Blogging Summit, West Coast-Style or When West Meets South

So I get an email with an attached audio file...curiouser and curiouser.

I recognize the sender, so I open it. A baritone voice begins...

Good evening Mister Procrastinator. Your mission should you choose to accept it, is to meet up with and extract as much information as possible from Beth, the Southern cultural maven. She will use her charm and vast intelligence to keep you off balance at all times.

As always, should you or any of your IM force be caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This audio file will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Write.

(cue sound file blowing up, the sound of gunpowder sizzling and the "Mission Impossible" theme)

Wooooo
Bump-bump-da-da
Bump-bump-da-da
Da-do
Da-do
Da-duh

First, if I invite you out? Unless you own the restaurant, you'll never get the check before me. Never. The sooner you accept this Elizabeth Kübler-Ross and move on to "acceptance," the better.


Second, I know that your ears were burning, you just didn't know why.

So I played phone tag with one Ms. Coffey, but she proved elusive, as she was seeing the sights and painting our town Coca-Cola red. You have to realize that with our hills in San Francisco, two things are an adventure here; phone coverage and radio reception. Email was a far more effective tool in reaching her, though it was sent a bit late on my part.

My original idea was for Beth, Beth's mother, The Missus, Procrastinator Junior, and myself to meet up at John's Grill. That way we could all have a drink and I could show off the offspring. Unfortunately, Beth didn't get my phone message and she received my email a bit late for all of us to go, as we were having dinner when she called. No problem, we all adjusted and I should've emailed her before she left the hotel that morning.

The Missus and Junior stayed home, and I was to meet Beth at John's because of its close proximity to her hotel and the fact that they have the Maltese Falcon allegedly, what is known to be one of three falcons that they used in the flick. Beth warned me that there was a pep rally crowding up Union Square and I was counting on taking a taxi anyway.

Speaking of taxis, I called a certain company at 7:49 PM for a cab. Now I know from previous experience that three of the cab companies use the same dispatcher...keep that in mind. I called Beth at 8:o1 and said I should be there in about twenty minutes. Then at 8:10 PM, there was no taxi and I called them again. The dispatcher half-ass apologizes and asks me where I was going, mumbles some nonsense to the cab driver that I'm a regular customer (he meant someone else in the building, because he knew the cross street without me telling him) and for someone to get there soon.

At 8:22 PM I gave up and drove, despite knowing that I would have to contend with the drunken alumnae of the University of Spoiled Children and their pep rally. At 8:25 I called the cab company and said to cancel it, because I was driving and as I said "thank you," they hung up. Wonderful people, them. I called Beth, updated and apologized, "we're not a hick town, honest. Just our cab companies are small town."

I drove through and over the pep people (kidding) and found a great parking place by Macy's.

The wonderful Miss Coffey was outside of John's, catching up with her cell phone voice mail. Now I know I've said this before, but it seems that every blogger that I've met looks much better in person and Beth is certainly no exception. She looks infinitely prettier and younger than her pictures and she had to dress up to the point that I am still self-conscious about my casual attire for the event.

John's is a wonderful place, though it almost as dark a tunnel. We sat down at the second floor and ordered only appetizers, much to the waiter's irritation. He was even more ired when I ordered a "virgin sunrise, please. I'm driving."


"A what?"

"Uh, orange juice and grenadine."


Obviously no Eagles fan, this waiter. I tipped him two dollars past fifteen percent and he neither said thank you nor "goodnight." May he catch something particularly painful and bothersome from Britney.

At any rate, the end of the negativity and on to what you the reader, came for...Beth, Beth, and more Beth. You know, Ms. Coffey knows all and can discuss all. She knows obviously knows music and literature if you've ever read her blog, but she knows much about life, too.


We talked about everything from "Top Chef," to food chains, from shopping to staying home, from commuting to the cost of living, from work to retirement, politics to pep rallies, and from our blogs to yours...don't worry, it was all polite, I said that was the end of the negativity. We talked of everything except The Walrus and The Carpenter. I almost brought up wrestling, but I bet that Beth would somehow know about that too, because you can't stump her.

We talked about what is was like living on our respective cities, some of the places we traveled, Tom Colicchio, and what the Bloggers Three were like in person. Alas, the night wore long and Beth had an early flight, so we departed. Just before we did, Beth inquired as to the whereabouts of the Maltese Falcon, a busboy said it was stolen. I thought they had replaced it, but I had neglected to read the part about it being replaced after Thanksgiving.


I took these pictures of outside the restaurant...




The "Headquarters of The Dashiell Hammett Society?" I thought that was my house.




The "63" is for the address, though Beth pointed out accurately that they will be celebrating their centennial next year. I pointed out to Beth that her attention for detail is why we have such things at central heating and clothing, because attention to detail is how great minds create great things.

Then it was time for the obligatory behind the back pic...





The first came out blurry, so "take two"-




...which was taken by man of northern European extraction, I couldn't quite place his accent. He cracked us up by saying "smile!" Note we almost have the same curls and you get to see the tip-top of my gray beard.

I had a great time, though Beth will remember more details and she absolutely tell a better version of what happened, as she got a whole lot more sleep than I did. I hope to see her on her next trip through here and certainly I'd love to see Atlanta real soon, as I had promised her that I would have the hypothetical publisher book a stop there on my first book tour.

Tune In Tomorrow

Maria
I've just met a girl named Maria

Um, no, actually her name was Beth and let me just say, that she is a true Southern treasure and a real delight to talk to. I'll fill you all in tomorrow.

But in the meantime, here is a picture of me having to struggle my way through the boosters of a certain university that was in town. They were particularly tenacious, dragging their knuckles as they wont to do. I had the misfortune of trying to cross their pillaging of Downtown San Francisco and I almost didn't get to meet Ms. Coffey.





So I have to get some sleep, else I will not just be singing Zevon's "I'll Sleep When I Die," but actually living out the song.

Travelogue The Sequel Part. III

"Another Starbuck's Ripoff"

Last year I had to point out just how cheap the people were at the Starbuck's at 81st and Broadway...


Customers of the Starbuck’s on 81st and Broadway, whatcha’ gonna do? Show me that Californians are wrong? That New Yorkers understand that hard work could at least be rewarded a quarter or two? Prove me wrong? Not likely, because y’all too CHEAP!


West-side!


That should "be rewarded by a quarter or two." Anyway...oh, what's that? Can you feel it? 'cause I sure can, yes...it's...a...rant!


So still on the Monday night tip, right after we hit the Village, we walked across St. Mark's to the nearby Barnes & Noble for a little reading material. We ordered a blueberry frappucino and a strawberry frappucino...don't bother with either flavor, if you can help it.


The thing is Barnes & Noble, is that you as a corporation, are lacking in consideration. The mystery section is just that...so small and pitifully stocked, that it's a mystery as to why it is even there. Second, there is no tip jar at the Starbucks. Can you see that big empty space in the picture?




The cheap bastards won't let the poor people at the coffee counter have a tip jar, "because the other employees do not have one, either." At least that was what was hinted at, they couldn't tell me directly because one of their supervisors conveniently showed up in line behind me. I still said it was wrong...nice and loud, plus I took a picture of it. Not to mention, I said that the neighboring three Starbucks franchises in the neighborhood should dump their tip jars here until this gets rectified.

"The Hotel Swimming Pool's Next Top Model"

That night, Procrastinator Junior and I hit the pool at the hotel for a relaxing swim. You all missed out on Naomi Campbell Junior, whom despite her meager audience, still put on a show like it was the runway. The resemblance was slight, though she was tall enough, had the accent down, and she had enough attitude to be the cousin of the model.


She didn't punch or bite the maids, but then again, there were none near by. She didn't want to get her hair weave wet, so she clung to the pool's coping whenever possible. I just dug it because she had to be on at all times, like there were dwarf paparazzi lurking behind the plants that were about to spring forth and put her on the cover of a magazine. Pre-coked out print models crack me up.

"Penne Alla Vodka & Mrs. Parker"

So come Tuesday morning, the youngest sister-in-law cancelled out her portion of the Manhattan visit. Because the youngest of her brood was coming down with a bit of a cold. This freed up our the earlier part of the day to run the errands that we were going to do on Wednesday morning. We had to go to Utrecht to pick up some calligraphy supplies, so that the Missus could create seating cards for the In-laws Golden Anniversary.


Then we hit the Garment District, so the Missus could hit the bead shops because she's a part-time jeweler. This and an unfortunate incident which I'd rather not blog about (nothing major, just embarrassing for me), ate up most of the day and it was time to get ready for dinner.


Yes, the dinner. The meeting of the minds. The Algonquin Table Redux.


I invited Becky first, then Chelene and last but not least, Coaster. I wanted to invite the great Is That So Wrong, but he doesn't even blog anymore and I don't know if Joyce Carol Oates had the literary mafia do something bad to his typing hands (or worse).


Let me preface this by saying that I screwed up, big time. I believed, though deep down I knew better, that I could get a reservation for 7PM with just four days notice. Nope, you will take 6PM or 9PM and like it was my response, though they said it in a more polite manner. I tell you what David Bowie, let's do a remake and call it "Aneurysm City."


So all had RSVP'd, though I knew that it would be a miracle if everyone could get there before six, even though two of the Bloggers Three worked nearby. I wore a shirt that bore my slogan and told the Bloggers Three to look for the Spouse, The Offspring and myself.


So we took a cab, because I panicked and believed that we wouldn't be there early enough if we walked (the hotel is some seven blocks away, in case you're wondering) and we got there with about twenty-seven minutes to spare. We had so much time in fact, that the Missus and Junior disappeared on me twice, taking pictures of Time Square in the process.


I made a reservation for nine, just in case someone wanted to bring someone else. The fine folks at Carmine's said they wouldn't seat us until the majority of the party showed up. They were nice enough to hold the table for us, as traffic and the Theater District crush conspired to do away with our table.


I must have gone in and out about a dozen times, relying on the few pictures I've seen of everyone here and there, plus a poor memory to remember them by. Becky showed up first and Chelene, just a few minutes after.


You know, men in Manhattan may have taste in food and in clothes, but they don't know sh*t about women. The fact that such two beautiful and charming women aren't beating potential suitors off with a stick, speaks volumes. Not to mention there isn't a picture in the world that does either woman justice. "Good gravy" is all I'll say further on the matter, as I have surely already incurred the Missus ire.


The irony was that during my meeting the two of them and trying to get ahold of the wife, who couldn't hear her cell phone through the ambient noise, was that I held open the door for Coaster and Poor George, and I didn't even know it. I have some recollection of it because Coaster is a lot taller than I expected and he was the only person of that height to walk by as I held the door.


Introductions all around and we were off to the table. Like I said, I made a reservation for nine and we had two extra chairs, as I wanted to cover all bases in case someone else tagged along. So if I were seated at the six o'clock position of the table, the Missus was at the 7:30, Junior was at the nine o'clock, Poor George at the ten, Coaster at the 11:30, Becky at the 12:30, and Chelene at around the two o'clock. Remember this configuration, because it was difficult following three conversations at a time, while trying to engage in another conversation.


Coaster was taller and wittier than I had imagined, though he was a lot more laid back than his online persona. Poor George has a slight resemblance to a cousin of mine, but his mannerisms and voice are exactly the same as said cousin! These two are probably the coolest couple I've met and they were cracking us up, constantly.

The waitress was pretty patient, considering we had time enough to order about four times, before we even ordered our first appetizer. She was not only a patient waitress, she was smart as I told her to bring the check to me so that Poor George couldn't pay it first (I do the inviting, I pay the check, Mr. G) and she was tipped well.

We covered jobs, ages, eating habits, where we came from, and where we're all going. Educational backgrounds and I found out despite our various origins, we all have a taste for trashy made-for-TV movies. I can't remember whether it was Chelene or Becky who said that we should switch seats, just as they do with speed dating.


I didn't know exactly what to do because as I had mentioned in Part. I, the acoustics in Carmine's lower dining room, leave something to be desired. Well, maybe not the acoustics so much as the hundreds of people talking all at once. If we all go there again, I'll insist on a reserving a table upstairs. I had Poor George talking in one ear, just cracking up the Missus and Junior while I was trying to hold a conversation with Becky, Chelene and Coaster.


On the menu was calamari fritti and stuffed mushrooms. Penne alla Vodka, Cheese Ravioli, Chicken Saltimboca, and spinach for the main course. Everybody hardly ate anything as we were all talking. Everyone was also amazingly patient with me, as sleep deprivation and searching for the perfect word, slowed my end of the conversation to almost a standstill.


It is certainly easier in life to talk online and via email. You have all the time in the world before you hit "publish post" or "send" to find the appropriate word or quote. It's a whole lot different in real time. If any of the Bloggers Three tell you that they're much more boring in person, they're just disarming you with their words, just like the jab of Larry Holmes. They'll knock you out with their words if you're not to careful.


"The Bloggers Three" from left to right: Coaster, Becky, Chelene, and the guy on the right is some a**sh*le that jumped into the picture at the last second.

"The Bloggers Three" and that a**h*le again. Coaster judo-flipped him a millisecond after this photo was taken and it's a good thing, as he was trying to put fliers for Appleby's in Becky and Chelene's purses. Not pictured: The Missus, Procrastinator Junior, Poor George, and Write Procrastinator, who helped to subdue the Appleby flyer-bearing menace!

Let me just say that it is rare to meet four people with such heart. Let me also say that if I were to base it solely on that day, Poor George has quite a future in comedy. Procrastinator Junior says he's way better than Letterman. If this were a blogging Algonquin Table, Poor George would be Mrs. Parker and that says a lot, as Bloggers Three could hold there on with any crowd.