The cat’s meow, the bees knees, neato, the ginchiest, ‘bitchin, the ultimate, fab, groovy, rad, sick, dope, bad — pick your adjective and pick your era, any way you say it Benicia is swell. Woke up late Saturday morning and was astonished to see all of the cars parked up and down B St. Was something going on that I missed? It was only 9 am. Slid open the sliding glass door to see if I heard music. Nothing. Checked the computer and saw that today was the Brew Festival down on the Green. “How could so many people be drinking beer so early in the morning?” I wondered. What a party town. Reading further, I saw that it was actually the 14th annual “Bike the Bridges and Brewfest,” a fundraiser for the Special Olympics of Northern California. What a relief. Nine hundred bicyclists had been riding for hours while I was just starting my rapid eye movements.
Once again one of the most exciting times of the year is upon us — the annual scarecrow contest. Was walking toward HQ Gallery when I saw a friend standing in front with her back to me — her fluffy white hair gave her away. Hurried down to greet her and was horrified to see that it wasn’t my friend at all but a gruesome witch, all scowl and green skin, rotted, crooked teeth, and bulging white eyeballs. The Tussaud-like creature was standing in front of an easel with the self portrait she had just finished. The portrait had the same terrified grimace. It’s hilarious if not a bit spooky— a Dorian Gray moment. Check it out.
Up at The Teak Man’s new digs in the tent at Avant Garden one of the two life-sized Chief Solano figures was standing proudly, arms crossed protecting his turf. On closer inspection, the Chief had a severed head stuffed into his tool belt. Was afraid to look behind me to see if was his twin had lost his head.
Glanced across the street at Pink Arrow Boutique’s window where owner Nicole Yarbrough was putting the finishing touches on her Halloween entry. It featured “Ghost Malone,” a mustached and bearded male figure draped in white surrounded by mannequins wearing Ghost Malone tee shirts. “Who is Ghost Malone?” I asked myself. Nicole is always up to the minute, and clearly I’ve fallen behind in my pop culture. According to the Urban Dictionary it’s a person, male or female, “Walking away from a conversation as to give the implication that you’re going to the restroom, then walking straight to your car — as in “she Ghost Maloned him.” But it’s also a religion as in Ghost Malonism, and a rapper – Post Malone. I’m sure there are more esoteric interpretations that elude me. If anyone younger than 30 is reading this, they’re probably rolling their eyes.
Meanwhile back at the Farmer’s market I picked up some chocolate, almond, and cranberry bark at Cocamel & Co., owned by Allyson J. Hill, and the creamiest caramels I’ve every tasted. All homemade in her kitchen. Excellent with lovely packaging.
A stylish young woman wearing crimson lipstick, a black beret, and sporting a rose tattoo on her arm was tending the Museum of the History of Benicia’s booth. Hanging out with her was Tymn Urban, owner of Urban Design and Media who had designed MoHB’s sleek new logo. On his feet were the most yummy pale lavender combat boots — Doc Martens — he said. The color reminded me of a French macaron. The leather was as smooth and soft as fondant frosting. I wanted a pair, envisioning myself in a long chiffon skirt twirling so as to show off the boots. Had just finished reading the latest Vogue which featured combat boots, and humungous clunky shoes as a continuing trend and thought, “I could probably pull that off.” As my sister Susan would say, “They’ll take you everywhere.”
When I got home I ordered a pair. They arrived a few days later. I tore open the box and tried them on. Looking at myself in the mirror while sideways, I could imagine the words, “Soldier! Ten-hut” being yelled at me by a drill sergeant, as I straightened my stance. I was Olive Oil in profile — two huge cement blocks holding up two posts. I repackaged them and marched them right back to UPS. What was I thinking? “Sound off 1-2. Sound off 3-4. Sound off 1-2– 3-4!!!!!
On the walk home from the Farmer’s Market, I turned the corner onto “B” St. and was greeted by an attractive fellow wearing a black beret. Forest Fox was sitting high on the back of the seat of his rare Sky convertible smiling. “May I sing you a song?” he asked. “Yes, please,” I answered. He adjusted a small piece of equipment and sang “Nothing Compares to You.” I closed my eyes and swayed to the music, enjoying his smooth, moody voice, and intimate delivery. Asked if I could give him a tip and he said. “No, I’m rich enough already.” Forest’s CDs, including “Nothing Compares to You” can be found at: www.forestfoxstudio.com
Needed some lunch. Why not try something new? I was in front of Arneson’s studio when I saw an open table at the Mare Island Brewing Company. Walked inside and ordered a plate of sliders from the handsome bartender and found a table out in front. Noticed that they have completed the North side of the building with long counters and stools for additional seating. The sliders, composed of Angus beef, balsamic braised onions, arugula, and a “secret sauce,” were mighty tasty. Scarfed down two and took one of them home for dinner while I watched the new Netflix series BECKHAM, which is both surprising and totally riveting. My slider was long gone by the time I started the second episode. I’ll get two orders next time.
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Letters From Benicia 