Best. Birthday. Ever. Continued.

As I suspected she might, Susie took me to Jardiniere last night for my birthday dinner. I've been dropping hints about wanting to go there for a while, and the restaurant has been somewhat more high-profile lately, what with Traci Des Jardins beating down that phony Mario Batali on Iron Chef (side note: don't say "what with" around Susie). But when she told me that we were actually going there, I was pretty stoked.

I was not disappointed. As Sherwin would say, "It pwned me." Actually, he would say, "P-owned," because we all know that 1337-speak does not work verbally.

The service was gracious and timely. The setting elegant yet relaxed. A jazz piano and bass added luxurious ambiance. But of course the food was the star here. The menu offered a variety of options, but for me, there really was no choice. I had to go with the 6-course tasting menu: a tuna tombo salad with the most delicious beans ever, halibut with chanterelles, incredible duck breast (with fig I didn't hate!), beef shortrib, cheese course, and a chocolate caramel tart. That's just how I roll. Everything was fabulous with the exception of the tart (which was only very good), although "Happy Birthday" was spelled out in fancy chocolate script on the side of plate. Fortunately I was able to supplement with the incredible dish that Susie ordered: gooey dark chocolate cake with candied cocoa nibs and raspberry swirl ice cream. I can't recall a better dessert.

I was having a bit of trouble choosing a wine from their diverse yet approachable list. So I chose them all; I had the sommelier's suggested wine pairings: a different glass for each course of the tasting menu. The choices were indeed excellent and complemented the dishes nicely: two whites for the fish courses, two reds for the meats (a Burgundy and a California Zinfandel), vin santo for the cheese, and a late-harvest red for the tart.

At one point I paused from my consumption to contemplate the tune being played by the jazz duo. It seemed yet familiar, yet surely it was a jazz standard. And, as I have a somewhat skewed musical education, I know no jazz standards. Finally the repetitive, rhythmic chord changes and a little melodic hook jolted my memory. "Ah yes," I sighed as I leaned back and tilted my wineglass. "Hey Ya, by OutKast." What could be more fitting?

If you haven't been to Jardiniere, I suggest you find an occasion to do so. Especially if you can find someone else to pay.

Thanks, Susie! You're the best!

Best. Birthday. Ever.

With my 30th birthday coming up Tuesday, I decided to have dinner and drinks last Saturday with my closest friends. Dinner was at Indigo, and was a blast. Having studied the wine menu in advance online, I knew to order the 2001 Ridge Geyserville, a favorite of Susie's and mine. Drinking quite well, thanks, though perhaps not quite the best we've had. The food was good; the wine was good; the gifts were generous, abundant, and thoughtful; the company delightful. I had planned to say a few words to the assembled company, but the time never seemed quite right. To paraphrase, this year has been a difficult one, and I have never been more grateful for the love, support, and friendship I have around me.

Jade bar was groovy. We had nearly enough of a posse to take over the upstairs area, and certainly a loud enough one to scare off any remaining patrons. The drinks were coming fast and furious(ly), and I was hard-pressed in my attempt to break my lengthy streak of getting sick every year on my birthday. I wasn't able to avoid the Red Bull and vodka, the kamikaze shot or the inevitable Glenmorangie, but I managed to not finish a Long Island that Ben tried to sneak in, and I ducked the one-two punch of the Scotch and chaser that Fennis tried to hit me with towards the end. Even Joel was drinking (only the third time I've seen him drink), so you know it was a good time. In the end, I didn't get sick, and I was actually able to enjoy my Sunday. Perfect!

And my actual birthday dinner is still coming up. Susie started a tradition of taking me to a different top-tier SF restaurant every year. Since the last three have been Elizabeth Daniel (now closed, sadly), Gary Danko, and Fifth Floor, I'm sure tomorrow's won't disappoint.

Cat Bowling

An arrival of half a case of Ridge wine is a joyous occasion. One day, as we were laying out our half-dozen bottles of the ruby elixir, our cat Viola (not pictured) happened to be in a particularly frenetic mood. She hurled herself across the hardwood floor and skidded into the neat arrangement of bottles, knocking over a couple in the process. Thus Cat Bowling was born. Unfortunately she was unable to pick up the spare.

We recently received another shippment of wine, and given our newest cat's extreme hyperactivity, we thought we would surely be treated to another game of Cat Bowling. Much to our dismay, Claudio did little but sniff the bottles. However, we hadn't yet discovered the laser pointer's effect on him. Maybe next shipment....

Note: the 2002 Paso Robles is drinking rather nicely. It has some of the scrumptious blueberry flavor that I associate with the Geyserville. However, the 2003 is not yet ready for drinking; it's still too tannic and the flavors haven't sufficiently blended and mellowed. Give it another year or two.

Why Does My Belt Keep Shrinking?

Choral veterans will recognize the experience (you others just nod and smile): you sing an a cappella piece for a bit, then check your notes to find that the piano has been going sharp. Quite unsettling. Why can't they make pianos that keep their pitch for more than 5 minutes? If NASA can make foam bricks that protect space shuttles from the terrible heat of re-entry, why can't... oh, nevermind.

In unrelated news, my favorite belt which I have worn nearly every day for the last seven or 8 years barely fits me anymore. I'm on the last notch, and even that's a bit tight. What gives? You'd think if it was going to shrink it would be within the first few months of owning it. This delayed shrinkage is quite odd.

In other, unrelated news, I went shopping this weekend and discovered that I need to buy pants an inch bigger in the waist. Why manufacturers feel the need to make clothes smaller than before escapes me. But I can highly recommend Express clothing for men. They have nice jeans in a wide variety of styles, and quite a few cool t-shirts that are excellent for layering, if you're into that sort of thing. (It's not mine.) It's inexpensive, and as an added bonus the clothes have actually got some semblance of style, unlike the GAP. Perfect for adding just the right touch of metrosexuality.

Surely I Could Write a $100,000 Drum Beat

In recent news of the weird variety:

NAS PAYS TWO MILLION DOLLARS FOR A BEAT
Rap star Nas reportedly has paid a staggering $2 million for a mystery new beat created by hip hop producers the Neptunes.

A number of artists were reported to be in competition for the beat, including Sean "P. Diddy" Combs.

It's so groundbreaking, rap veteran Busta Rhymes is convinced it will make hip-hip history.

He says, "Those drums man. Those drums are fire! If Nas is gonna rap to this beat, it's going to be over. This will be the biggest hit in the history of hip hop."

This is just staggering. I can't think of the last time someone overpaid so much for something. I mean, the time someone paid $40k on EBay for a grilled cheese sandwich that depicted the virgin Mary is nothing compared to this.

All that hype by Mr. Rhymes, now, that's a lot to live up to. How can you possibly meet expectations after that? Even if it's the next "Yeah!" will it still have been worth it? Who wants to bet this song hits the chart, does pretty well, and then drops off and is never heard again?

And if Nas is willing to pay two mil for a beat, how much would he pay for a legendary guitar solo? A cool million? The greatest rock riff of all time? Three-quarters of a million? A jaw-dropping vocal run? Half a mil? We need to know these things!

And how sad is it that Busta Rhymes is referred to as a "rap veteran"? What does it take to get upgrated to "star" level? I guess that's what happens when you go five years without putting out an album. Even Foxy Brown is referred to as a rap star, and I've never even heard of her. Of course, that's not saying much....

Say Hello to My Little Friend, Redux

I'll admit it; I have a terrible memory. I have never claimed otherwise. I guess I always thought it was part of my charm. You know that eccentric, lovable, absentminded genius guy? That was supposed to be me.

But I guess my tendency to forget everyday tasks and social engagements, although charming in bachelorhood, loses a bit in translation to married life. In fact, there was this one time when I was scheduled to... well, let's not bring that up here.

On a seemingly-unrelated topic, my current phone sucks. It's the same model my dad has, if that tells you anything -- so old I can't even find a picture of it on the Sprint website. The outer screen is cracked. The battery dies frequently because the charge drains rapidly when I am roaming (which is often). The UI is poor, which makes text messaging difficult. Calls and messages to the phone are frequently missed. One time it notified me that I had a new voicemail... one day after the message was left. By the way, Sprint service in the Bay Area is horrible.

These two subjects got me thinking. What if there were a way to replace my phone and improve my memory at the same time. Maybe some kind of cyber-RAM-communications-system upgrade. Or maybe I should just get a new phone that actually works with a datebook and such. I guess I kind of got fixated on this idea, kept asking Sherwin about whether I should get a BlackBerry or a Palm Treo, whether I should get a Bluetooth adapter for my laptop. Susie and Sherwin got so concerned that I might actually go out and buy one that they had to give me my birthday present a couple of weeks early Now I am the proud owner of a brand new BlackBerry 7100g.

May I just say: It rocks! Thanks, guys! It makes such a great toy, and it's already helping me remember things. Just this afternoon it reminded me to make a dinner reservation and call my grandma. Good boy!

Get Your Corporate Hands Off My Chocolate!

Hershey has just announced the acquisition of San Francisco-based chocolatier Joseph Schmidt. While Joseph Schmidt's chocolates are artistic creations and do make great gifts, they are not the best chocolate for eating (and really, isn't that what you want from your chocolate?). For one thing, their famous half-egg-shaped truffles for which they are so well-known are annoyingly difficult to eat due to their thick shells. And the quality of their chocolate is merely average.

But coming so closely on the heels of Hershey's acquisition of Berkeley's Scharffen Berger, it's difficult for the Bay Area resident not to take offense at this corporate calamity. After all, Scharffen Berger is one of the world's finest chocolates, and Hershey is a peddler of chocolate-flavored sugary goo. One fears that any contribution Hershey makes will mar Scharffen Berger's bittersweet perfection. Perhaps Hershey will merely use its multinational reach to broaden the distribution of a sublime chocolate, but given the history of these types of mergers, that doesn't seem likely, now does it?

Given the chocolate-making tradition of San Francisco, one might fear that Hershey would move to acquire Ghiradelli (hard G, folks, it's Italian) and ruin another Bay Area confection corporation. But there's really nothing to fear there; Ghiradelli sold out years ago and its chocolate is barely better than Hershey's.

Ah well, at least there's Valrhona, a truly divine bittersweet chocolate. Not quite as complex and fruity as Scharffen Berger, but perhaps a richer and more satisfying cocoa experience.

Reviews Are In

I was going to post on Friday. I really was. I wrote this whole post about how the titles of a couple of R. Kelly's songs, namely "Trapped in the Closet" and "Down Low," made (presumably unintentional) implications about his sexuality, and probably weren't such great PR moves for an alleged pedophile. But it all seemed rather sordid and not up to my usual standards of cleverness.

Anyway, I would now like to direct your attention to new link on the right-hand side of the page, Reviews. Infrequently, I'll post a review of a book I've been reading or a CD I've been listening to lately. If you're lucky, I may even tackle movies or TV shows. You see, I feel that it's critically important that I recommend things that I like, and steer people away from things I don't. I believe it will make the world a better place. And with that in mind, I recommend that everyone go out and buy Deadwing, by Porcupine Tree.

What's Up With That?

In Seinfeldian fashion, I will now make sardonic statements about an only-slightly out-of-the-ordinary aspect of quotidian life.

So, I was just sitting at my desk the other day, minding my own business, when all of the sudden, I got this email: Coming soon to your work campus: on-site dental services. What's up with that? I mean, first we had on-site massages -- nice for easily out the kinks during those 12 hour days. Then there was on-site dry-cleaning, which was handy because you don't always have time to hit the cleaners when pulling 80-hour weeks. Then came on-site car washing. Again, handy. Your car's just chillin' for 8-16 hours a day while you're at work, might as well get some chores done while you're working. Car washes were great; why not oil changes? Sure! Recently came on-site haircutting services -- great for keeping your basic wage-slave from getting too shaggy during the 9-month crunch periods. I just feel sorry for the facilies people who have to vacuum the hair out of the keyboards.

And now this! I guess the dentists just couldn't get enough folks to pry themselves away from their cushy Aeron chairs often enough to satisfy those blood-sucking sadisits. Now they are actually sending members of their sanguine cult out to office buildings to get their hematic fill. But who's going to clean the toothpaste off my monitor?

What's next? I mean, they can't have on-site doctors visits, because the doctors would be telling the employees to go home and get some rest and not spend so much time on the computer.

Maybe on-site lapdances? You know, for when you can't leave the office long enough to satisfy... certain urges. Ok, I'll stop.

Curse You, Hell-Spawned Cat-Fiends!

Left, you see our sweet, previously-innocent Viola. Right, seemingly-innocent Claudio. Sure, they seem like such cute cats, lounging as you see here on an unmade bed. But when the lights go out, they turn into felines of terrible power and strength. Springing over supine human forms, they career across hardwood and rug alike, bouncing from surface to surface, and generally having a hellacious time. With boundless energy, they cavort and frolic, robbing poor slumbering souls of their due rest, sapping their wills, and leaving them empty, shambling husks.

Here you see the worse of the transgressors. His loathsome energy is particularly insidious. Before he arrived on the scene, our Viola was a perfect picture of repose. But since the arrival of this devil-cat, no sooner has she settled down for a good snooze then Lo! she springs forth from her berth to investigate the maneuvers of this magnetic newcomer.

Curse you, fiendish feline spawn of Satan! I have a twisted, cunning plan of my very own! When I arrive home, I shall torment thee with toys and traps, wresting you from your soft couches and blankets, and force you to caper and gambol until your hellish energies are exhausted! Then shall I slumber in gentle repose.

Say Hello to My Little Friend

With the addition of another short-haired shedding machine to the house, Susie and I knew that it was time to upgrade our vacuum. The old Eureka MightAsWellNotBother was just not getting the job done, so we ponied up and snagged a Dyson DC14 Low Reach vacuum on EBay. I may be known for making fun of James Dyson's stiff British accent on his television commercials, but we heard good things about the vacuums from friends, and hey, it comes in a snazzy red.

It arrived Friday, so I took the opportunity to use it this weekend. Twice. It was so fun I had to vacuum again the next day. After the old stick vac, the DC14 was truly a joy to use, a marvel of technology. It glided smoothly on our hardwood floors, and efficiently cleaned our small area rugs. The low reach attachment was great for getting under our bed and chest of drawers. It's a pretty heavy device, but does have somewhat of the feel of a plastic toy. One could argue that this makes it all the more fun to do chores with. Emptying the bin with the push of a button was like dumping a load of sand from a toy dumptruck (or something else clever; I'm no good with similes).

All in all, it seems like money well spent. Hopefully it will mean breathing less cat hair in the long run. And how can that be a bad thing?

Sorry to bore you with a tale of how I spent the whole weekend vacuuming. Hey, I did make it through the entire post without making a pun on the word "sucks." Aren't you at least somewhat proud?

Paging Dr. Dolittle

Recently, a co-worker of mine referred to me as Dr. Dolittle due to the fact that I now have two cats and an ornate box turtle living at my house. The surname struck me as hyperbolic, hardly warranted by the stewardship of merely three animals from two species. The title, strangely enough, has been more applicable of late given the health problems of our pets. To treat newcomer Claudio's eye infection, I have to put a gunky medication on his eyes 3x daily. Have you ever had to put something on a cat's eyeball? Granted it's nothing compared to making a cat swallow any form of medication, but it's still no picnic.

Then there's the turtle. Agamemnon, aka Turtle (Side note: why are receptionists so confused by the name Agamemnon? Haven't they read the Iliad, or at least seen Troy? And as for not being able to spell or pronounce it, WTF? It's completely phonetic! If you can read, you can pronounce it. If you hear, you can spell it. What is the problem?), hasn't been eating lately due to a bacterial infection. This means I have to give him shots. How hard is it to give a shot to a turtle; he can't run away, you might say (annoyingly, if I might add). Well, I'll tell you. The main difficulty is that you have to pull his arm out of his shell in order to inject him in his armpit. This means wrestling open his plastron (the hinged part that lets him close himself up like a box), avoiding being bitten by a now-angry box turtle, getting a grip on a tiny little turtle paw, and wrenching it out. If that sounds easy to you, feel free to drop by my house in the next week; I've got eight more shots to give him.

Note: Add me to the impressive list of people who misspell "Dolittle." Personally, I blame the Pixies.

How to Avoid Jury Duty

As you all know, I'm turning 30 in less than 4 weeks. And in all the long years I've spent on this earth, I have never had to serve jury duty. How have I managed this feat, you might ask (unless you are busy berating me for ducking my civic duty). The key, my friends, is to always be registered to vote in a city other than the one in which you live. They can't make you serve if you don't live there. And the city you live in can't ask you to serve if you're not registered there. See how genius that is? See, I registerd to vote in SF, so when I was living in Foster City and was summoned, they couldn't touch me. Then I moved back to SF for a year. Luck was with me that year as my number wasn't called. Then I moved to Oakland for a year and a half and got called again. Nice try, suckers! Of course, now that I've been back in SF for over a year now, I have of course "gotten mine" (as in, "You'll get yours!").

Of course, I'm not going to take jury duty lying down (not that they'll let me). I'm going to plead financial hardship. You know, because I'm a contractor and all, so work won't pay me if I have to serve on a jury. One thing that makes me this gambit may not be successful. There are three choices for household income: Under $20k, $20-40k, and over $40k. Uh oh. I hope these jury folks aren't best buds with the IRS....

We Don't Gnaw on Our Kitties

On Saturday, Susie and I added another member to our household: a one-year-old Siamese mix cat named Claudio (pictures forthcoming). After a fruitless Friday of East Bay kitty searching, on Saturday we discovered an pet adoption fair. We were looking for a kitten, but after over at least an hour of frazzled indecision, we settled on Claudio (nee Simba, aka Bo) because of his calm, cool demeanor, handsome seal-point markings, and enormous, beautiful blue eyes.

He's now settling in well at Casa Fong-Hiatt (despite recent diagnoses and treatments for an eye infection and tapeworms... TMI?); however, Viola, princess of the roost, isn't quite so sure about this newcomer. Yes, there have been incidents of hissing and swatting. This hostility is a completely new side of our previously sweet, friendly cat. Sadly, we have to keep the kitties in separate rooms while they acclimatize to one another.

Another great surprise for us has been cat vocalization. It's sound we'd never heard before: part growl and part meow, and really does sound like a cross between a choral exercise and a coyote howl. Apparently it's some sort of warning sound that cats make to ward off other cats. It's something that everyone should hear. I wonder if I can upload a .wav file of it....

Congratulations, You Are Our 100th Visitor!

Just noticed that my site counter has ticked over 100. Kinda weird, considering I think I've only told about 5 people about this site. I guess all sorts of people randomly stumble in through blogspot. I bet they find it interminably boring. And no one leaves comments! I suppose that's ok though; it's probably better than getting nasty comments of the kind that Cathy gets on her site.

The Big Three-Oh

*sigh* After having teased my older friends for so long about their advanced age, I'm finally getting my comeuppance. Yes, this month I too shall turn thirty. I too shall be "old."

But I suppose it's not all bad. It's my golden birthdayafter all, so I got that going for me. For those of you without midwestern roots, a golden birthday the one on which your age is the same as the date of your birthday. And what could be a better occasion for a golden birthday than one's 30th? So at least it bodes well for a spectacular celebration.

And after all, my friends have had some stupendous 30th birthdays. Jamil's, of course, was a classic: He was (naturally) late to his own party; I got to meet Melissa for the first time; we all started out at a Tenderloin poolhall, and ended up at a downtown diner that served delicious (at least to drunk people) breakfasts in the wee hours. Joel's was a classy affair (at the Zodiac Club?). Jamil became the center of attention after 2 supposedly strong martinis. And I still hear stories about Ben's surprise birthday bash at Disneyland; sadly, I wasn't present. (I think I was in Italy, so I at least have some excuse.) I can only hope that my 30th lives up to these legendary celebrations.