Vietnamese spring rolls and edamame, I was granted a double whammy.

Happier days are definitely ahead of you (duh, it doesn’t take a Taoist philosopher to figure that one out. Any joe blow could come up with that by glancing at my flight schedule.)

… and then the doozie: Be prepared to accept a wondrous opportunity in the days ahead! (With an exclamation mark, no less. The cookies don’t lie.)



I arrived in SF with my favorite travel companion and we rented a yellow VW beetle and headed up the coast. My mom used to live in Marin County (just across the bridge on the other side of the bay) in the seventies when she was a flight attendant for TWA. Though it’s definitely not her first time back, it is her first time there with me. As we drove through the rainbow-clad tunnel and welcomed Marin County, she told me of her first time in the city, and how it was at that very moment entering that very bridge that this little girl from small-town Michigan screamed and stomped her feet all alone in a rented yellow VW beetle because of the sheer thrill of immediately falling in love with a place and a feeling, and knowing without a doubt where you belong.





The windows down, we soaked in the fragrant smell of eucalyptus and I soaked in the happiness that was all over us all the way to Sausalito. Sausalito is a quaint little town full of quaint little boutiques and quaint little cafes. Stretching out into the bay is Scoma’s, a charming restaurant with the freshest seafood around. We sat in a casually elegant dining room that looks out on the city like a little sister admiring the staggering beauty of the bustling metropolis just a ferry ride away.





After we had stuffed ourselves with lazy man’s cioppino (a delightful fisherman’s stew overflowing with fresh crab, prawns, scallops, clams, fish and bay shrimp) we hopped back in our yellow carriage and headed up the coast toward the wine country. Sonoma is an unassuming little agricultural community of grape-growers, wine-makers and wine-drinkers. One of Sonoma’s resident vineyards is Deerfield Ranch Winery. Robert Rex, the winemaker at Deerfield, invited us into his beautiful home for a lovely afternoon of tasting and talking. As these things go, tasting turned to drinking, and as the afternoon progressed so did our blurry happiness.





Robert Rex is unlike anyone I’ve met. Although many winemakers of his kind could be considered studied wine geeks, Mr. Rex’s demeanor does not fit this mold. He is intelligent and passionate, yet warm, funny and approachable. From underneath an incredibly legit handlebar mustache, his smile consumes his entire face. After hours of eating, drinking, laughing and discussing complexities of grapes and the science of viniculture, he invited us to his bat cave where we met his precious wife, PJ, and saw where all the magic happens.







We also toured the Benzinger family winery and had a beautiful dinner there on the property. On the tour, our guide informed us that they are a green winery and use no pesticides, that they harvest their own insects to aid in natural horticulture, and that when the winery began back in the sixties and seventies, they used to grow cannabis.



Another vineyard worth noting is the B.R. Cohn winery in Glen Ellen. Sure they make great wine and incredible olive oil of countless flavors, but my personal interest in this particular vineyard is of a musical sort. Winery-owner/professional party guy, Bruce Cohn, manages the Doobie Brothers. They host big charity event festivals annually out on the property with lineups that include the Doobies, Loggins and Messina, Little Feat, Willie Nelson, Journey, Steve Miller … you name it, they’ve probably played there.



Though it is the wineries that bring most of the city's visitors, the Sonoma square is the heart of the town, lined with chocolatiers, cafes, boutiques, and bars. On my first day wandering along the Sonoma square, a plump, giddy little pug came trotting out on the sidewalk in front of me, caught my attention and led me right in to the first ‘shop’ in the town that I felt completely at home in. It’s an unpretentious dog-friendly dive bar called Steiner’s Tavern. There’s no wine tasting here, but they’ve got a great selection of beer on tap and Creedence playing from the weathered jukebox. I took a cab back that night to catch a free rock and blues show by the SF-based Whiskey Thieves.

I assume it is usually pretty sleepy around the Sonoma square, but the week we were there was a different story. It was the 11th Annual Sonoma Valley Film Festival. An ultimate celebration of film, food and wine, this festival boasts of presenting the “best of the best indie films.” The festival provided great wine tasting, cuisine sampling, and even better people watching. Turns out, when you group together premieres of several foreign films, foreign visitors come too (imagine that). I was able to catch a great British film, Love and Other Disasters, at the Sebastiani Theatre, a 67-year-old legendary movie house in the center of Sonoma’s square.



After days of wining and dining in Sonoma, we headed back down the coast to meet up with my sister, Cybil. She had just come from a surf competition in Santa Cruz to tag on for the end of our trip. We met her at the airport, and it was a trip to watch our cabbie (a salty old merchant marine) try to fit her board in his rusty old Cadillac. Unlike Southern California, you don’t see too many San Francisco cabs adorned with roof racks. I guess SF doesn’t see too many surfboards … or chicks like Cyb, for that matter. She’s quite the character.



On our final days in the city, we were solely concerned with spending time together. This city was no longer a massive cultural hub of life, chaos, and sights to be seen, but a kind, windy, lovely playground … A colorful stage for us enjoy ourselves on, and the people all characters in the play … The beautiful background in our photo memories of times we shared in this city, which is everyone’s city.











Thank you, San Francisco.