My rant about the L.A. burrito (vs. San Francisco’s patently inferior Mission burrito) triggered some controversy, and spurred me to further research on this majestic fast-food format, second only to the sandwich in the divine pantheon of handheld foodstuffs.

Celebrity chef Rick Bayliss, while we may find fault with his TV persona, undeniably knows a thing or two about Mexican regional cuisine. In his excellent Authentic Mexican: Regional Cooking from the Heart of Mexico, he devotes just a single page to the burrito, confirming its origins in the northern, wheat-growing provinces and noting that as one travels south it is known simply as a “taco de harina,” or a taco made with a flour tortilla. He includes only one recipe, for burritos de machaca, that he picked up in the Baja California town of San Ignacio, and I can attest that it is authentic to the region, made from shredded dried beef (carne seca), fried up with onions, tomatoes, and chiles. Anyone who’s traveled in Baja has probably eaten one of these.

Meat? Check. Beans? Check. Tortilla? Check.

As for the burrito being invented in Aztlan, the northernmost territories that are now part of the USA, there is also considerable documentation, though it appears that New Mexico has a better claim than Alta California as the actual birthplace. According to Encyclopedia of American Indian Contributions to the World, the Pueblo peoples were making flour tortillas long before the Spanish showed up, and wrapping them around meat and beans to make a taco-like snack.

Yet while the Anasazi may have invented it, and while the first printed recipe appeared in a collection of New Mexico recipes from 1934, Mexican Cookbook by Erna Fergusson, the burrito as we know it today clearly got its start in Los Angeles, where it was on the menu as early as the 1920s at the legendary El Cholo, then known as the Sonora Cafe.

Mission style: More rice than a Chinese freighter

The Mission burrito, by comparison, can only be dated back to the early 1960s, when El Faro owner Febronio Ontiveros had to make a big batch of “sandwiches” for a nearby firehouse, and threw in everything but the kitchen sink. Now the most widely known burrito format in the US (thanks to chain-store abominations like Chipotle), the Mission burrito is distinguished by too much rice, whole (rather than refried) beans, and a generous slathering of guacamole and sour cream, yielding an arm-thick product that has to be wrapped tightly in foil to keep it from exploding.

San Diego style, con papas

San Diego is also known for a local mutation on the theme, the so-called “California burrito,” easily recognized by the inclusion of French fries as an ingredient. And as one heads further south, any number of even stranger ingredients may be encountered (chopped hot dogs anyone?). In all regions, burritos may be deep-fried (the chimichanga or chivichanga) or smothered in sauce (a “wet,” “mojado,” or “enchilada style” burrito). For the record, I enjoy all of these variations on the theme (except, maybe, the hot dog burrito). Any burrito is better than no burrito. But in my heart of hearts, the LA burrito still reigns supreme

The LA burrito seems a bit austere when compared to these other forms. Beans, meat, and a flour tortilla are the only essentials, frequently augmented by cheese and/or salsa. Certain meat fillings, like the insanely hot chile verde from the now-defunct Acapulco Taco Bar in Monterey Park, require no additives, while others, like carne asada or chicken, usually need some added salsa. And cheese is just always a good idea, isn’t it? Everything else I can take or leave, except rice, which I will always leave. Don’t get me wrong, I love Chinese food. Just not in my burrito, thank you.

When I tell my California friends about my Florida vacation, they screw their foreheads into puzzled furrows and ask why? Why go THERE? If the East Coast is a mysterious foreign land to most Californians, Florida is the equivalent of Darkest Nowhere, where friendly serial killers and retired New Yorkers rub shoulders with Cuban gangsters and mullet-topped gator hunters under the sticky heat of a  Disney sun. And all of that may indeed be true for the east coast of Florida, but not for the west side.  Except, of course, for the mullet, which is native to all areas of the state.

But in west Florida the mullet is more than just a haircut, it’s also a fish. A small fish, typically smoked and mashed into something that looks like tuna salad, but is a million times tastier.  It is one of the appetizers at Waltz Fish Shak, an insanely great restaurant in Madeira Beach, just north of St. Pete on the Gulf side. Which is number one on my list of things to do on the Other West Coast.

Walt’z Fish Shack – Located in a brightly painted old house at the edge of the John’s Pass tourist district, just a few blocks from Hooter’s and Bubba Gump, Walt’z is one of the best seafood restaurants anywhere.  The chalkboard menu is short – three starters, three entrees, one dessert.  Everything is super fresh, and when it’s gone it’s gone.  If they have it, get the grilled grouper with rice and slaw. Or the crab cakes. Or the softshell crab. And don’t even think of leaving without a slice of key lime pie – they only have one dessert for a very good reason.

St. Pete Beach – Miles of fine white sand, water warm enough to swim in, great beach bars, this is one of my favorite beaches anywhere. And the sun even sets in the right direction – over the water! It’s like Mexico but without the nagging beach vendors and severed heads. Plus you can eat the salad without getting sick! But why eat a salad when you can have a big messy cheeseburger at Sandbar Bill’s Beach Bar, one of the amenities at…

The Bon-Aire Resort Motel – If you’re the all-inclusive type you can stay at one of the pink monstrosities down the beach, but if you love mid-20th century style you must stay at the Bon-Aire. Built in 1950, it is a fine example of mid-century architecture and just an all-around great place to stay. A clean, quiet, spacious room on the beach with powerful A/C and all the amenities goes for well under $100. And if you want to stay longer they have “efficiency” units, which are nice little apartments with full kitchens. Laze around on the beach all day and run up a tab at Sandbar Bill’s – you will not be disappointed. I’m not going to tell you what to drink, but the banana dacquiri is exceptional, with a velvety texture and a nice extra tot of rum poured into the straw.

The Dali Museum – If you’re a fan, you must go. This is the largest and most important collection of the artist’s work anywhere in the world, including Spain. Trust me – I’ve been to the Dali Museum in Figueres and the artist’s home in Port Lligat, and this is a must-see collection, notable for its numerous “best of” works: Daddy Long Legs of the Evening, The Disintegration of Memory, Columbus Arriving in the New World, DNA, Nature Morte Vivant – the list goes on and on. The building itself is also pretty stunning, and it’s in a great location on the St Petersburg waterfront.

Ybor City – Across the causeway in Tampa, Ybor City is the old cigar-rolling district, full of gorgeous old brick buildings, iron balconies, and other well-preserved architectural relics. Though it’s a bit touristy, it’s still well worth a visit, especially if you’re in need of a tattoo, a cigar, or a place to get trashed on Spring Break. Or if that’s not your style, check out…

The Tampa Brewing Company – Located in Ybor City, this is a truly great brewpub in an area not known for its craft beers. It’s an ambitious operation that may have as many as 18-20 house-made beers on tap, all respectable and some outstanding. The porter, the pale, and the seasonal ESB were all standouts on my visit. Throw in a solid kitchen, friendly staff, great atmosphere, and the historic location, and it adds up to one of the best brewpubs around.

Arco Iris Restaurant – Tampa isn’t Cuban the way that Miami is Cuban – it’s more Dixie and Conch – but there is still a sizable Cuban population here, and many good Cuban restaurants to choose from. We were directed to this one by a friend, and were not disappointed. It’s owned by a couple who came over on the Mariel boatlift, and it’s unapologetically authentic. Soups are especially good, and of course the Cuban sandwich.

Of course there’s a lot more to do, like thrifting, buying stuffed alligator heads, and getting fabulously sunburned. I will be back.

Well maybe yes and maybe no. This is a dangerous question to ask me, coupled with a very tenuous assumption. Of course Seven Samurai is great, but is it better than Rashomon? And let’s face it: the whole idea of rankings is ridiculous when you’re talking about masterpieces. If a film is perfect, how can you say that it is better or worse than another perfect film? Picking a favorite becomes a matter of mood, and I am just about always in the mood to watch me some Kurosawa. The best I could do to answer the man’s question was to pick my top five, in no particular order.

Ran (1985) Yes it’s long at 162 minutes, and yes it takes a while to get going. And no it doesn’t offer much in the way of swordplay. But a finer film has never been made from King Lear, and Kurosawa’s version is a seething cauldron of betrayal, heartbreak, and madness. Mieko Harada as Lady Kaede owns every frame she’s in, and Tatsuya Nakadai is an unforgettable Lear. The scene where he walks through the burning castle, oblivious to the rain of arrows, is breathtaking, a pre-CGI one-take spectacle where the set literally burns down around him.

Throne of Blood (1957) is Kurosawa’s other great adaptation of Shakespeare, in this case Macbeth.  It’s a dirty little secret among Shakespeare-lovers, but The Bard is often better in translation, and modern English subtitles over Japanese  is actually a lot clearer than the 400-year-old English original. Not that Kurosawa was ever overly dependent on dialog to tell a story; like John Ford, he came up in the silents and learned how to block out a scene visually, only adding dialog when it furthered the story. There’s no shortage of bloody action in this one, and a terrific performance by the great Toshiro Mifune.

Rashomon (1950) is the one that every film student has to watch, thanks to its experimental approach of telling the same story through four different perspectives. It remains a profound reflection on the vagary of experience and the elusive nature of truth. Yes, but what really happened? The answer is unknowable, even if (or especially if) you were there.

Yojimbo (1961) is one of those films that’s been remade so many times it seems derivative, but which was actually the original.  A stranger comes to town in the middle of a war between two rival factions.  A mercenary, he plays one side against the other until just about everyone is dead. As played by Mifune, the title character is a rude-boy ronin like no other, with a rough sense of humor and poor personal hygiene. There’s enough swordplay for three movies, including one of the best duels of all time. And if you still want more, there’s a sequel, Sanjuro.

Seven Samurai (1954) is Kurosawa’s best-known film, and possibly his best, a monumental epic that nearly bankrupted the studio when it was made. If for some strange reason you’ve never seen it, it’s the film that The Magnificent Seven was copied from, about a band of scrappy mercenaries who defend a village against an army of bandits. Toshiro Mifune shines as the Samurai wannabe who’s all bravura and no skill, and the climactic battle in the rain is one of the greatest fight scenes ever put on film. If you get a chance to see it on the big screen, don’t miss it – Seven Samurai may be the greatest-ever example of black-and-white cinematography.

Honorable mentions to Hidden Fortress, Red Beard, Kagemusha, and the other great films that didn’t make this list. Ask me some time about my seventh favorite Kurosawa film and I’ll think about it.

With all due respect to San Francisco’s  celebrated Mission burrito, let me be frank: it is not a real burrito. Real burritos are not packed full of rice like a Chinese freighter. Real burritos contain neither sour cream nor guacamole. They are made with lard-infused refritos, not whole beans and certainly not black beans. And under no circumstances are they wrapped in anything other than a large white flour tortilla. If it’s some weird color, like red or green, it is most certainly not a burrito.

Many world travelers conclude that the burrito, due to its widespread unavailability south of the border, is one of those made-up faux-Mex dishes like taco salad. Nothing could be further from the truth. The burrito was a regional invention, native to a part of Mexico that was ceded to the Yankees in the 1840s: Alta California. Some nameless rancho cook decided to make a few oversized flour tortillas for wrapping up the leftovers, and an important  culinary innovation was born, right up there with the sandwich on the short list of wildly successful workman’s lunches.

On a recent trip south, I paid a visit to Manny’s El Loco in East L.A. to reacquaint myself with the Real Thing. I was not disappointed. Thoroughly and unashamedly old-school, Manny’s has changed very little since I used to go there in the 1970s as a long-haired teenager.  Same orange-plastic decor, same clientele of working-class Chicanos and the occasional Anglo or Asian down from  Monterey Park. The few menu changes in evidence seem to be half-hearted nods to “healthy” eating: they’ve added a turkey wrap and something called a Santa Fe salad, and deleted the pastrami quesadilla, one of those freaky “only in LA” things that have now gone the way of the Chinese Kosher Burrito.

The king of Manny’s menu is and always has been the El Loco Burrito: beans, cheese, a chile relleno, steak picado, and salsa. It’s big, it’s messy, and it’s God-knows-how-many-calories. This is the burrito against which all others must be judged.

A great burrito is a symphony of flavors, and one false note can ruin the whole effect. At Manny’s there are no false notes. The tortilla is same-day fresh. the beans are runny, lardy, and cooked for days; almost a soup. The steak picado is likewise cooked down for savory goodness: round steak, onions, chiles, and tomatoes. There is no shortage of cheese or green sauce, made with hot peppers and tiny flecks of avocado. And at the heart of this beast, robed in deliciousness, is the mighty chile relleno, a study in contrasting textures and flavors: the chewy crispness of the fried batter, the sweet snap of the fresh Anaheim chile, and the gooey river of hot melted cheese inside.

Don’t get me wrong: there are some other great places nearby. El Tepeyac, for instance, is another classic joint, with an even bigger and gnarlier burrito called the Manuel’s Special. But El Loco remains my personal favorite, and the one I think of every time I settle for a riced-up, foil-wrapped Mission “burrito.”

Manny’s is located just off Atlantic Blvd on Pomona Street, a block south of the 60. Si mon!

Is it a special biodiesel model and if so, where do you buy one?

No, it’s just a 2003 VW Jetta diesel.  It only says “BIODIESEL” on the back because I bought the little chrome letters and stuck them on myself.

Did you have to make any special modifications?

No. Diesel motors were originally designed to run on peanut oil, not petroleum.  Older vehicles may need to upgrade some of their fuel system components, but most modern diesels are fine as-is.

Seriously? No modifications?

Okay, I made a few little improvements, but only for better performance, not because I had to. I added a Van Aken speed chip, a K&N air filter, and Bilstein heavy-duty shocks.  Oh, and when I switched over to biodiesel, I went through a couple of fuel filters in quick succession – since it runs cleaner than petro-diesel, it tends to blow all the accumulated scale and crud out of the system when you first make the transition.

Where do you get your fuel? How much does it cost?

I’m running commercial “B99” grade biodiesel, which tends to cost about 50 cents a gallon more than your standard petro-diesel.  I usually get it at Biofuel Oasis in Berkeley, CA, a worker-owned co-op.  It’s 100% recycled vegetable oil, filtered and stabilized for viscosity, so it doesn’t turn to lard-clots when the weather turns brisk. It costs a little more than petro-diesel, but I get the satisfaction of handing my money over to hippie chicks instead of Emirs.

How do you fuel up on a roadtrip?

First, I get 40-42 miles to the gallon, so I have a range of around 600 miles without refueling. If I need to go further than that, there are websites like Nearbio that let you find biodiesel stations on a map. And if it comes right down to it, I can always hold my nose and fuel up on dinosaur-juice at the local Chevron – it’s perfectly OK, performance-wise, to mix biodiesel and petro-diesel in the same tank.

Do you have any trouble starting up in cold weather?

I’m lucky enough to live in an area of California where it seldom dips below freezing. Commercial biodiesel tends to gel at around 32 degrees Fahrenheit, so users in colder climates often switch to petro-diesel in the winter or go for a 50-50 mix. If you’re truly hardcore, you can heat your fuel system.

Can you use straight vegetable oil? Or recycled oil from the back of a restaurant?

The only problem with straight vegetable oil (SVO) is that it can’t take the cold. It would probably be just fine here during the summer months, but for year-round use I’d need to make some more modifications, like installing a dual-fuel system. Used restaurant fry oil has the same problem, plus it needs to be thoroughly filtered before you can use it. So for now I’m just fine with commercial biodiesel.

Is it better than a hybrid?

In my view, absolutely. The mileage isn’t quite as good, but my car doesn’t need a couple hundred pounds of highly toxic lead-acid batteries to get the job done. And the dollars that I hand over at the pump go to domestic green businesses, not the evil knuckleheads at BP. And don’t even get me started on plug-in electrics: take a look at where the electricity comes from and you’ll realize that for most folks, these are essentially coal-burning cars.

Do you like it?

I love it. My car drives great, it gets great mileage, and the tailpipe smells like French fries.

What they say  /  What they mean

Austere  /   Depressing

Homage  /  Rip-off

Whimsy  /  Schmaltz

Feel-good  /  Throw-up

Date movie  /  Leave your testicles at the door

Bergmanesque  /  Boring

Must-see  /  Your idiot friends won’t shut up about it

Kitchen sink  /  Boring

Verite  /  Boring with nauseating camera work

Epic  /  Too long

Saga  /  Too long

Admirable  /  I hated it, but I can’t say so here

Workmanlike  /  See “Admirable”

Summer fare  /  Trailer is better than the film

Well-shot  /  I’m desperate to find something good to say

Well-lit  /  I’m really desperate to find something good to say

Imprimateur  /  Director is a dick

Auteur  /  Director is a dick

Ouvre  /  Director is a dick

Impressive debut (or comeback)  /   Publicist is better than actor

Oscar contender  /  Publicist is better than director

Oscar-worthy  /  If it wins, I’ll give you these magic beans

Nuanced  /  Too subtle for you, moron

Art-house  /  Money-loser

Childlike sense of wonder  /  Mental retardation

Endearing  /  See “Whimsey”

Uber-___   /  I went to college

Mise en scene  /  I went to film school

Delight  /  See “whimsy”

Lowbrow  /  Funnier than I care to admit

Adult  /  Depressing

Charming  /  Cloying

Take the kids  /  Take a Valium

Oh, and did I mention that this elegant shite-chateau has a twin on the other side of the road?  Seriously: show me a public school anywhere in California that looks this good and I will buy you a golden fleece seat cover to cradle your deluded bum.

In my Air Force days I had the chance to park my cheeks on one of those notorious $10,000 toilet seats that caused such a big stink back in the 80s.  No, it was not gold-plated. The explanation was actually pretty simple: the aircraft on which it was installed was originally designed for short sorties with an all-male crew, so it only had a stand-up urinal. But then they changed the rules and went to a co-ed crew, so the head had to be redesigned for sit-down use. And with military aircraft, you can’t just go down to Home Depot and buy one off the rack. Every retrofit has to be engineered to the same standards as the plane itself, and go through a similar process of design review and testing before it’s accepted. Which, when you think about it, is a pretty good policy, even if it occasionally produces stupid results.

Not gold. Mil-spec. Gold would have been cheaper. But at least it was the kind of waste that made sense in a convoluted way. As opposed to something like this, which makes my eyebrows go all Andy-Rooney-like in righteous wrath.

I remember when Californians were a hardier bunch, unafraid to turn their own faucets and jiggle their own flush-handles.  I miss those WPA-era rest stops, elegant in their sturdy frontier simplicity, with amenities like unbreakable aluminum mirrors and gritty powdered soap.  They were one step above the vault toilets you see in public campgrounds, but nowhere near the quality of a good gas-station loo, back in the days when the private sector prided itself on offering sparkling-clean restrooms to the weary traveler. Come to think of it, those were also the days when California’s public schools were the envy of the nation, not slugging it out for last place with West Virginia. If you’re curious about what went wrong, and what happened to our priorities, take a drive down US 101 to the Camp Roberts Rest Area. Don’t forget to take a stack of $100 bills to wipe with.

FICTION

Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell

You can argue that Mitchell’s reach exceeds his grasp, and that he tries a little too hard to lace these disparate stories together, but who cares when a book is this well-written?  The construction may be a trifle odd but the parts are all spectacular, and the whole is definitely worth more than their sum. From the South Seas of the 1850s to 20th century Europe to a post-apocalyptic future Hawaii, each tale has its own distinctive language and voice. Brilliant writing.

Preternatural (barely-not-magical) realism abounds in this entertaining novel from Peru’s best-known novelist. Alternating chapters weave two threads: an against-the-odds love story and a series of increasingly deranged radio serials. The setting, 1950s Lima, is richly drawn, and the English translation by Helen Lane is faultless. An eccentric, big-hearted love story that’s  really hard not to like.

City of Thieves by David Benioff

B-list screenwriter turns novelist and delivers a surprise hit. Based on stories told to him by his grandparents, both veterans of WW2, Benioff crafts a darkly comic classic. Two hapless youths are freed from jail and sent on an impossible mission: to find a dozen fresh eggs for a colonel’s daughter’s wedding. This in a city under siege by the Nazis, where food is so scarce that people are thrilled to eat library paste if they can buy it. Authentically Russian-flavored, full of black humor and vodka-breath pathos. Unforgettable.

The Death Ship by B. Traven

From the shadowy author of Treasure of the Sierra Madre, this is a sea story like no other. A sailor without papers hires onto a series of increasingly awful tramp steamers until he hits bottom – literally – as the coal monkey on a ship whose masters plan to scuttle her for the insurance. Part Conrad, part Kafka, alternately knee-slap funny and jaw-drop scary. Sure, it’s also a communist polemic, but it’s brilliantly written and always entertaining.

Shantaram by Gregory Roberts

This is such a ripping yarn that I have to forgive Roberts for his occasionally purple prose and overly earnest spirituality. When he’s not writing about sex or inner transformation, he tells a staggeringly vivid and original tale of life in the Bombay underground. Supposedly based on his true experiences as an Aussie felon who broke out of prison and fled to India, it features a rich and colorful cast of criminal lowlifes, dirt-poor shanty dwellers, lepers, and expats.  I’m not quite ready to shelve it in non-fiction, but it’s a fine read.

The Year of the Flood by Margaret Atwood

In the much anticipated sequel (prequel? coequal?) to Oryx and Crake, Atwood revisits her chillingly believable dystopia of genetic engineering run amok. This one very cleverly skirts around the edges of Oryx, using different characters to retell many of the same tragic events in a way that both adds depth to the first novel and stands on its own as a great sci-fi story. Atwood rocks.

Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned by Wells Tower

The only collection of short stories to make my short list, this is an excellent debut from a talented newcomer. Tower can be fairly compared to George Saunders, writing wry stories that don’t necessarily go anywhere but leave a deep emotional impact. Everything here is top-notch, but the title story, about a reluctant Viking leaving his farm to sail off on one last raid,  is 5-star awesome.

A Partisan’s Daughter by Louis deBernieres

Fans of the author’s more sprawling works like Birds Without Wings may be disappointed by this strange little love story, but I was charmed. Set in bleak 70’s Britain, it’s about a sad-sack salesman in a loveless marriage who goes out looking for a prostitute, and finds the title character instead, a mysterious younger woman from Yugoslavia who gets him tangled up in a web of her stories, some obviously false, others possibly true. Along with a satisfying (albeit sad) human story, it offers an intriguing take on the fabrication of identity and the seductive powers of storytelling.

Burmese Days by George Orwell

2010 was the year that I discovered George Orwell. Or more precisely, that he wrote more than two books in his life.  This wonderful novel, informed by his experiences as a colonial  policeman in the dying days of the Raj, is a bracing antidote to all that blustery jewel-in-the-crown balderdash. Each and every character, colonized or colonial, is portrayed as either a fool or a monster or both. No one is spared from Orwell’s monsoon-like deluge of bitter satire.

You Can’t Win by Jack Black

Another so-called memoir that seems better shelved in fiction, You Can’t Win is a true American classic.  Black rode the rails as a hobo, worked every con he could find, became a skilled yegg, served prison time, and eventually dissolved into a puddle of booze and opium, only to emerge, Phoenix-like, as the quiet librarian putting pen to paper to write down his life story. It’s an extraordinarily tall tale, mythic in proportion, and extremely difficult to put down. No wonder it was the favorite book of William S. Burroughs.

NONFICTION

Among the Thugs by Bill Buford

Reminiscent of Hunter S. Thompson’s Hell’s Angels, this is another case of an American journalist diving headlong into a violent subculture and getting more than he bargained for. Buford starts out with zero knowledge of English football and its fans, and winds up on awkwardly intimate terms with the hooligans, more than half-seduced by the ecstasy of mob violence. This is literary non-fiction of the best kind, where the story arc of the journalist/protagonist is just as compelling as the story he’s exploring; but unlike HST, he never lets his own saga overshadow the Main Event.

Dali and I: The Surreal Story by Stan Lauryssens

The savage tale of Dali’s spectacular global art-scam, as told by a Belgian dealer who made a fortune – and then went to prison – selling Dali artwork to rich idiots as an investment. The scope of the fraud is staggering, and goes far beyond those infamous warehouses stacked to the ceilings with signed, blank print paper. I went into this book a Dali fan, and despite some of the seriously shocking dirt that it contains, came out the other side even more of a Dali fan.  His manipulation of the art market itself , a kind of meta-art, was his true legacy, a masterpiece that makes Warhol seem like a rube.   My favorite story among many: how George Harrison of the Beatles paid $5,000 for a single hair from Dali’s mustache, which was in fact not Dali’s hair at all but part of a mustache weave. Dali’s stylist, of course, got nothing, and moreover had to foot his own travel expenses.

The Third Chimpanzee by Jared Diamond

Though Diamond is better known for his blockbuster hits Guns, Germs, and Steel and Collapse, I think this earlier work may be his best. Examining the human animal from a zoological point of view, it digs deep into many of our most treasured quirks as a species, systematically smashing the “we are different from other animals” myth.

Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman by Richard Feynman

An epic memoir, right up there with Ben Franklin’s. Like Franklin, Feynman was a titan of science but also a man of wide-ranging and insatiable curiosity about the world at large. His sense of humor is the engine that keeps these essays going from start to finish, playing down his accomplishments (i.e., the Nobel Prize) and playing up his curious obsessions, oddball charm, and lust for life.

1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus by Charles C. Mann

A highly readable and compelling survey of recent archaeological work in the Americas. In the best everything-you-know-is-wrong tradition, Mann trashes just about every myth you learned in school concerning pre-Columbian times, painting a picture of a world that was more populous, more technically advanced, and more culturally sophisticated than any of the “victors’ histories” would lead us to believe.

Black Trumpets (Craterellus cornucopioides)

Shave off the veneer of civilization and we are all hunter-gatherers.  To deny it would be a vain argument against millions of years of hominid evolution. For the modern foodie-type ape, there remains an undeniable appeal in tracking down and collecting one’s own food, whether out on the Serengeti or down at the local farmer’s market.  But the acme of these quest-for-food experiences, the most innately thrilling,  rewarding, and potentially lethal, is the hunt for wild mushrooms. Here in northern California, hardly a winter passes without some horrific news story about a family poisoned en masse by the Destroying Angel or some other lethal look-alike packed with toxic alkaloids. And it’s not a pretty death either – catastrophic liver failure makes your typical e coli infection seem like a day in the sun. Even a hunting  trip seems like Safety Day by comparison. Unless you’re hunting with Dick Cheney, in which case you deserve whatever you get.

Waterproof gear recommended

But with great risk comes the possibility of great reward. Armed with the requisite knowledge, savvy, and experience, the wily mushroom hunter can bring home rare delicacies that would either be prohibitively expensive or downright impossible to find any other way. So when our friends Chris and Blake invited us out to the Mendocino coast to do a little shrooming, we did not hesitate. While neither would claim to be an expert mycologist, they are deeply familiar with their neck of the woods and its edible varieties, having successfully foraged for local fungi for many years. And both of them have healthy, high-functioning livers – let’s just say I know this for a fact, and leave it at that.

After an oversized breakfast at their off-the-grid homestead we headed off into the hills with high hopes and a fistful of empty shopping bags. Also on our checklist: good boots, waterproof pants, extra layers, and a copy of David Arora’s Pocket Guide.  We found edibles within a few yards of parking the truck, and kept finding them throughout the day: mainly Chanterelles (brown, white, and yellowfoot), black trumpets, and hedgehogs. Mrs. M. found a “pig’s ear” Chanterelle that weighed a pound and a half.  All told, we foraged nearly 25 pounds of gourmet wild mushrooms between the four of us. But we worked for them, hiking five or six miles up and down craggy ravines, brush-busting through creekbeds and tangled third-growth forest. This was all on private land, on legal footing that ranged from friendly (outright permission) to neutral (absentee ownership) to downright hostile (KEEP OUT!).  We even had an angry dog after us at one point, which definitely amped up the thrill level and gave our adventure the sweet savor of illicit fun.

Our guide with a mutant Chanterelle

Speaking of the illicit, let me be clear that we neither searched for nor found anything psychedelic. A little danger in one’s life is a good thing, but spinning the wheel of chance for a cheap high is just flat-out stupid. Our intentions were purely gastronomic.  In fact, we steered clear of the “gilled” mushrooms entirely, a family that includes most of  the psychoactive varieties, as well as a few choice edibles and many of the more toxic species, including the aforementioned Destroying Angel. Seeing as I know next to nothing about mushroom identification, this seemed like a wise idea. That and learning from an experienced guide, rather than simply relying on a book. So there’s my safety disclaimer: go with someone who knows what they’re doing, or don’t go at all.

25 pounds of deliciousness

Back at the Rancho, hungry after a long day of vigorous work, we sorted our take by type, gave every specimen a second look to make sure we hadn’t picked up any look-alikes, and cooked up a mighty feast of mushrooms. Returning home with our half of the haul, Mrs. M and I spent the next few days cooking and drying. Our two deyhdraters ran around the clock, and I cooked a big pot of wild mushroom chowder that was out-of-this-world delicious. And yes, our livers are still fine, thanks very much.

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THE MARTINI 8 AFFAIR

A True Crime Story

By Jack L. Lopes

There’s an old superstition that says whatever you’re doing at the stroke of Midnight on New Year’s Eve is what you’re going to be doing all year long. I sure hope it’s not true. At the cusp of the new Millennium, as the clocks chimed Y2K and another dead calendar page fluttered off into the void, seven friends and I were getting arrested for climbing the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. Our plan to welcome the new century with an enviable view and a perfect martini did not come to pass. Instead, we became the last arrests of 1999 and the first police report of 2000. At the stroke of Midnight we were on a pier-side police barge, being searched and handcuffed while the fireworks went off around us.

It’s an odd and unlikely story that begins back in February of 1995, when my friend and fellow traveler Sebastian Melmoth suffered an unfortunate arrest on the Bay Bridge for drunk driving, and subsequently swore an oath that no liquor would touch his lips until the year 2000. His fierce will did not fail him, and he kept his promise to the end, but as the years went by he developed a powerful thirst.

A veteran urban adventurer and a connoisseur of the industrial arts, Melmoth has a particular fondness for bridges. He has climbed dozens of them, in this country and in Europe, and has introduced many enthusiasts to the pursuit. His first choice, and arguably the ideal spot to toast any new era, was the Golden Gate Bridge, but after actor-activist-moron Woody Harrelson and a few angry friends got arrested stringing propaganda banners from that span, the Bridge Authority went berserk on new security measures, welding access doors shut and installing surveillance cameras from top to bottom and end to end. By late 1999, Melmoth had settled on the idea of a Bay Bridge celebration, but he kept the final plans to himself, knowing he would have to pick just a handful of climbers from the army of friends and friends’ friends who had by now heard rumors of this unique New Year’s Eve celebration.  I got the call a few days beforehand — one of the lucky few. There were to be eight of us, and two boats. We would meet in the city at 9:30.

In retrospect, I’m nearly certain it was a bad idea. To begin with, the authorities were in hyper alert for Y2K-related terrorism and civil unrest. All the law enforcement agencies had cancelled leaves, mobilized reserves, and put extra units in the field – 2,300 cops in all. Second, the City’s biggest public celebration was taking place along the Embarcadero, immediately to the north of our route, and the waters around the bridge were thick with small craft looking for a good spot to enjoy the fireworks. Third, the bridges were particularly sensitive that night, thanks to their high profile as terrorist targets and in anticipation of millennial jumpers. In fact, there had been rumors of closing both bridges for an hour at midnight, and the Golden Gate Bridge was indeed closed to pedestrians. In the clear vision of hindsight, it was probably a bad night for eight people in black clothing, several of them carrying backpacks, to go climbing.

On any other night it would have been a different story. Most of our group had scaled this magnificent structure before, most notably Melmoth, who with nearly 100 ascents over the past 20 years has to be considered an expert. My Lovely Wife had been to the top before, as had the Psychologist, the Carpenter, the Armorsmith, and the Crusader. Though it was to be my first time on the bridge, I am a reasonably experienced climber, and I was confident about the ascent. The only other green bean on our team, the Survival Researcher, was likewise no stranger to working in high places. We knew what we were doing, and we had done our homework. We knew there was risk involved, but it seemed manageable. So off we went.

Things started well enough. Everyone arrived on time, and we enjoyed a quick beer in a South of Market bar before setting out. A sympathetic bartender poured us a generous thermos-load of martinis, on the house. We also carried my Trav-L-Bar, stocked with drink fixings and stashed in a black backpack, a bag of ice in another backpack, and two sets of oars, which must have looked a little bizarre as we walked the five or six blocks down to the waterfront. We made it easily to the pier, though, and hunkered down in the shadows above the Bay for our approach. “Eight is a lucky number,” I observed, and everyone seemed to think that was pretty funny.

The first ill omen came when Melmoth went to check the boats he had stashed under the pier. A high tide had pushed them up into the pilings, sinking one and swamping the other. After a half-hour of work, we had a single vessel ready to go, and Melmoth started ferrying us out to the tower, one by one. When he started, there were no watercraft in our area, but we spotted several patrol boats further out in the Bay, and the sky was busy with helicopters. During the first few rowboat sorties we saw flashing blue lights on the far side of the bridge tower, and determined that a Coast Guard boat was dispersing a crowd of pleasure boats. Sure enough, a stream of yachtsmen started leaving that area, and many of them decided to relocate on our side of the bridge tower. Sebastian, caught in the open, had no choice but to hail the first few buckets of Coast Guard bait and act friendly.

When the entire team was at last assembled on the tower footing, we had a quick discussion of our situation. Our chief concern was the pleasure boaters who had seen us and might call us in. We agreed that it was a serious risk, and that we ought to wait 10 or 15 minutes to see if there was any police response. We reasoned that it would be slightly better to get caught on the footing rather than inside the tower, so we waited, but after 10 minutes with no flashing lights, we started our ascent.

The night was clear and cold, with enough moonlight to make flashlights unnecessary. Entering the tower was like walking into a forgotten temple, a soaring cathedral of steel built in a bygone era when iron was cheap and anything seemed possible. From this vantage point, crawling on it like a bug, the scale is nearly impossible to describe. I felt like a prankster Jonah in the belly of a great steel leviathan, dwarfed and humbled by its mighty bolts and oversized girders, all rising up to heaven out of the mud.

We were more than halfway up the tower but still below the road decks, steadily climbing the sharply-angled ladders that zig-zag up the inside of the tower, when we saw the flashing blues below. We took cover in sheltered positions and waited for a surreal quarter-hour as multiple searchlights from boats below and helicopters above scanned the bridge. It was like being the villain in an action movie; I half expected Arnold Schwarzenegger to drift by, dangling from a rope with a cigar clenched in his teeth.

We were out of sight but not out of mind. When it became obvious that the cops were not going to go away, and that their next tactical move would probably be to clear the structure, possibly with SWAT troops, Melmoth climbed back down to sea level and negotiated our surrender.

The first two officers on the scene were boat cops, on deployment from the Richmond PD. As soon as they determined that we were not armed, not dangerous, speaking English, and not even drunk, they were relaxed and congenial as they escorted us off the bridge and onto a waiting Coast Guard inflatable. One of them even thanked us for not making him climb up into the tower. “I hate ladders,” he said. “That’s why I joined the police instead of the fire department.” The boat cops handed us over to another boat full of cops, this one a gleaming new cruiser with SFPD markings, bought specifically for the occasion of policing the Y2K celebration. These boat cops were nearly as friendly, searching us only in the most perfunctory way. No one ever pointed a gun at us. For that matter they never read us our rights, nor told us with any certainty what we were to be charged with.

After an invigorating boat ride across the Bay (a $14 retail value), we were offloaded onto a barge adjacent to one of the temporary processing centers that had been set up to handle the imaginary hordes of anticipated Y2K arrests. It was as empty as a politician’s promise. Huge chain-link holding cells stood vacant in a pierside warehouse, while dozens of cops stood around drinking coffee and eating donuts. The air was rich with the smells of oiled leather and stale pastry. After a flurry of jurisdictional wrangling, we were handed over to three grim-faced junior troopers from the California Highway Patrol, herded into the back of a prison bus, and hauled off to CHP headquarters. The three women in our group were diverted to a separate compartment of the bus, a process the cops referred to as isolating the “X-Rays.” It took us a while to figure out that this was cop slang for the fair sex, as in X chromosomes. The ride took a long time, owing to the fact that the Embarcadero was closed to auto traffic. Two members of our party easily slipped the bonds of their plastic cable-tie handcuffs, while the rest of us went numb in the fingers because ours were cranked down too tight. Melmoth, bladder near bursting, openly contemplated pissing himself as an act of protest, but ended up crab-walking under escort to a portable toilet when at last we arrived.

In the CHP briefing room, still cuffed, we spent a chaotic hour as four troopers and a cast of extras attempted to process the biggest bust of the night. The only reason we were there at all was that the bridge, being state property, was determined to be in their jurisdiction. When we tallied it up later, we reckoned that our arrest had drawn on the resources of at least six agencies: Coast Guard, SFPD, Richmond PD, Oakland PD, CHP, and the Sheriff’s Department. Levels of professionalism varied widely, running the gamut from “Fair” to “Poor” to “CHP.”

Two of the troopers, a depressed-looking blonde in her early 30’s and a wise-cracking young Filipino-American, seemed competent enough in a sleepy way, but their attempts to get us processed were complicated by a parade of half-wits who kept mucking up the works. The worst was a young thug who had been with us since the barge, and had already taught us volumes about the sorry state of law enforcement recruiting. He was a narrow-eyed 22-year-old wifebeater with an inferiority complex and a neo-Nazi haircut, the kind of slim dick who gets pissed on a lot in high school, then spends the rest of his life in an armed revenge fantasy. He had a sticker affixed to the back of his clipboard – and I am not making this up – that said, “LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M HITTING YOU.” Even the other cops seemed to loathe him. He did not think we were even slightly funny, and made a big show of re-searching everyone, taking down our names and addresses for a fourth time, and going through all the property and evidence yet again. He cut my cuffs to get me out of my wristwatch and wedding ring, then trussed me up in a new set that were even tighter than the first. He confiscated my cuff links, my bow tie and cummerbund, even the studs on my shirt. I hated him instinctively, and to keep it out of my face I had to think back to my air force days, and the coping strategies they teach in their prison camp simulations. Innocence and sincerity, I reminded myself; and never let them see anything else.

You may have gathered by this point that I am not a career criminal. While my thirst for adventure may occasionally put me at some risk, I am not in the habit of getting caught. I spent a night in jail 20 years ago at language school, after sucking down too much Canadian Mist and losing my shoes, and from what I remember it was a cozy little sleepover with cushions and good heating, a room to myself and a chauffeured ride back to base in the morning in a squad car. In my teens I got rousted a few times by the hometown cops, and once got yanked from a car and shoved to the ground with a shotgun against my neck for smoking pot in the wrong parking lot, but in 40 years that’s the sum of my experience with the criminal justice system. If I were a poor man, or a colored man, it might be a different story, but I am neither. I am a well-paid white professional with a family, three cars, and a mortgage. The only cops I ever see are on the highway, or parked over at Giant Chef. So what the hell am I doing getting hauled off like a criminal? It’s a question that would offer itself many times over the next 14 hours, and not just in my own case. As a group we were altogether too old, too accomplished, and too diverse to fit any kind of criminal profile. Our actions threatened neither the community nor ourselves. Most of the cops we encountered seemed to grasp this instinctively, and just wanted to get rid of us, but we met a few dangerous freaks like Trooper Wifebeater who simply enjoyed being a cop, and didn’t give a damn who we were or how we had arrived in his jurisdiction.

When the ChiPs had finally had their way with us, they drove us over to the County Jail and handed us over to the Sheriffs. Our plastic cuffs were removed, and after another brief run of paperwork, we were again sorted by sex and escorted to holding cells. The steel doors clanged shut with a hollow boom, just like in the movies, and there we were: Behind Bars.

I suppose if you’re going to spend the night in a drunk tank, it might as well be in San Francisco on New Year’s Eve. That being said, the experience never quite lived down to my expectations. I’m sure it would have been a lot more fun if I had been drunk. God certainly loves a drunk and looks after him, even in the slam. We met quite a few of them that night, and they ran the spectrum from ridiculous to pathetic to scary.

Of course one of the truisms of incarceration is that in jail, every man is innocent, so naturally none of these human accidents had done anything wrong. The guys who got arrested for fighting were all misunderstood Samaritans, regular upright citizens who had been trying to break up a disturbance. There were drunks who swore they’d never touched a drop in their lives, and one jabbering speed freak who claimed not only to be clean and sober, but an off-duty Oakland cop. “Wait’ll my Captain finds out about this,” he announced, fuming. “We’ll have some badges here. We’ll have some ass here.” He was a young guy named Singh with a ghetto accent, and he was as high as the Hubble telescope. Over the course of the evening he also claimed to be a high-priced computer consultant, a martial arts expert, and the owner of a 600-horsepower Chevy Suburban. He came in with a friend named Manny, a garrulous little Puerto Rican tweaker dressed from head to toe in white, like one of those Mexican Red Cross solicitors. He said he was wearing white because his saintly mother demanded it, because of their religion, and that he was both a computer consultant and a special combat instructor for the Oakland PD. They had been arrested trying to break up a fight. Neither of them ever shut up, but it was okay because they were enormously entertaining. It wasn’t like I was going to go to sleep. The authorities kept telling us we were going to be cited and released, and it kept not happening. Deputies kept coming up to our glass door and looking at us like we were tropical fish. They would pull out the stack of picture cards bearing our mug shots, rifle through them like they were looking for someone to release, and then put the whole pile back in its rack and walk away. This must have happened fifty times.

Around seven in the morning they released all the drunks who could stand up and say their names. Several of the guys who had arrived unconscious had stayed that way all night, including one scary fucker who curled up like a rat around a bench leg, snoring in tongues and farting like a poisoned camel. Even asleep, he made a ruckus that could stop conversation. He was a borderline DT case, and if you had bet me ten bucks when they dragged him in that he would be dead by morning, I wouldn’t have taken it. But ten minutes before the big release he woke up, threw up, and went strolling out the door the instant they called his name, no doubt flying off like a homing pigeon to some freshly hosed barstool. Likewise Manny and Singh, and the Irish guy with the cauliflower nose and the skinned knuckles, and the Aussie kid who kept saying “They arrest you here for getting pissed? In Australia they make you fucking president,” and even the sullen guy in the blood-stained tux who had called his girlfriend forty times over the course of the night, heaping abuse on her because she wouldn’t come get him. They all left and we stayed.

They let the lady bridge climbers go at 7:00 AM as well, but for no particular reason they kept us menfolk locked up for another seven hours. The San Francisco Sheriff’s Department is clearly the Muni of law enforcement. Even though they were fully staffed, and no doubt ringing up some serious overtime, nothing ever happened any faster than it had to, or with more than the barest minimum of effort. I’ve seen sleepwalking bureaucrats before, but there was a cloud of z’s in this place thick enough to choke even the hardiest go-getter. There was no bail or any of that; we were eventually cited for misdemeanor trespassing and prohibited entry into a non-public vehicle crossing, then released on our own recognizance.

If that sounds like an anticlimax, our attorney later whittled it down to a virtual non-event. The net-net of it turned out to be 20 hours of community service per person, and no record. And if you’re hoping to see me in an orange vest on the side of the freeway, don’t hold your breath – I’m doing my volunteer time with a community arts organization, under the direction of a friend who happens to be missing a small rowboat. While my crime certainly didn’t pay, neither did it end up costing me a hell of a lot. So what, if anything, have I learned from my misadventure?

I’d be a liar if I said I’d never do it again. Trying to live without breaking any rules is a fool’s errand, sure to crush a man before it kills him. If a so-called crime harms no one and damages nothing, then it’s not really a crime, and everyone with any sense knows this intuitively whether they admit it or not. I’ll not set off lightly, and I’ll take every precaution against getting caught, but when the rare opportunity affords itself to enjoy a cocktail on a landmark bridge, or for that matter to play moonlight golf on an army base, hunt station wagons in the desert, climb billboards, shoot propane skeet, run amok in a Santa suit, or go spelunking in abandoned buildings, the mere risk of capture will not likely be enough to keep me home on the couch.

That being said, my Y2K experience did in fact teach me several important lessons, and reiterated with blunt force a few that I already knew and took for granted.

1.    Don’t be a wise ass. If you’re getting arrested as part of a political act, then by all means exercise non-violent resistance. Link arms and go limp, make up fake names, whatever. But if you’re doing something that’s only marginally illegal to begin with, and doing it for no other reason than to add a little zing to an otherwise stultifying existence, it makes sense to move things along just about as quickly as you are able, with an eye toward getting freed. Look at it from the cop’s perspective: as soon as you stop being a threat, you are simply freight to be moved. Make it immediately clear that you are not a threat, and do everything within reason to assist in the speedy, efficient hauling of your carcass to a cell with a telephone.

2.    Be careful what you carry. If you know you’re going into a situation where you might be stopped and questioned, you owe it to yourself and your companions to go in clean. If you have any outstanding warrants, traffic or otherwise, stay home. Take your ID with you, and leave anything illegal behind. If you’re a serious loadie, you might want to have a friend search you, just in case you missed a roach or something. Don’t pout – you can always twist one later, after the action is complete.

3.    Remember you’re innocent. Be cooperative, be respectful, but don’t volunteer information, and don’t start making up stories. Never forget that anything you say can be used against you (whether they tell you so or not), and that jail cells are full of hungry ears. Act like an upright citizen and a taxpayer even if you’re not. Ask your captors lots of questions about what’s happening – always in a professional, respectful demeanor. Avoid anger and other signs of weakness. Remember: a righteous man does not belong in jail.

4.    Find a lawyer before you need one. I learned this the hard way, but now I know better. Look for one who’s a freak like you, and maybe go propane hunting together to see how he deals with stress. If he passes, memorize his phone number.

5.    Take the sack lunch, even if you’re not hungry. You may be hungry later, and the defining torture of the holding cell is that you never really know how long you’ll be staying. Even if you can’t stomach the chow, there’s probably some water or juice in there that will save you from having to drink out of that spooky faucet sticking out of the back of the communal toilet.

6.    Don’t be poor. Sure, it’s obvious, but I can’t think of a better reason to yank on those Yankee bootstraps and get to upwardly mobilizing. You don’t have to spend a night in jail to appreciate the deep divide between poor and unpoor in this country, or to grasp the real impact of race and class on our justice system, but it sure helps. If you are poor, you are the System’s lifeblood. And the darker your skin, the more likely you are to be poor. It sucks, but there you have it. The American Dream may be a longshot, but getting an education and moving up the food chain carries shorter odds than trying to change the System.

7.    DON’T GET CAUGHT. The only unbendable rule in the trickster’s supple rulebook, and the last one you ever want to forget. Just as a red light loses its authority on an empty street at 3 AM, so does a victimless misdemeanor fade into nothingness when it goes undetected. Plan for success, and visualize not getting caught. It may not always work, but it beats all the alternatives.

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Jack L. Lopes (a.k.a. Ernesto Vipers, a.k.a. Stuart Mangrum, a.k.a. Lloyd Void, et al) is so deep in the San Francisco underground that his beard sprouts mushrooms. A suspected member of the Cacophony Society and a known smoker, he is Publisher Emeritus of the Black Rock Gazette, and has served at various times as radio commentator, quiz show host, motivational speaker, Internet consultant, brewmaster, and cryptologist. He edited and published the ‘zine Twisted Times from 1991-1996.