Friday, May 18, 2007

and whether pigs have wings


I.

I've rolled directly from one commercial to another. I don't mind the short order at all - every step closer to the bike feels good, though it feels odd to be juggling a pair of huge car jobs like they don't mean a thang. Which they don't, really, in the big scheme.

I'm working in a very interesting place this time. It's a meticulously scrubbed cavern of concrete and glass that looks like it's been infected with a Dr. Seuss virus - fifteen-foot palm trees the size of a thumb that come regularly up through the eat-offable floor, and a series of birchy treetrunks around the lunch table that soar twenty feet to the ceiling, only to end in...tiny busts. Of luminaries. Tiny busts of luminaries. And a tiny, working television at the top of one.

II.

Kombucha feels amazing. Amazing. At Bear's excellent suggestion, I've been subbing it out for coffee whenever I crave the latter, and I'm so pleased with the result - it's like tastebud yoga, and it gives me the tingles from head to toe (like I've replaced my blood with race gas.)

I was driving to work with a bottle this morning (I'm on the westside this week, so it's a solid hour on the road), marveling at the sensation this stuff causes. It's almost as though I can feel it healing every part of me that bears healing - everything zings. Plus, it tastes...well, good. Really, really interesting and really, really good - once you get past the fireworks the first sip tends to cause.

Thursday, May 10, 2007

the black-spidey parade


Um.

So we went out to see Spiderman 3 last night. It pretty much amounts to this.

Watching Tobey shake his itsy-bitsy little moneymaker like a gigolo on crystal meth was not unfunny, but I was hoping for a little more than action-porn...especially considering how fun and involving the first two were.

Let's not make a four. Please? Thank you.

Monday, May 07, 2007

estate vintage


My legs were bruised and sore from kicking a disinterested horse - and Bear's were tired from his own long day of riding - but it was far too beautiful a day to stay home. After weeks of living under a grey-brown curtain, I finally came to the the top of my hiking hill to see Catalina's long green back rising out of the water...and such a thing bears celebration.

So we met up in Eagle Rock for a pair of coffees and a quick wander down to the hip little wine purveyor down the street, where we mused for a minute over a taster of tempranillo and browsed for a suitable bottle. I've been jonesing to try some of the newer dry rieslings, so we picked up an Austian bottle - a 2003 Johann Donabaum (Wachauer Federspiel).

Now, I'm usually a butter-my-bread Chard kinda girl when it comes to whites. I generally like 'em cuddly and malolactic - more of a lazy-late-autumn style, full of baked fruit smells and afternoon colours. In my few forays into crisp minerality, I've discovered more misses than hits; after all, it's a short road from subtle to insipid, and a difficult line to walk.

This one? Whoa.

It was mountain spring water coming over warm summer rocks, distilled. It was handfuls of clover and a sundress just pulled down from the backyard clothesline. It was sharp with new growth and lemon-bright.

It was awesome.

We finished the bottle perched on a rock wall under a canopy of old trees on the old Cobb Estate grounds, chatting up the steady parade of dog-walkers as they tromped by.

It's a wonder that life can be so unrelentingly sweet.