Jesus Hopped the A Train: 4 1/2 Stars with Three Tokens

Whatever San Francisco Playhouse is eating, we want some. One production after another jumps off the stage and grabs the audience by the throat. This season we've already had 'Reckless' and 'Three Seconds in the Key' and 'The Ride Down Mt. Morgan,' all first-class, well acted and tightly directed productions, and now Stephen Adly Guirgis's 'Jesus Hopped the A Train' takes us through nearly two hours of subway-crunching drama and leaves us jumping up to beg for more.

Man! You're going to have to look long and hard to remember two more perfectly cast leads than Carl Lumbly as Lucius Jenkins and Daveed Diggs as Angel Cruz, both killers, both incarcerated, both guilty of their crimes and yet...you like them, you want them to get out of jail...well, maybe Lucius could go live in a far-away neighborhood if not on another planet.



As always, Susi Damilano is perfect as Angel's lawyer and Gabriel Marin, as the sadistic prison guard Valdez, would steal the show if it weren't for Lumbly and Diggs. But the real star is playwright Guirgis's dialogue, helped along by Bill English's crisp direction. It is clear that Guirgis has never matched the power of 'Jesus Hopped the A Train,' his first success (written in 2001), not even with last year's good-but-not-on-this-level 'Our Lady of 121st Street.'

Four smashes in a row. You've got to wonder how far SF Playhouse can run this string?

The Great Plotnik Theater Awards Division awards 'Jesus Hopped the A Train' 4 1/2 stars with three tokens: one for Valdez's smirk, one for Lucius's barely constrained fury while doing leg kicks -- Lucius and Valdez make us want to run for our lives -- and one for Daveed Diggs who has honed in on Angel's sense of terrified bravado. Him, we want to hug.

Go see this show. You've got until April 8.

The Rooming House is Calling the Shots * * *

Few people know the post-war history of Japanese-Americans and African-Americans in San Francisco. The Fillmore had once been Japan Town, but, when the Japanese were removed to detention camps during the war, blacks, mostly from the South, moved in to work in war industries and in the shipyards. Then, after the war, the Japanese-Americans came back but were not welcomed, while the African-Americans lost their jobs to returning white servicemen. Eventually, much of the Fillmore was razed for urban development. This is the historical backdrop to Philip Kan Gotanda's 'After the War' at A.C.T.

How is the show? Well, to begin with, the set is amazing -- Donald Eastman's circa-1948 San Francisco rooming house in the Fillmore District revolves 360 degrees on stage, as the house lights land on various characters residing in each room, each of whom has a story to tell. Actors run down stairs and up fire escapes as one scene ends, the house revolves, and another scene begins. The set is a tour de force.

So, 'After the War' is fantastic, right? Well, it's going to be. Right now it feels a little like watching As The World Turns. The scenes change so fast that few characters have any time to connect with each other, especially in the critical relationship between Chet, the Japanese-American trumpeter, who runs the rooming house, and Earl, his African-American roomer and friend. It's as if the rooming house is directing the play, showing itself off to the detriment of the plot.

But this is the kind of thing that happens in World Premieres. It will all change as everyone gets more familiar with his role and they simplify characters and tell the rooming house to chill a bit. 'After the War' is going to be great, but it isn't yet. I'd think about getting tickets for the end of the run.

Now, then ratings: The Great Plotnik Theater Awards Division awards 'After the War' a star for the set, a star for the story and a star for Mr. Oji. Three stars, but it shoulda been more. Woulda been more. Will be more.

Urban Homestead: Pictures of Stiletto City

Last weekend, The Great Plotnik took this photo out the window of the Flyaway Bus on its way from LAX to Union Station. This Urban Homesteader is about to enter his urban homestead, which he has set up on the sidewalk above the Downtown Clover Leaf Interchange.



In this photo, taken ten seconds later, he's inside his house. The bump is him. Shortly afterwards, as the bus sat waiting for a light, Plot saw the tip of an umbrella pop through the blue plastic, as Homie was trying to use the umbrella as a tent pole. Then, the bus roared away, coating the homestead with diesel glurrpp.



When people think about Stiletto City, they see Hollywood and Beverly Hills and Malibu Beach. If they drive on the freeway they see endless tract houses, mini malls, auto repair shops and burger joints. Few know about the neighborhood where PD, 5H and B-I live, studded with glorious Crafstman homes and even some beautifully restored Victorians.



Sooner or later, anyone who comes to the old hood ends up at Cafe Tropical. Baby I has been there many times, and she's only four months old.



After a fantastic cup of cafe con leche, one or two empanadas de queso and maybe a slice of guayaba pie, it's time to think about dinner. You really can't go wrong with El Caserio -- an Italian/Ecuadorian family restaurant where the Italian food might be good, but nobody knows because we always order from the Ecuadorian side of the menu, like this Churrasco.



And don't forget the flowers blooming at Mummy Plotnik's in March: golden kalanchoe, purple and white azaleas and red and orange clivia.

Dang, She's Cute

You've got to have some tiny little feetsers to fit into these pink shoes.



Baby I has taken several jumps forward since a month ago, when The Great Plotnik and The Great Ducknik saw her last. She can run and jump and play piano and hold her head up to look around, and OK so I lied about the first three, so sue me. But almost.



Staci has pointed out that when a little girl wears pink, everyone thinks she's a girl but if she wears anything else they think she's a boy. If a little boy wears anything at all they think he's a boy, unless he wears pink, depending on his hometown. Baby I probably confuses people in this outfit, but The Great Plotnik thinks she looks like a million bucks.



If the OLI job really does dry up, Plot has found another employer. This guy puts on his Dodger jacket, festoons his guitar with an American flag and hangs around the Flyaway Bus Stop at Union Station, singing this song: "In America, the women are the boss, the women are the boss, the women are the boss." He must need some time off. Plot could play this song on ukelele.



Dang, she's cute.

Home is Where the Sushi is

It's Tuesday night and the Plotniks have finished their take-out sushi at home after a several hour delay at LAX for mechanics to put a new starter in the starboard engine of the 757. The delay wasn't really all that bad, seeing as flying home on one engine would have been so much worse. The best thing was that the captain kept everyone updated every few minutes, and when he said estimated takeoff time has been changed to 5PM, he meant 5PM and the plane actually took off at 5PM.

Delays are part of flying. Plot used the time in the airport to have a conversation with a guy from the Gaspe Peninsula, below Newfoundland, who had flown into LAX from Ontario and had a seven hour layover for a 15 hour nonstop flight to Australia. Now THAT'S a long day. You get off those long nonstops and your legs are like olive oil.

It's very cold and windy here tonight, after delicious heat down South. It is recharging to Plot to see Mummy Plotnik looking so good and feeling relatively chipper these days. She slows down when she has to so she can speed up if she needs to. She really is remarkable. Plot has said it before and he'll say it again: does this lady in red look anywhere close to 92 years old?

Baby I Has Learned a New Trick

Yes, she's a little kisser now. Yesterday, as Plot and Duck were babysitting for her, she also learned to clap her hands to the beat as Plot played the guitar and Duck moved her hands. It was a successful attempt to get her to take a nap. After the 250th verse of "Pretty Baby Isabella," sung in any number of languages, she finally closed her eyes.

Tonight P and D will sleep at Baby I's house. Oh, boy.

No Isabella Sightings

Sunday morning in Stiletto City. Plotnik drove Ducknik through his old neighborhood last night, and even into his old High School. It was all mildly amusing, except for the Hummer parked in his old driveway.

In The Great Plotnik's High School days, his school was called the Braves. Now it's the Patriots. The old logo was some kind of tommahawk. Now what is it, a Cruise Missle?

Just north of the school, past the old donut shop that used to continually get busted for concealing drugs (we never knew what kind) in the cherry jelly donuts, the neighborhood has become Vietnamese, Persian and Central American. The food's a whole lot better than it used to be, but everything else looks pretty much the same.

No Isabella sightings yesterday. Shall make up for that in an hour. It's time for Cafe Tropical, a Cuban cafe con leche, guayaba con queso and a big glass of kisses from Baby I.

Yes, Blogmaid, There is a Computer Cable

We finally remembered the cable that connects the digital camera to the computer. Here in Stiletto City, there are babies everywhere, but only One Baby, if you catch my drift.

Yesterday afternoon TGP and TGD spent time with Baby I and her parents, and last night more time with Mummy Plotnik, Baby I and The Great Five Head. Everyone around here is totally exhausted. Isabella has a voice box on her, and has learned to use it. When she falls asleep people around her do too.



Yes, PP, that's your giraffe she's cuddling. She's so gorgeous. It's that in-between time, after cute little Baby but before Cute Little Toddler, when it's hard to figure out what is bothering her. In the meantime, Grandpa loves every minute he gets with her. His ears are shot anyway.



Last night, while four generations of Plotniks were eating takeout Thai food, The Great PD was at a LA Bachelor Party. Can there be any other city in the world where one of the items on the menu would be a Kobe Beef Corn Dog?

Hi there Wally

Time flies, doesn't it? TIAPOS was fun last night, but it was always better when Wally was there and Julie came to pick him up.

Leaving for the Magical World of Baby I in a few hours. Keep you posted.

Staying the Course

The more you read about all religions, the more similar they all get. Most of the time the message boils down to this: I was Weak, now I'm Strong. I was a Slave, now I'm Free. I was Empty (before I discovered Ra) but now I'm Filled (with Ra).

Most importantly, when I die, I will go to Ra. I will live forever. Depending on which Ra I believe in, there may be virgins.

The Great Plotnik has been preparing to host a seder at World Headquarters this year, for the first time ever, and this has led him to much reading about ancient history, which is basically about Ra, and about warfare. It is always important to remember, when reading about warfare, that you're only reading the history that the people who won the war want you to read about, and the first thing conquerors always do, after killing, enslaving and whooptydoo, is to outlaw the old Ra and establish the new Ra.

We think Bush has a hard head? Read about Pharaoh and the plagues. God visits one misery after another upon Pharaoh: Frogs. Locusts. Famine. Boils. Death of Livestock. Death of First Born. One disaster after the other, and all Pharaoh has to do to stop the carnage is let the Israelites cross the river and go back to Canaan where there's another famine raging anyway, big deal.

But Pharaoh knows in his heart that Ra is on his side, so he insists on staying the course. And stay the course he does. Cue the Angel of Death.

We all know how the story ends. Yul Brynner chases Charlton Heston to the Red Sea, and the friendly gefilte fish use all their gelatin to part the Red Sea so the Israelites, who are carrying their matzos and jars of horseradish, can get safely across. Then the gefiltes swim away and the water sweeps down and drowns Pharaoh's army and that's that.

But the thing is: supposedly this all took place around 1420 B.C., but it wasn't written down until almost a thousand years later. I ask you: what do you remember from 1,000 years ago? Plotnik can't remember where he put his keys yesterday.

So historically accurate, it maybe isn't. Still, the important part is this: Yesterday we were slaves, and today we're free. That's a great message and one worth celebrating, and all thanks to Ra and the friendly gefiltes.

GUMBO

The Great Plotnik had never made gumbo until yesterday (and the day before). It always seemed a bit daunting -- making a roux, and all that seafood, and at least twenty steps -- but he and Ducknik have been living next door to The Gumbo Doctor for years and they've tasted unbelievably delicious concoctions that have come out of GD's gumbo pot, and some day maybe she's gonna move to Sonoma, or the Plotniks to Argentina, and then what? Fortunately, the fabulous Pat Conroy cookbook came along, and there was the recipe for the gumbo Conroy made while writing The Great Santini, and the logic goes like this: Pat Conroy is a great writer so he must be a great cook. Plotnik is a pretty good writer, so how bad can his gumbo be?

Two days later: YUM-MO.

The first day you simmer a chicken in herbs for your stock, and make your roux. The next morning you skim the fat off the broth, drain the excess oil off your roux, then cut up the chicken, throw it into the stock pot with the roux and continue simmering, adding more herbs and spices and vegetables, then more file to thicken it up a bit, then your andouille sausage and tomato puree, then at the very end you add your crayfish tails, shrimp and scallops. Meanwhile, that broth just keeps reducing and adding more flavor.



At the last moment, The Great Plotnik realized he had just made gumbo for 15 people. So he got on the phone and called The Great Domin-Nik and J-Whacky and got them to come over to sample the goods.



Gumbo is a lot of work. Is it worth it? Yeah. But the better alternative is to get invited to the Gumbo Doctor's house and eat up all the different gumbos that occasionally turn up over there -- her mother's, her brother's, her friend Sunny's, and of course the Gumbo Doctor's Gumbo. How does Plotnik's stack up? Oh, probably not as good as any of them, but it sure tasted nice over brown saffron rice.

Ice and Advil.

"Yes, ice. That would be a good idea. What do you think?" says Dr. U-Think? when Plotnik finally gets hold of him Monday evening. At some point during the last basketball game of the morning on Sunday, Plot felt a pain in his heel that only got worse as the game went on. He could have, should have, thought about, wanted to say "That's it for me, guys," but his team had just won the game before, and there were only 10 guys left, including Plot. If he'd have gone home, the game would have been over for everyone, and there would have been at least a few thinking: "He let us down. He's old."

So he played, and when the game was over and his team had won? lost? he grabbed his bag, hopped back over the fence, drove home, took a shower, and realized he was going to have trouble walking.

At dinner Sunday night it was harder than it should have been to dodge the hobos in the Mission. Monday morning, it was worse, which was when Plotnik called Dr. U-Think?.

The truth is, the older The Great Plotnik gets, the more these seemingly inconsequential things happen. A right heel that hurts to walk on means pressure on the left knee, and that's his most vulnerable spot. If he tweaks his left knee again, it'll only be a few weeks 'til the right one acts up. This is like lose Vietnam, lose India, then Europe, only this time it's true.

Plottie has always figured he'd crash and burn on the court, but has never thought about what is more likely: he'll just twist something and tweak something else and turn something else and bruise something else and when all the twists and tweaks and turns and bruises add up he'll be playing billiards or riding around in a golf cart.

But in the meantime, there's ice. Ice and Advil. It's amazing what good medicines these two are. Even Dr. U-Think? said so. "Advil, yes. That's a good idea. And ice. Yes. Ice and Advil. What do you think?"

Allen Iverson's opinion about the chicken. It's chicken! It's just...chicken!

Many thanks to The Great Dancenik for alerting TGP to the Borowitz Report today. Indeed, the Zyprexa™ March Bipolar Disorder (new, sponsored and more politically correct name for March Madness) is right around the corner.

Once again, The Great Plotnik appears to be out of step with his fellow restaurant reviewers. Though the two women at the table announced that the Fried Chicken at Maverick is delicious, TGP has to rate it no better than third of the three fried chicken establishments that the Shmonikle rated the three best in SF.

For one thing: 2 pieces for $18! Come on Dudes. How many Ps can you put in Pretentious? This is fried chicken, and it's good fried chicken, but it's not great fried chicken. Plotnik is starting to sound like (NBA Reference Alert) Allen Iverson: Chicken! It's chicken! It's just...chicken! Chicken! It's just...chicken!

The Front Porch is the juiciest and The Hard Knox Cafe is the best. Maverick...maybe terrific for $10. But $18? With a thimble of mustard greens? Jeez, Louise, it's chicken! It's just...chicken!

The Wearin' o' the Reddish Brown

Little Jack's Dad and Little Jack's Mom really know how to throw a party. Their plan is simple: invite everybody you know, plus everybody in the neighborhood, plus all your brothers, sisters, your in-laws and their parents, plus grandparents, children and all the friends who go school with anyone else's children, at St. Cecilia's or St. Ignatius or St. Matilda's or Holy Mother of Sacred Beef of Corn. People pour in and out of their house all day and all night like beer from the tap, and, incidentally, there's a ton of that too.



This is Little Jack's Dad. He is the bbq chef, and he doesn't do anything in a small way. Yesterday he only bbq'd 80 pounds of corned beef. Yes, 80 pounds, and it's the famous corned beef, the recipe Plotnik stole after the first time he tasted it, the one where you boil the corned beef in Guinness and then finish it on the bbq with a dijon/honey/brown sugar glaze. Gawrshallmighty.

This means Plot and Duck were blessed to eat two St. Pat's corned beef dinners this year, the first scrumptious one at Silent Bill and Mush's and the second at Little Jack's Dad and Little Jack's Mom's house.



This is Little Jack's Mom. She is your Basic Green, Irish to the leprechaun core. She has 15 brothers and 24 sisters, or maybe more, and they all live within half a block of each other. They all seem like really nice people too. Actually, Plot and Duck know that's true because they've been blessed for years to be invited to various parties or camping trips with the Lucases and Monaghans, mostly Monaghans.



This is the corned beef. Reddish brown and ridiculously, idiotically, perhaps criminally delicious.



This is the Irish Soda Bread. No pictures of the potatoes, the cabbage, the carrots, the salads, the appetizers, the cream puffs or the little shamrock cookies.



This is Little Jack's Dad with his brother Little Jack's Uncle. The intersting part here is that Uncle Jim, on the right, used to work with Plotnik at On Line for Idiots, and it was he who introduced the Plotniks to their contractor, his brother, and the rest is history.

How many of you have used a contractor you ever wanted to see again after the job was finished? Only the Plotniks. Little Jack's Dad is a fine contractor but damn, can he cook.



But let's be honest. Plotnik let everyone down. Unless they're kidding: when he was invited to the party he was asked to bring his accordion. Naturally, he figured that they were joking, that like all his other friends nobody ever really wants to hear the accordion, that he would walk in the door with his accordion strapped on and people would start to hoot and haw. Wrong. He has now promised on the Sacred Reddish Brown that he will never, ever, come to another party at Jack's house without bringing his accordion...unless they really are still kidding.

The Dervishes

Can it be three years ago this month that the Plotniks were in Istanbul, watching in awe as the dervishes whirled, 'way too fast for the lens to keep them in focus?

I Dunno. Wadda U-Think?

Spring has sprung. Yin has yanged. The first red and white fuscias, the first blue native iris, the first yellow tulips, the first coral daylilies. The tomatoes are in their pots, already planning their greatest production for whenever Plot and Duck are traveling somewhere else.

Man, these keys are loud! Yesterday, The Great Plotnik had his meeting with Dr. U-Think? Plot has decided to call him Dr. U-Think? because no matter what Plotnik asks, the answer is I Dunno, Wadda U-Think? Thankfully, despite unparalleled amounts of previous worry, Plottie appears to be reasonably healthy, at least for the time being, and thanks for asking, though he does wish Dr. U-Think would stop saying things like "Humans are programmed to live until around 35. So, as we age, our bodies are trying to kill us off. Each organ is trying to fail. It is my job as your physician to keep you alive."

"You think?"

Plot has not been hearing all that well lately. Since he was in the office anyway, he reported to Dr. U-Think? that his, Plottie's, hearing was failing. In the middle of his story about Great Uncle Izzie who was stone deaf but until he died at close to 100 insisted on calling on the phone --

"Hello?"

"WHATTTT?"

"Oh, hi Uncle Iz."

"WHATTTT?"

... Dr. U-Think? suggested he look in The Great Ears, before he fit Plot with a hearing aid. Imagine Plot's surprise when the prognosis was that both ears were completely clogged with, well, let's call it Heroic Material.

"Is this something you can treat, Doctor?" Plottie asked.

"I dunno, wadda U-Think?" said Doctor U.

It took five minutes. Today, both ears having been washed out, Plot is hearing trebles he had forgotten about. The refrigerator gives a little vacuum whoosh when the door opens. The You-Got-IM signal is in three parts, not one. The furnace doesn't just go on, it makes a clicking noise first. That is a really annoying fretboard finger noise during that guitar slide.

In sum, The Great Plotnik heartily endorses checking one's ears, and the best reason is you can also hear your wife better. Is this an improvement? I dunno, wadda U-think?

Better See it Now

Yesterday, the Great Plotnik took a ride on the Art Train, which was a special run of the brand new T-Third streetcar. Also along were local journalists, a camera crew and all the artists who had participated in creating artworks for the individual streetcar stops. The concept was fabulous.



The delivery was not. Oooh, those microphones that don't work, those commissioners who can't pronounce anyone's name, those artists who should not be attempting to speak in public. But worst of all was the realization that these shore birds carved into the concrete, these African symbols, these names of historic ships, all done with the finest intentions, will, in very short time, be ground underfoot into the invisibility of grime. MUNI is always broke: they're not likely to be able to maintain streetcar stops on a line that travels through a minority neighborhood. Wish it weren't so, and Plotnik does not have a crystal ball. Hope things change.



Meanwhile, along the line one can see some glorious old buildings, like this church, which stands near a corner of a block that has four other churches and a mosque. Four churches and a mosque on one block means religion is the biggest business here. The city's idea, of course, is that development will follow along the streetcar line and improve living conditions for people who live here. So let's enjoy this church before it becomes a Blockbuster.

She loves hugging her sockplotnik.

Baby I loves her sockplotnik a lot. You can see by her smile that it reminds her of The Great P and The Great D.

Message to BZWZ about the Fish in the Jar

The Great Plotnik would like to share this article from March 16, 2003 with his daughter, the one who thinks you can't have Passover without stinking, quivering, and now-we-know-talking jellied fish that comes out of a jar with a screw top:

Gefilte fish calls on Iraq to disarm
By Reuven Koret March 16, 2003

A jar of gefilte fish, opened in Israel, has reportedly issued an ultimatum for Saddam Hussein to abandon his weapons of mass destruction. Coming on the eve of the Jewish holiday of Purim, the day that President George W. Bush has defined as a "moment of truth," the fishy comment has electrified the local community.

The utterance comes close on the gills of another talking fish story from the United States, published in The New York Times, regarding a large carp about to be gutted which reportedly shouted in Hebrew to two men, one a Hassidic Jew and the other an Ecuadorian immigrant, that "the end is coming" and "account for yourself."

The Israeli man who opened the gefilte fish jar, Garel S. Karp of Bnei Brak, said that the voice was speaking in English, but with a Yiddish accent. "I twisted the cap off the jar, there was a little pop, and suddenly there was a squeaky little voice saying: "Oy, vey, tomorrow's the day. Time has come for Mister Saddam to show his bomb." Karp expressed uncertainty over whether the last word might have been "bum."

Karp's wife, Sadie, confirmed his account. "I couldn't believe it. Garel and I were sitting around the dinner table and we hear this little voice coming from the jar, just after he opened it. I looked inside the jar and I could see the jelly still quivering."
----
OK, Great BZWZ, is this it? Is this really necessary? Well, if it is, The Great Plotnik is pleased to inform you he has found these options: Sugar Free Gefilte Fish, Pre-cooked Gefilte Fish and Carb Free Gefilte Fish with Splenda & Apple Blintzes.

The blintzes do a mean version of "If I Were a Rich Man."

Ah, Mexico

This is a view of the Grand Oxalis Highway in the Back Forty of Great Plotnik World Headquarters. Soon, with sun, the California irises on the left and right in the foreground will burst into various degrees of purples, followed by multicolored columbines still out of sight under the California irises in this picture, and then the bearded irises to the left should erupt in pinks, whites and maroons; already the day lilies are filling their flower stalks, in back of where you can just see Crystal Kitten guarding the tulips and lilies. After that, stuff starts popping up all over the place. In a few months, the back of the garden should be thick with pole beans. Huge, red, slobbery sweet tomatoes? Ah, Mexico, like James Taylor once said, not Saint Plotniko.

Tomato-growing zones are what count here. Like the Upper Deck and Scenic Overlook, where it must be at least five degrees hotter than it is down below. Tomatoes really need heat, so for years Plotnik grew tomatoes in tubs on the deck...until the redwood deck posts and railings rotted. After fixing the deck, it was determined a more home-repair-negative planting method was needed. So Plot devised putting self-draining flow tubes into the bottoms of two large pots, which would eliminate pooling water and, therefore, rot.

Except they clog. Yesterday Plot spent much of a beautiful day on his hands and knees, covered in mud, trying to unclog one of the pots. At the end of the day, it's still clogged. Ah, Mexico.

A Very Clever Ride with Jekyll and Hyde, but only * *

It's very funny and it's got fake blood and two old English ladies in drag. What's not to like? Very little, actually. Lauren Wilson's 'Chemical Imbalance,' at the Exit Theatre Mainstage, is a retelling of Robert Louis Stevenson's 'Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,' but this one is for the funnybone. In fact, the silly slapstick shenanigans seem even funnier because there are nine actors occupying a very small stage, all of whom manage to appear oblivious to the chaos occuring all around them.

Doctor Henry Jekyll has apparently discovered the exact chemical combination that can create perfect evil, and, as a Victorian scientist, feels obliged to try it out on himself. He's still got a bit of work to do on the antidote, however, and that's where the hysterical twins Calliope and Penelope, one a good little girl and the other a perfect little monster, come in.

The acting is great, the story is great, the production is great. Note to Exit Theater Publicity Department: You Might Want to Stop Reading Here. This is a blog, not a review. My official review will include none of the following.

We've got to talk about the neighborhood.

Christ! Wasn't Care Not Cash supposed to do something about this mess? The neighborhood surrounding Eddy and Mason Streets looks as grim as Dickensian London. Walking along Ellis St. to get to the theater, Plot and Duck saw junkies shooting up on the street and bodies littering the sidewalks. Trying Eddy St. to get back to the car after the show, the scenery included a small homeless camp where two really miserable old men held out filthy cooking pots, a wall of twenty or thirty men and women laughing, staggering and vomiting, and, in every breath, that unmistakable aroma of fresh urine.

What the hell? Two blocks from the main theater district of Union Square? What is going on here? Somebody tell Plotnik what the HELL is going on here?

It's too bad. 'Chemical Imbalance' is terrific. But the chemical imbalance outside the theater is beyond horrid. It is 100% unacceptable.

Oh, yeah, ratings. The Great Plotnik Theater Awards Division gives 'Chemical Imbalance' Three and a Half Stars, because it's that good, but has to subtract a minimum of one and a half for the misery surrounding the theater. No, it's not fair.

But think about it. Plottie is no prude. He is no stranger to hideous urban conditions in cities around the world, where national wealth is a fraction of our own. But, friends, this is his city. He takes umbrage when an old man with no teeth pisses on the side of his car. These conditions continue, unabated, every year, every election cycle, failed promise after failed promise. It's time we wake up.

The theater should not be penalized. Tough. Two Stars. --Doug Konecky

He Misses His Boys, But Saturday is Still Great

For most of the fourteen years that The Great Plotnik has lived in Saint Plotniko, Saturday mornings has meant a bike ride to James Plotz Middle School for a basketball game with more-or-less the same bunch of guys, followed by a stop at the bagel shop to pick up poppy seed bagels (the above picture is of sesame, not poppy, but that's because the bin was fuller), then biking home for a shower, Latte a la Plotnique, and a bagel with cream cheese, sweet onion and tomato.

Now, the bagels are still the same, but the basketball game has dissolved, after all those years (and more, since those guys were already playing on that court for at least ten years before Plotnik arrived). The reasons are many -- most of the guys lived nearby when we first started playing here, but almost all have moved since then, and primarily to the East Bay and beyond, as their families got bigger.

There was also a racial overlay that seemed to matter to some guys -- Plotnik loved listening to the trash talk, even when it was directed his way, but white guys are often intimidated and made uncomfortable by black guys' yapping (which, of course, is the whole point), and many left for other games. The game Plotnik now plays in on Sunday mornings was begun by white guys who gave up on James Plotz and started playing on the outdoor courts at Thomas Alva Ediplotz. It's fun and it's a workout.

But Plottie won't lie to you -- he misses the old game. He stops in periodically at the Cheese Steak Shop on Divis to see Rico, or at the Drake Hotel to see LaBan, and Sam comes to Ediplotz on Sundays now, but it's not the same. Plottie misses his boys. He wouldn't even be surprised if they miss him, now and again, when they need someone to pick on and Plottie's not there.

OK, here it is: in the Sunday game, when Plotnik scores a basket, he scores a basket. That's it. In the Saturday game, when he scored a basket it gave him trash talk rights for ten seconds. Not that he ever was very good at it, but he had the right to gloat. That was really fun. In the Sunday game, it's all business.

And that's good. The Sunday guys are sweethearts, there are no arguments, never any anger or bad blood. But that's bad too. There is something missing, something undefinable. Maybe it will come with time.

On the other hand, the Saturday bagels are better than ever, and the bike ride to get them is always enough to open up the arteries for more cream cheese, tomato and sweet onion.

The Old Buttery Salty Clam

Yesterday, The Great Plotnik and The Great Ducknik went to Costco so Duck could pick up her new twelfth pair of glasses. (Last night, The Poet Large Pants wrote about his own trip to the Price Club (which became Costco) some years ago. Was this a coincidence? I think NOT.)

Afterwards, it was time for lunch. Do you have a place you've been passing for years but never quite stopped to check out? For the Plots, this was The Old Clam House on Bayshore. Surrounded by industrial supply houses and car repair shops, TGP expected the place to be packed with happy local lunchers. Wrong.

What he found was a pricey and nearly empty Irish bar/seafood house with an unreconstructed menu that could have been ripped from a Redbook Magazine in the 1950s. (Well, it does say 'Old' on the restaurant name, doesn't it? Shouldn't have been a surprise.) The food was good, and portions very large. The fish was fresh and there was a lot of it. The bar has metal saddles instead of seats, which ought to cut down on dawdlers during happy hour.



But someone ought to tell the Old Clam House that it's 2007. Tastes have changed. Those scallops and shrimp in the top picture were tasty, but ridiculously, idiotically (criminally? no) buttered and salted. Maybe this is how workers ate in 1942, but they were going to war. And prices ain't cheap, which perhaps accounts for why there were few workers inside.



Duck's seafood curry was pretty good, though. The Old Clam House is probably counting on a huge inrush of business after the New Home Depot opens, if they ever start construction down the street, which may or may not ever happen. Liking the idea of tradition, if not the cooking methods, The Great Plotnik hopes things work out for the Old Clam.

Pesto con Trofie

Trofie are unknown by many lovers of pasta, and it's a pity. They are hand-made little strips of egg dough that come from Liguria and Umbria in Italy's North. Not coincidentally, that's also where the world's tastiest basil grows wild. So trofie with pesto is a natural.



Pair it with some roast chicken and cucumber/tomato/red pepper/lemon salad and you've got yourself a serious meal.

You can buy trofie at Rainbow, in a corner bin where they've got all the off-center pastas. They're not cheap -- $4.95/pound, but half a pound feeds two with leftovers and it's really worth it when you're making pesto.

Incidentally, The Great Plotnik's pesto recipe could not be easier: Take two or three garlic cloves and put 'em in the food processer (you can easily do this by hand in a mortar and pestle, it just takes a little longer). Grind a few seconds, then add a few TBS pine nuts. Grind a few more seconds, then add a bunch of fresh basil, stems removed. Grind a second or two and then drizzle in olive oil, while grinding, up to 1/3C but probably less, until you start to see that your pesto has the consistency you like. You can put a few TBS pecorino romano cheese in too, or parmagiana. The whole thing takes less than five minutes.

After you cook the trofie for seven minutes or so, drain the water but save 2-3 TBS to dilute the pesto. This way, when you add the pesto to the trofie, the starchy pasta water helps the pesto adhere to the pasta. Yum-a-bella!

The Funniest Night of the Year, Another Episode

Last night, the Silly Committee got together for its annual chuckle. Formed at the end of the last century, ostensibly to plan the upcoming April Fool Lampoon Issue of the Noe Valley Voice, the evening has degenerated, over the years, into a series of pathetic puns, racial, religious, sexual and species intolerances and a totally warped and seditious view of each event that occurred during the preceding few months. The corrupt and alcoholic public figures responsible for these events are considered fair game. Also, we make stuff up. Out of this, somehow, Generalissima Smith manages to cobble together two or three pages of doggerel that is always pretty damned funny.

The April Fool Issue itself is indeed tame, filled with lame hairballs compared to the ideas of pure genius the Committee comes up that don't make the cut, especially as the evening wears on and the pizzas, wine, beer, port, cheese, pastries, did I mention wine? disappear. The Generalissima is the ultimate arbiter about what is in really, really bad taste and what is only in really bad taste. The rule is: if she thinks its funny, it's funny. But if she is staring out the window, or dreaming about her dog, Bruno, your best idea is 11PM with the News at 10.

Also, we love people with funny names, especially Ed Jew.

The Great Plotnik would love to leak a few of the funnier items, but although it is great news that the 49ers are moving to the newly renovated Day Street Rec Center (don't worry, they're keeping the dog runs between the 20 and 30 yard lines), he will say no more.

Thanks to Barb, Heidi, Karen, Elliot, Sal, Kate, John, Tartine, Trader Joe's and Noe Valley Pizza. Everyone is very happy for Elliot but sad that he will be leaving the planet in a few months; still, with a little sleep he may be back when the baby enters Medical School.

If you want to have a moment of Deja Vu, go back in the archive to March 10, 2006.

Baby I with her New Cousins

Baby I is four months old. One night last week she even slept six hours in a row.



The Great Plotnik stares at her staring at him in this picture. He sees her Dad in the lower part of her face, her Mom in the upper part. But to tell the God's Honest truth, he feels like he's looking straight into his own eyes. He is hypnotized, bedazzled.



This past weekend, Baby I met cousins that neither she, nor her Mom, had known they had. Look at the gorgeous little girl on the end -- see her hair? Plotnik is thinking hair like that, only maybe not as blonde since there don't seem to be any blondes in either PD's or 5H's families for at least four generations or more, could...could...end up on Baby I's head. Or not.

If Plottie wasn't telling you, you probably wouldn't have guessed that the Mom of the girl and boy in the picture is sitting next to 5Head, because everyone looks so young. Whatever they are eating, Plot wants some.

Cousin Two Names Hits the Biryani

Plot and Duck had the pleasure of taking Cousin Two Names out to lunch on Saturday at Vik's Chaat House in Berkeley. The food was a little oilier than Plotnik had suspected, but this huge Bhatura Cholle, from which you ripped off pieces to dip in the seasoned garbanzos, was delicious.



The chicken biryani was also quite nice, but maybe not the Cauliflower Paratha. Here's a secret to ordering at Vik's: a three syllable name. You order at the counter, then they call out your order using a tinny Yugophone. The first two syllables are inaudible. And they don't just call out your name for your whole order at once, but for every single dish separately. You'll be back at the counter five times. So give them a name like Kaplinsky or Zazaboom. Here's how it will sound: "ZhzhzhzhzBOOM order! ZhzhzhBOOM order!" At least you'll hear the Boom. Take our advice. The food's good but the third syllable is crucial.



Cousin Two Names is happy and fabulous, and is already deeply into the planning for her wedding in July, when she becomes Cousin Three Names. It will be a bash for sure.

Crystal Kitten is Back on Duty

The sun has finally sprouted in Bay Area hearts. When Plotnik went out to the Back Forty and started pulling out grasses and oxalis, there was Crystal Kitten, where she'd been all winter, still keeping guard over the iris patch, visible once again. Today it was hot and it felt fabulous to play ball and run around for several hours, stretching out the muscles and tendons and ligaments that have been groaning and creaking since the rains started. Let the weather stay like this and Plotnik will stop all his whining about Southern California. They can't top this, can't even come close to it.

Salsa Soprano Whacka One Whacka Two

The Great Plotnik's friend John The King offered the Plotniks an extended loan of Season Six of the Sopranos. So, Thursday night, Duck and Plot sat down to watch the amazing unfoldings of the story. Damn, Uncle Junior, get a life!

How many people realize Mushnik had a cat named Uncle Junior? Does this tell you something about her?

Anyway, after only three episodes, Plot couldn't stand it anymore and he went to bed dreaming of spaghetti and meatballs. Yesterday morning he awoke and started chopping onions and shallots, to saute until they burnt the pan, then threw in garlic and tomatoes, deglaceed the pan, then cooked it all very slowly all day. The parsley went in a few hours later.

Meanwhile, he mixed together beef, pork, eggs, breadcrumbs, hot paprika and 1 TBS of the MOST BESTEST SECRETEST ingredient, mixed them all together, formed the dough into large round spherical wonderments, sauteed them on all sides and then, when the sauce was finished, threw in the meatballs to let them sit for a few hours in the sauce. A topping of pecorino romano finished it off on the table.

Meanwhile, many hits and whacks took place somewhere in America.



Of course, nobody ever did meatballs like these two:




While the Salsa Soprano Whacka One Whacka Two was cooking, Plot and Duck picked up the new bathroom counter top and sink, wedged the old one off, dropped the new one in and now only have to connect up the plumbing and the bathroom will be 1/50th finished.

I guess you need to see a picture of where we're at up to here. New counter top/sink, dropped in place:



Old counter top/sink, upside down under pool table:

Photo Session

Took some photos yesterday for Blonde Bombshell and her co-author Felicia, so they can have their faces on the marquee at the Huge Shindig in April. Since they had few great expectations, they were very easy to photograph. Duck's camera, as usual, took most of the good ones.

Photo Op

Today, Blonde Bombshell and her not-late-after-all writing partner are coming over to get a picture taken of them for their book release party that Mz. Mush has set up for them. Tiaposians helping Tiaposians. We like that.