Oh, happy day.

I bit into a most delectably dense, chewy cookie, with layers of texture and an explosion of ginger flavor in my mouth, sweet sugar crystals cracking under my teeth, so squishy soft and perfect. When I reached the center of the cookie, a core which hinted at a formerly molten state, softened ever so slightly with a bit of the gelato.

On the way home, a deer attacked me with an expression which I can only describe as rabid. I suspect that this was not related to the cookie, but given that I had just gorged myself on lamb, trotting down the street in flight was less than enjoyable. I didn’t realize that a population of savage deer had moved in during my absence. Where’s a restrictive covenant when you need one?

I woke up this morning to a phone truck outside the window, and a burly telephone company representative making concerned clucking noises and buckling on a tool belt.

Apparently, there had been no active phone service at my new house since 1999, so the phone man suspected that my phone line might not actually work. He clambered around on the roof for quite some time, making ominous humming noises, and finally descended and said “I’ll be back.”

“Oh,” I said. “Er, well, ok.”

“Yes,” he said, darkly, before vanishing down the alley.

When he returned, he had even more implements, and a set expression. After rattling around with the phone box for quite some time, he emerged with an “ah-hah,” and had me plug an implement into the jack inside.

“We’re going for a light,” he explained, “either red or green, I don’t care. If it doesn’t light up…”

I plugged it into the jack, and my heart sank when the light remained unlit. However, I happened to remember a secondary jack, which was rather decayed, and hidden under a box of sweaters. I managed to dig it out, I plugged the device in, and lo and behold, the light was green. I skipped outside to relay the information and the phone man looked visibly relieved.

“Well then,” he said, “that’s that.”

Although my internet isn’t supposed to be turned on until tomorrow, I decided to give it a shot anyway, and plugged the router in. After a tense minute or two, a reassuring bank of green lights flashed and then stayed on.

I have, at last, internet. I am a little embarrassed about how happy it makes me.

Still no internet. I’m rather proud of myself for stealing people’s laptops long enough to keep updating, although my updates may be brief and a little more dull than usual. But today, we are back to one of my favourite topics: food!

I cruised over to the farmers’ market today, since it’s only a block away from the new house. The fact that I always live right next door to the farmers’ market has become a running joke among our friends. The new location is a little more rustic than the old one, since it is in a field, but it was fairly awesome. Lots of goodies.

I love going to the farmers’ market because I never know what I’m eating until I get there, and then all these meals suddenly fall together out of thin air. Today, I noticed that they had fava beans, and a scheme took place in my mind. I decided to invite F over for dinner, and that fava beans would be the centerpiece. A quick trip to Roundman’s Smokehouse for some sausage completed the mission.

The primary component of the dinner was the fava beans, which I used to make a Portugese inspired dish. I sauteed fresh spring garlic with red pepper flakes, tossed in the fava beans along with some finely chopped tomatoes, and then added some turducken sausages. I added water to cover, along with vegetable boullion, salt, and pepper, and then covered the whole deal with a big lid while I simmered some wild rice and lentils in a separate pan.

The result was…rather delicious. F said that she hadn’t thought of lentils and favas as going together, but it was awesome. The green garlic added a delicate flavor which was less aggressive than dried garlic. The fava and sausage dish was a little soupy, and the thick broth covered the lentils and wild rice deliciously. F seemed to approve as well, which seemed like a good sign for the first formal dinner in my new home.

We followed with fruit…Gowan’s Oak Tree had totally awesome cherries, so we had cherries and watermelon for dessert. All in all, a good evening, I think, with a lot of great local food.

I went to set up my new electric service today, and I have to say, I am not surprised that PG&E has financial problems, since the service is so awful. I mean, maybe I caught them at a bad time, but the woman in the office was…less than kind. I will not go so far as to say rude, because that would be a bit of a stretch, but she was certainly not pleased to see me. Apparently PG&E does not actually want new customers. Or maybe they just do not care, since they are fully aware that they are the only option up here.

Service in general seems to be something that a lot of local businesses struggle with. I was in a local business recently which was festooned with “buy local” manifestos, and I started thinking more deeply about the “buy local” issue. I know that I have talked with Haddock about this issue before, and my feelings on it have been evolving in recent times.

Essentially, at heart, I want to support local business by buying locally. I would like to keep money in my economy, and to keep out chain stores. However…I am not going to pay premium prices for poor service and subpar products. Sadly, a lot of the businesses which stridently demand that people “buy local” provide really awful service, and do not have the products that I want. I do not need to be told why I should buy local, because I already know why. I would, however, like to be served with respect and courtesy, as a valued customer.

The long and short of it is that a business which offers poor service will lose customers, local or not. I was thinking about this issue as I wandered Franklin Street, which is really suffering financially as a result of the construction. I was thinking that I should vow to buy something from a store on Franklin every day, and encourage others to do the same. But after two bouts of rude service, I began to rethink this thought. How much am I willing to pay to buy locally? How much are you willing to pay? And how much should we, as a society, pay?

Buy local, and buy independent, we are told. But demanding that your customers support your business while treating them poorly is not good business, local or not.

Today was the first day at the river, since I don’t have internet yet and I cannot do anything productive as a result.

We cruised out to Navarro, which is not yet blooming, for the afternoon. It was pretty awesome. A little more chilly than I would have liked, which is partially my fault for dawdling when we should have been taking action, but it was nice to lie in the sand, drink beer, and dabble toes in the water. I went in a couple of times, just to say that I did, but the water was fairly cold and there was a stiff breeze, so I didn’t spend very much time submerged. The point, really, was to be there. The first day at the river always feels like the first real day of summer to me.

Tomorrow, I hope to accomplish much. Perhaps I will even end the day with internet of my very own, so that I can stop stealing moments here and there, like a thief in the night.

I have a house!

It has a door like a hobbit hole, which is pretty excellent. It also has a small garden space, which is even more excellent. The cats seems to enjoy it, especially the lofts, and I think it will work out very well for the time being. Alas, the bathroom is rather spartan, but who doesn’t enjoy propping their feet on the hot water heater while peeing? Also, the toilet is rambunctious. We need to have a chat, the toilet and I. The kind of chat which ends in absolute obedience.

The neighbors are awesome and very sweet as well, which is nice.

It’s nice to be back in town. I wandered out a bit today, since it was so sunny and nice, and ran into several excellent people. Then, I staged a hostile takeover of a friend’s computer so that I could write this entry. We’re sitting in Headlands, watching the tourists go by. Juan and Lenore are doing a great job with the place: they’ve made a couple of changes which are most excellent, although I see that the menu has not changed at all. It’s good to know that some things will always remain fixed in time.

I am waiting impatiently until Tuesday, when I can do things like order a phone, establish a post office box, and transfer the electric into my name. Until then, I am enjoying my relaxation. It’s good to see old friends.

Although I do have a beef with tearing up Franklin Street in the middle of the summer. Who decided that was a good idea?

I have stolen a few moments of painful dialup to post a brief update about my day, dear readers, because I couldn’t stand the thought of you being lonely of a Saturday. Today I went on all sorts of adventures, but the best was a Shabbat dinner.

I have, you see, returned home, to Fort Bragg, rather suddenly, and I am faced with all sorts of chaos for the next month or so. I am staying with my father temporarily while I look for a new home, and trying to work, and trying to sort out things down South. This is a most excellent and great change, and I may more go more in-depth about it later, but right now it is very, very stressful. (So…by the way…if any of my local readers know of anything, well, one bedroomish for under $1,000, please write me: meloukhia at gmail dot com. I would say call me, but I don’t want my phone number all over the Internet. But those of you who know who I am can look up my father’s number in the phone book. Two bedrooms would be even better. I would also like a garden, a unicorn, and world peace. I happen to be an excellent tenant, and I will never move. Ever. Again. So, you know, once you rent to me, you don’t have to worry about anything until I die or something. Also, somehow, I am making an astonishing amount of money at the moment, so, you know, no worries on the rent. And I have good references. Anyway, back to regular broadcasting.)

When I got things more or less squared away for the afternoon, I called friends to let them know that I was back in town, and that excellent things needed to happen, and they started happening. The last few months have been really difficult for me, and I have learned a lot of things about people that I used to respect and care for deeply, so it was really wonderful to be warmly received here by people who really do care about me, and value my friendship. I am not bitter about any of the things that have happened, and I am almost glad that they did happen, but I was feeling rather like Ariadne on the rocks. So it was really awesome to be scooped up and reminded of how excellent people can be, when they put their minds to it. Which is how I got invited to a Shabbat dinner.

It wasn’t precisely a Shabbat dinner, because most of the people were not Jewish, but it is a regular event held on Fridays, and wine and bread are blessed. So it’s a Shabbat. Anyway, after a rather hectic day, I headed over to Caspar in the afternoon to meet Brendan and an assortment of other people. The house where we were, oddly enough, is a house that I lived in very briefly as a young child, so that was kind of a trip. Brendan assured me that I would be welcome, and I was a little nervous at first about barging into someone else’s Shabbat dinner, but I should have had no worries.

Brendan and I went for a walk on the Headlands before ambling back to work on food and socialize. I breathed the fresh air deeply through my nose, which was not clogged with snot and grime for the first time in months. I felt…clean, and happy.

It was a splendid evening. I didn’t actually know most of the people there, but I felt very welcomed, like a part of a big joyous family. All sorts of delicious food was made and we sat down and the Shabbat candles were lit, the wine was blessed, and the delicious vegan challah was blessed as well before we dug in to a great meal. It was a great assortment of folks, one of whom was new to the area altogether, and everyone seemed to be having fun. It reminded me of a bittersweet dinner party among friends that happened a little over three months ago, when things were very different. How suddenly things can change, eh?

I feel sort of drifting and braindead right now, so it was really nice to sit down among loving people, relax, and not think about all of the things that are going on. I may have bills due, I may need to desperately find a house, and I may be fairly cut off, telecommunications wise, but it was good to be reminded that I do have friends, and that I can make more friends. I felt like tonight’s dinner was the beginning of a long association with wonderful, awesome people, and I am really looking forward to where it’s going next. Already, it is promised that I will be taught how to surf (finally, hooray!) Schemes were made for going to the river while we ate vegan cupcakes and good music played softly on the stereo while we groaned on the furniture. This, gentle readers, is why I came home.

And I do I feel like I am home again, after an extended tour of battle. I may feel somewhat adrift and lost, but I was made so instantly welcome by people who don’t know me at all that my faith in the world, and in people, is beginning to be restored. If I can be so graciously and lovingly welcomed into somone’s home…there is hope. All is not, in fact, lost, and that is a pretty excellent thing.

People I love whom I also saw today: 6 (including Brendan, Haddock, and the Sardine).
New people I would like to know more about met today: 8
Houses looked at today: 2
Houses rented today: 0

My troubles are over, and now I am at home.

We will be experiencing a service interruption for several days, gentle readers, as I am in the middle of nowhere and only have access to dialup. Once things settle down again, I’ll back for a real, honest to God update.

I had forgotten how…excruciating…dialup can be. I must say, I am impressed with the lean configuration of the Movable Type interface, yet another reason to love Movable Type. It takes around, oh, 10-15 seconds to load a page. As opposed to three minutes for my Gmail. It’s a good exercise in calmness. I am trying to view it as a chance to meditate.

At any rate, it is overcast and gloomy where I am, with thin threads of fog winding through the trees. And quiet. I had not realized that the Bay Bridge creates a dull hum in the background which whispers to me throughout the night until I wonder why the night is so quiet. The cats have been peering out the windows here, longing to come outside. It’s also a bit cold, a far cry from the blasting warmth of central heat. I imagine that I will probably go for a walk later, feet slicing through tall, damp grass.

I looked up the Chronicle’s online edition today (3 minutes to load). I see that nothing is collapsing in my absence, although I am intrigued by the trials and tribulations of Ed Jew. It’s beginning to seem like something out of some fantastic film. I am waiting for some new revelation, like a whorehouse in Noe Valley or investments in crooked toaster manufacturing companies.

Over and out.

I just finished watching a six part BBC series on the Westboro Baptist Church, which I must say rather filled me with rage. Given the tactics of the church, they will probably be pleased to hear this, since they seem to be all about inciting rage and hatred.

You can check the parts out on YouTube: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, and Part Six. But prepare to get very, very grumpy. I defy any sane person to view the antics of this cultish church without feeling a little hot around the collar. If you live under a rock, you can pick up some info about the “church” here. I’ll wait, it’s cool.

Now, when I first saw photographs of members of the church picketing, I wondered why it was, exactly, that God hated bundles of sticks. I later realized that the church actually means that God hates homosexuals. While people are certainly entitled to believe that, this church takes things a step further, picketing the funerals of dead American soldiers with their hate speech. They do this because they believe that America is doomed for its “tolerance” of the “homosexual agenda.” And that the war was brought about by God, who rejoices every time a soldier dies.

I’m sorry, but no sane person can possibly think that picketing a funeral is appropriate. It is certainly find to hold your beliefs, and to talk to other people about them. But a funeral marks a period of reflection and mourning, and to bring a political agenda into the cemetery…no. I cannot hold with that sort of thing.

I really have a tough time with things like this because I literally cannot comprehend them. I do not understand how people could hate something, or someone, so much. Watching this documentary was interesting, because I saw the rampant intolerance, the avoidance of answering any questions, and, perhaps most tragically, the brainwashing of small children. It was also deeply disturbing to see a so-called “Christian church” preaching hatred, rather than love, which was the primary message of Christ in my opinion. Dismaying, is perhaps the word I want here.

I was not aware that the members of the church live together in a compound. But it’s “not a commune,” oh, no. It just so happens that no one in the church has friends outside of the church, and they all live together because they like it. This sounds an awful lot like a cult to me, especially hearing some of the people within the church talk. I was saddened as I listened to young women spout intolerance and hatred, gleefully telling the film maker that he would go to hell.

You see, the members of the church are stoked that people are going to hell. In the first segment, an interviewee mockingly says: “you think our job is to win souls to Christ,” when the filmmaker asks her why the church takes such extreme tactics. She goes on to explain that the mission of the church is alerting people to the fact they are going to hell. Not, oh, I don’t know, trying to save people, which is an admirable goal of many churches. Just informing people that their nation is doomed and that they are going to hell. The end. No redemption.

The most sad thing, for me, though, was watching the really young children. Seeing six and seven year olds spewing hate and vitriol is rather tragic. These kids are raised in the church (which curiously seems to forbid marriage…apparently no one remembers what happened to the Shakers). The kids never have a chance to learn about any other life, they just grow up waving placards and being hated. What does that do to your mind, and why hasn’t Child Services stepped in?

The Phelps family says that it is “America’s most hated family,” and they may well be right. It’s sad to think that they are pleased about it, though. I suppose that as long as the media keeps giving them attention, they will keep spreading a message of hate, and people will keep reacting to it. It’s a rather brilliant cycle, really, because it is hard to respond to the church with anything other than disgust and hate.

The film maker obviously had a rough time. He looks very uncomfortable in all of the shots, like he very much wishes he was someone else. But he certainly gave it a shot. He tried to talk reasonably with members of the church, and didn’t really get anywhere. The thought that people really do think this way is rather horrifying. I suppose that they could say the same thing about me, but at least I try to avoid imposing my views on others. What sort of world do we live in?

Fortunately, a world where the Patriot Guard Riders steps forward to shield families at funerals from protesters. From their mission: “We don’t care what you ride or if you ride, what your political views are, or whether you’re a hawk or a dove. It is not a requirement that you be a veteran. It doesn’t matter where you’re from or what your income is; you don’t even have to ride.” Now that there is a hearty dose of tolerance. It must drive the Westboro Baptist Church absolutely batty.

Adoption can be a big scam. Which is a major bummer, because a lot of kids need homes.

A battle is brewing in a Seattle neighborhood which is trying to tidy itself up.

Napa has an origin appellation, at last.

Genetics is neat. Sometimes it explains things like why fish made the leap from sea to shore.

The Anglican church has decided not to invite dissident and openly gay bishops to a huge church gathering which only takes places every ten years. Ah, progress.