Thanks, Secret Agent Man

I found an email telling me that Secret Agent Man had mentioned my blog. I was not prepared for this, so all I can say is "thanks!" Now I have to live up to his description.

For those of you who are visiting for the first time, Welcome. I should warn you that you will probably be disappointed, because if you come for food, the next thing you know I will be ranting about Abstract Expressionism (fer, by the way) or harpsichords (doubly fer) or disco (agin. agin. agin.), and you will wonder, "but he was supposed to talk about food!"

Just think of the poor folks who come here hoping to learn about the art scene in the Bay Area, only to find that I rarely make it to first thursdays and all that.

On this blog, I does what I likes and I likes what I do, but hopefully not in Mr. Van Dyke's wretched Cockney accent.

The best way to steer me to whatever topic you are interested in is to prod me with an email or a comment. I can't guarantee anything, but it is the best way. Then again, beware what you ask for. You might want to know what I think of Domenico Scarlatti and I might just tell you (so fer that I can't express it in words). A month later I might still be nattering on about it.

As I have mentioned in the past, long posts happen when I am pressed for time. When I am at the rough draft stage, I have Kerouacitis. I type fast and edit little. When I have time, I edit and re-edit and re-edit and so forth. I can't say that all the editing improves anything, but it's what I do. Right now I have a pressing newspaper deadline, so this little forray into blogdom will be long. Feel free to skip whole paragraphs (or grafs as newspapermen like to call them).

The funny thing about writing is that I used to really want to be a professional writer. When I was in high school I took over the Creative Writing and Fine Arts Club and installed myself as dictator. On a lark, I said that I would give up my power when Alfredo Stroessner was out of power. The SOB was tossed out in a coup about a month later. So I relinquished my post to one friend, took it back, give it to another friend, took it back, and then gave it up on graduation. But I really wanted to be a professional writer.

The more I thought about it, the less I wanted to be a professional writer. In fact, I began to think that there should not be professional writers, that writing should be something reserved for the leisure classes, etc. I particularly took a disdain to newspaper writing.

Now I write for newspapers.

Does it live up to my high school expectations? Well, yes and no. In many ways it is exciting. I get invited to all sorts of fun stuff, I see my bylines posted in the windows of restaurants (although not in the windows of restaurants that really should post my reviews, as a warning to potential victims, I mean, customers). I have become a better speller (which should tell you how bad I used to be).

What is it like to get checks in the mail for stuff I write? Well, it is better than not getting checks in the mail. And I am a bit of a whore: the bigger the check, the happier I am with the piece written, although I still keep up with the relatively low-paying newspaper work, because it is fun to have my writing turn up in that many households. A marketing research report might pay as much as a year of newspaper writing, but it ends up getting read by maybe a dozen people, and what fun is there in that?

What would be my ideal writing gig? Besides writing compulsory broadsides to be read over loudspeakers during compulsory morning calisthenics, or at Friday Afternoon Sessions in which folks are required to come to the local piazza and drink their Cinzano or Cynar while listening to my little sermons, it would probably be something like Herb Caen's column, but with more of a food focus, and an absolute banishment on calling any vodka-based concoction a martini (the last time I had a vodkatini was at Mr. Caen's memorial service. I did it in his nonor and have not forced myself to abandon my beloved gin since).

What would be the worst writing gig? Movie critic. If it were all about writing on 8 1/2, Wings of Desire or Singing in the Rain, fine, but to have to actually sit through and then write about the latest summer blockbuster would just be too much. I would rather cover school board meetings.

Of course in high school I wanted to make a living writing poetry. I was also a Marxist, so you have to understand that reality and I were on very casual terms at the time.

I rarely write poetry anymore, because it takes its energy from the same part of my brain that I use to paint, and that is the priority. Once in awhile I start a poem, but then the images take over and I end up painting the thing. The ideal poem does the same thing as a Diebenkorn Ocean Park painting, and, since I am a much better painter than poet, I cut to the chase.

So the poor blog gets the brunt of my ramblings. It is my little fiefdom, my Legoland (to use the words of a friend of mine who has a sentimental attachment to democracy and seems to think that he would end up in a re-education camp in the Keilholtz Dictatorship), the Keilholtz Star Times and Register Undemocrat.

Even though the aesthetic of the blog is influenced by the Fiesta Brava (many thanks to my fantastic webdesigner), what I have in mind is more like the Teletubbies or The Prisoner. When you read this, picture the baby in the sun with my grinning mug and the little bronze speakers that pop up from the flowers as my official mouthpieces. When you have read enough and should be getting ready for bed, it is my voice that says, "time for Tubby bye-bye!"

The irony is that I am the only one in the family who likes the Teletubbies. The family toddler finds them boring (or too close to home), so I have to watch them late at night, when everyone sane is in bed. So I watch and scheme and watch and design uniforms for my elite guardsmen and watch and write way too much in the blog...

Anyway, for those of you who are looking for food, let me offer this fast and yummy recipe:

Boached Fish

Boaching is a hybrid of poaching and baking. Basically it is poaching with less liquid, or humid baking with white wine.

You take filet of ling cod or other such fish. You salt and pepper it and coat it in Extra Virgin Olive Oil and pat it with chopped winter savory. In your pan you sprinkle diced shallot, then place your fish on it, sprinkle more shalllot, a crumbled bay leaf, thinly sliced garlic, and thin slices of lemon. Give it a light drizzling of dry white wine or dry white vermouth. Bring it to a simmer on the stove and transfer it to a preheated 350 degree oven. Cook until it is done. Serve with a salad and a chilled Mateus.