The List

5 Things About 2015 So Far

5. Spent Friday night of my birthday with our friend the prison psychologist and his partner, hitting bars and then eating diner food. I like to remind our friend that he's not a real doctor since he can't write prescriptions. He, in turn, likes to remind me I don't know how to walk in high heels. I think that makes us even. Spent Saturday of my birthday weekend eating fabulous food (Out the Door at the Ferry Building, then Ad Hoc in Yountville) and luxuriating at a swank hotel that had its own pillow menu. (Hello room service, will you bring me more down pillows? You will? That's great news.)
4. Nine days until Oscar night. Oscars are a holy day of obligation for me. I have two more films left to see to complete all the major categories: Selma (Best Picture) and Whiplash (Best Supporting Actor for J.K. Simmons). I've seen two of the five documentary nominees and none of the foreign language, and I think it may be too late to do anything about that. Must hunt around and see what, if anything, is rentable.
3. There's a great deal of stress and upheaval in my worklife right now. Do we do it all or do we target more precisely what we want to do? Where do we all fit in the mission? Is the mission clear enough to even me? I wish I had better answers. Strangely, reading stories about David Carr, who died Thursday night--at the office--is giving me hope. He saw things with enviable clarity. I will miss seeing his column every Monday, the first thing I went to in the New York TImes.
2. A three-day weekend should help alleviate just a little of the stress. There's puttering to do, and books and the full series of Bosch streaming on Amazon. I need time with my people. The people in my house are my people. My other people live just a few miles or a few hundred miles away.
1. Tomorrow may be a beach day. Moss Landing Beach, specifically.

2015 Theme

That time of the year. Time to pick a new theme for the following year. Past themes have included "The Year of Hellacious Efficiency," "The Year of Grooming," and "The Year of Extreme Self Care."

It never, ever works out well.

This year's theme, in keeping with our garage being broken into for the third time in 2014, shall be "The Year of Fucking Happiness and Video Surveillance." And apparently, of buying new tools since they took every power tool we had, as well as half of the video surveillance system Chuck was in the middle of installing.

I have to hand it to these guys. They chose a window not visible from the house or the street, with a very tight entry that abuts a brick wall separating our property from the funeral home parking lot next door. Then they pried off the sheet rock Chuck had screwed down over that window, broke the glass, knocked over the shelving unit in front of that window and went to town. Tile saw, table saw, jig saw, tool box, etc. Gone baby gone.

Camp Life

1. Sent Sam to programming camp this year for what's likely going to be his final time. He'll be 17 next year and he's going to need to get a job next summer. Last time to be a kid. There were no spaces left at Berkeley (his camp of choice) by the time we decided he should go, so he ended up at Stanford, making this the one and only time I'll ever be able to lift my chin and say, "Oh yes, we had to drop our son off at Stanford…"

2. Sam wants to follow the traditional path to world domination. Liberal arts undergrad degree, law school, state senate and then governor. I'm anticipating an insider trading charge somewhere along the way. He's very charming though, and likely will be able to talk his way out of it.

3. I miss him. There's nobody around to come into my room every night and ask for money. "Mom, you got any money?" Eye roll, fetch wallet, hand over the cash.

Morning Commute

Driving down Highway 1 on Thursday morning, dropping the older off in Monterey. Conversation as follows.

Me, looking at the ocean: You ever feel like going and taking a walk in nature?
Him, shaking his head slowly back and forth: Noooooo.
Me: Me either. What's wrong with us?

A few minutes pass.

Me: But don't you feel like you could walk five miles through San Francisco?
Him: Of course. It's setting, mom. Setting is very important.

14Q

Totally stolen from the New Yorker.

Name: Mary Duan

Age: 45

Neighborhood: Oldtown, Salinas, CA

Occupation: newspaper editor, columnist, writer, mom. 

Who's Your Favorite Salinan, Living or Dead, Real or Fictional?

John Steinbeck, duh. And I dearly wish he was still around today, because he would not believe the shit that goes on in his name. Also, former Salinas Mayor Dennis Donohue, for his relentless optimism (he campaigned on the slogan "Imagine a Great City," to which I always added, "Then move there") and steadfast refusal to wear a tie to 99 percent of the functions and meetings he attended. I love Will Devoe and Imelda Suarez for bringing street art to the masses and introducing me to my new favorite artist, Cryptik. And finally, Todd Williams, owner of the Cherry Bean Coffee House, because he's angrier than me.

What's the best meal you've ever eaten in Salinas?

Look, Salinas might be known as "the salad bowl of the world," but this is not a town known for its culinary genius. Having said that, I miss the old Hullaballoo restaurant, because the did amazing burgers and great ribs and you could count on the quality, always. Our go-to place on Friday nights is Eagle Chinese, where the hot and sour soup comes with an angry red glow and the owner rolls the mushu tableside using a fork, a spoon and only one hand, always with a little smirk on his face. And Gutierrez Market, where the parking lot sometimes resembles an open-air drug bazaar (they can't help it--the neighborhood is a hellhole), does the single best take on carnitas this side of the border, and maybe outside of Michoacan. Crispy, salty, slightly fatty pork. And at Gino's Italian, the cannelloni is to die for. Very good red sauce.

Patria just opened in the former Hullaballoo space. Their cheese plate and a cocktail and I am a happy human. It has one of the most beautiful restaurant interiors I've seen anywhere, and that includes Europe.

In one sentence, what do you actually do all day in your job?

I am an air traffic controller/hostage negotiator. I keep the trains running on time. I teach reporters how to be better reporters. 

Where do you get your coffee?
If I'm getting a cup in the morning before I go to the office, it's the Cherry Bean. If I have to wait and get it later, I go to ACME in Seaside.

What was your first job in Salinas?

I was freelancing when we first moved here. For a short time, less than a year, I was the Salinas coordinator for a program which sheltered and fed homeless adult men in conjunction with the local "faith community." I was ill equipped to handle the very real problems these men had been experiencing, in some cases, for many years. I was even less equipped to handle the treachery that went on among the staff and management at the program. I left after I was asked (told, really) to take the blame for the fact that one of the guys stole the keys to all the Salinas churches involved in the programs—the churches were unaware the policy was to keep the keys on the bus in the first place, and one Lutheran minister read me the riot act. I wasn't being paid enough to get yelled at by Lutherans.

What's the last thing you saw at Maya Cinemas?

So, confession: We stopped going to Maya Cinemas about three months ago because the COO signed on to a letter being driven by a bunch of Oldtown property owners demanding the city prevent the downtown Methodist church from providing services to the homeless. This despite the fact that the church is nowhere near the Maya. The Maya is, however, just two blocks away from Chinatown (home of Gutierrez Drive In and the open-air drug market.) Chuck has refused to step foot in the Maya since. But we broke down and went there to see Her, because it's nominated for an Academy Award and we try to see all the nominees in the major categories. 

What's your favorite medication?
Ambien.

What's hanging over your sofa?

Nothing, because it's not against a wall.

How much is too much to spend on a haircut?

$90. $90 is too much for a haircut. And don't get me started on a good colorist and what they charge.

When's bedtime?

Whenever the Ambien kicks in. If I had my way and could set my own schedule, bedtime would be 3am, but I wouldn't have to wake up until 11am.

Do you prefer the old Oldtown or the New?

I didn't really live here when Oldtown was Old. I imagine I would prefer the new, though.

Do you give money to panhandlers?

I almost never carry cash anymore, but when I did, yeah. Now that I'm all debit, all the time, I will usually offer to buy them a cup of coffee or a donut.

Brunch: Pro or con?
Pro. I love brunch. I'd rather eat brunch than any other meal.

What do you hate most about living in Salinas.
The racism. The violence. The us-against-them mentality. The fact that a small handful of good old boys still run shit. 

The List

First, I know, I know. Bad blogger. Bad.

Lots of things coming up at house226. Here's a fast list of some of the stuff.

1. Floors!
When we moved in, we moved into a space with the original subfloor—clear redwood—covered by layers of filth. We removed the filth. They still look like crap. There are strange holes drilled into strange places. They're warped in some areas. Our idiot contractor (I'll get to him a bit more further down the list) had one of his guys do a half-assed job on refinishing half the floors. He was drunk at least part of the time he was working on them, and he subcontracted some of the work out to our then-13-year-old son. It's become an issue of refinish or refloor, and we've opted for refloor. At the end of the month, we'll be receiving 47 boxes of dark birch flooring. It will have to sit in the house to cure and acclimate for about six weeks, and then Chuck will commence with the installation—my sister's room, the entryway, the living room and the dining room. (There are things he can do, and things he can't do. Flooring he can mostly do.)

2. Floors, Part 2!
The soft redwood extends into the kitchen, and it's here where our idiot contractor's subcontractor subcontracted our kid into sanding certain areas. The kitchen floor looks horrible. Always. Freshly washed, it looks horrible. It has nothing to do with Sam's sanding abilities. They just look bad. So, tile it is. (There are things Chuck can do and things he can't do. Tile, he can mostly do.)

3. Plumbing!

Speaking of our idiot contractor, we get decent hot water nowhere in the house, except in the master bathroom toilet. No, not the sink, and not the bathtub. Actually IN the toilet. We have a number of little plumbing projects (and a few larger ones, like moving the washer and dryer hookups) that need doing, so today, Big Angelo came over. In Big Angelo's estimation, our idiot contractor crossed the hot and cold water lines, which is why we don't get hot water anywhere but the toilet.

Big Angelo is moving the washer and dryer hookups because we're moving the laundry into a corner of the kitchen. (The kitchen is large enough to allow this happen. As to whether I want this to happen, the answer is yes. I've decided kitchen aesthetics are mostly an invention of the Home Depot Industrial Complex—kitchens are meant to be places of work and function.) And we're moving the washer and dryer hookups into the kitchen because we're expanding my sister's tiny bathroom and putting a shower in there, which means combing the laundry room with her existing half bath. Taking the stairs to the second floor to use the shower facilities up here is becoming increasingly difficult for her -- she's 65 and her knees are bad. This will make it easier on her.

4. To Wall, or Not to Wall?

Chuck and I are currently, ahem, negotiating whether or not to wall off the access that currently exists to that laundry room. I say yes, wall it off and we can turn that back hallway area into an actual, functioning pantry. He says no because he thinks we need a downstairs toilet and my sister's is it.
"What about when we have guests?" is his argument. Our last three big parties have been disasters—think drunken bad behavior, people falling down the stairs, etc. I say, "fuck entertaining." But since I know we're not actually going to do that, I say guests can climb the stairs and use the toilet up here if they need to.

How much of a fight is this one going to be? Probably a big one. It will take much finesse on my part. Finesse, and costumes and getting into positions I haven't gotten into since I was in my early 20s.

5. On the Yard

In what appears to be a game of telephone that might turn into a great idea, I was contacted a few weeks ago by a woman representing a youth consortium. She had heard I wanted to turn my yard into a community garden. I didn't, but it actually seems like a good idea. The consortium, I believe, wants to use some of our garden beds to grow veggies. We frankly have more space than we can handle, so I think this might work out. I'm not entirely happy with the appearance of the beds right now. I'd like it to look more like the Lafayette Greens in Detroit—modern design against the Victorian backdrop of the house, I think, will be really cool. Partnering with this group might also allow me to concentrate a little bit on the urban chicken ordinance I'm going to try to muscle through the city council this year. Or w might say pluck the ordinance, and get chickens anyway.

So that's what's going on at the homestead. Other plans for the year:
1. Just got over a bout of the H1N1, which was cut short because my doctor gave me tamiflu on day two. "I'm dying," I told her when she walked into the exam room. "You're not dying. Well, I mean, not right now," she said. I'm still pretty exhausted, and didn't leave bed much in the past week, but the fever and headache and body aches seem to be gone. It was a wake up call, though; gotta take my health more seriously. Now I just have to figure out what that looks like and how to be realistic about it. One thing I know; I think 60 hour work weeks have to become 50 hour work weeks.
2. Speaking of healthy lifestyles, we're going to Las Vegas for my birthday. I'm one of those people. I love Las Vegas.
3. I'm trying to plan a long weekend this spring to visit my friend Robin in St. Louis. As her "about" section on Facebook says, she's a recipe developer, cook, writer, music-lover, alt-Mom. I made the alt-Mom part up.

Ok. It's not much, but it's a start. More to come. For reals this time.

Kitty Kitty

My column from this week's paper.

Dead Cat Drama

One deceased feline in one cheap sweater makes for one lunatic encounter.

By Mary Duan

Those of you following along may have noticed that from time to time, I use this column as an ongoing piece on the rough theme of tales from the hood. I live in Oldtown Salinas, in an egregiously large Victorian we bought out of foreclosure, and the remodel of it will never, ever be complete. There’s a funeral home on one side of us that occasionally hosts parties with bounce houses, and an office building across the street where a religious-driven success group meets all hours of the day and night. (Did I mention they’re rhythmically challenged? The clapping, bass and drums are never in sync.)

Among the stranger things that have happened since my husband and I bought the complete wreck of a home: We were finishing dinner one Sunday night, heard gunshots and I opened the door to find the Salinas police had shot a pit bull that had gone on a runabout through the neighborhood; the pit bled out on my lawn in front of the pomegranate bushes. Twice, when my kids have forgotten to lock the doors while they’re inside, they’ve found obviously stoned people wandering through the dining room. One of my tenants intervened in a screaming match a local restaurant owner was having with someone trying to drive down the shared alleyway, and the owner then turned on him (this will become important later).

And then there were the two guys who used my porch as a party pad early one morning, blasting banda music at 3am, before the party turned bad and the two got into such a loud fight that the police were called, a taser was used and I’ve been subpoenaed to testify.

Nothing, though, could have prepared me for the most recent adventure, or as I’m calling it, “The Curious Case of the Dead Cat in the Sweater.”

My oldest kid was home from work and walking his girlfriend out to her car so she could go to her own job when a woman wearing a uniform from the aforementioned restaurant approached and started shrieking. “Do you even care there’s a dead cat laying here? It’s been here for three days! When are you planning on taking care of this?

“You people,” she hissed, “are despicable.”

Sure enough, there it was: a dead cat, wrapped in a dark blue polyblend cardigan, laying in the gutter, one lone paw sticking up in the air. It may or may not have been there for three days—I have no idea—but it was definitely there now.

I called the restaurant and not-so-calmly suggested they keep their unhinged waitress on a leash, or at least away from my kid and my newly acquired dead cat. And that’s when the Facebook message came in: “Have you seen THIS?” a friend wrote. The woman had taken a cell phone picture of the dead cat with my house looming in the background, written a narrative using my name and address, pointing out that the house belonged to me and that clearly my tenants (she thought the guy she was screaming at was the tenant who had the alley encounter with her boss) have turned a blind eye to the poor dead creature.

“Despicable!” she intoned.

Suddenly, I went from being the neighborhood sucker where all the hard-luck-case dogs come for a free meal to a blood-thirsty abuser of dead cats. One of her friends wrote, “I never liked the Coast Weekly anyway, now I boycott!”

Aside from the obvious question—if the waitress knew the cat was there for three days, why didn’t she call animal control herself?—we now faced the issue of what one does with a dead cat when it’s past 5pm and animal control is closed.

I did what I always do in crisis: Called my friend Carmela Moreno. She’s like Wolf from the Quentin Tarantino film Pulp Fiction. She came, examined the situation and said, “I need a shovel and a contractor’s garbage bag. Go.”

The cat was shoveled as gently as possible into the bag, the bag was tied and Carmela drove off with it in her trunk.

The next morning, Saturday, she walked into Salinas Animal Services to tell them she had a dead cat that needed proper disposing. One of the nice little old lady volunteers piped up and asked, “Is that the cat from 226 Pajaro St.? I heard all about that on Facebook.”

Mary Duan is the Weekly’s editor. Reach her at mary@mcweekly.com.