The Tale of "Busty Poser."

Baseball has been a constant in my life since I can remember. Any one who knows me at all knows that I actually love to watch the bloody games.

I've visited ball-parks all over the U.S. When I lived in Montreal, I would take the metro to the games alone, sit in the bleachers and keep score. I listen to games in my car. In fact, I would even watch the Marlins pay the Devil Rays if it meant I got to sit in the stands, swill beer and chomp on sunflower seeds while monitoring scores all around the league.

When the Giants home opener came around, I knew I would have mixed-feelings. The World Champs would finally be able to play at home in front of all the drooling fans for the first time in a 2011 regular season game. However, I somehow felt like a "bandwagoner." I take fair-weather fan-ship quite seriously and we get a pretty bad-rap here in the Bay Area for such a faux-pas. As much as I try to defend it, I can see it too.

Still...World Champs. Home opener. Why not?

My instincts were to stay in The Sunset, go to the local pub and suck back a few PBR's from the glorious vantage of a bar stool.

But, since it was going to be sunny and warm I thought I would get off of my lazy arse and take the train down to Third and King. Didn't have tickets, but figured being in the atmosphere would be a close second. I had a connection and accepted the invitation.

I knew that it would be a long day and alcohol would be involved, so I packed commando-style and just brought a small backpack and used my camera case as a purse. After all, it wasn't going to be a fashion show, right? We would meet at MoMo's, have a Bloody Mary or two and then watch the game from a local roof. I would be cuddled up to a tall-boy can, munching ranch sunflower seeds by first-pitch.

Or so I thought.

It was like the Playboy Mansion unloaded a bus in front and the Real Posers of Orange County arrived to model the latest in Halloween gear. Orange and black argyle socks with high heels, full make-up, black mini-skirts, and more high heels. HIGH HEELS! TO A BASEBALL GAME?

Now I know what it would have been like to watch the World Cup with Kim Kardashian.

Note to all: When you are wearing the colors of a team, and you say you are a "fan," please at least PRETEND to care about the game. In my case, I started having a panic attack when it came to my attention that instead of being somewhere to WATCH the game, we would be running around MoMo's watching other people eating lunch and not watching the game. All the while bedecked in Giants garb. BUSTED POSERS! No no no!!!

Before I go-on I have to throw in a little caveat:
1-Everyone I was with and/or met was very warm and lovely. Generous. Delightful and had we been attending Macy's Passport Fashion Show I would have been satisfied.
2-Everyone has a right to celebrate an event the way that they want.

I should, however, am NOT THAT GIRL. Not a girlie girl, and it seems to get more pronounced as I get older.

I have never been much of a MoMo's girl, simply because I like to be able to pee during the games and don't want to pay $8 for a beer, only to crane my neck to look at a TV.

I thought about getting back on the train, but would have missed three innings. I thought about going to another bar, but they were all packed and wouldn't be able to watch anyway.

Talk about TORTURE!

Luckily, one of the girls in the pack let me go back to her apartment to watch the game. And I did. All alone in bliss.

As the night went-on, and the innings went-on, and the torture went-on (and ended) I made a promise to myself that from here on out I will never, ever spend a day out at the "park" (sort of) with girls again. I don't care. I don't care if they are all graduated of baseball college, attending graduate school at ESPN University. Never, no way, no how. Because I don't care how much a girl tells me that she is a FAN and loves the game, I won't believe it. I'm not asking her to know the intricacies of the infield fly rule or to explain what happens to the pitcher in a "pinch" situation.

But it seems to me that if you go to all the trouble to buy the gear and wear the gear, you should AT LEAST pay attention to what is happening on the field.

Or, better yet, I should always remember that we are all different. What I deem a fan isn't what other people do, so I will take it upon myself to plan accordingly.

Now, if I can just remember that the #44 O'Shaughnessy ends up in Bay View and being there at 1 a.m. is probably a bad idea, I'll be fine.

Single City Girl Seeks Smoky Single Malt!

-San Francisco. March 26, 2011

When it comes to alcoholic beverages, I like to keep it simple.

I can’t say the words “bar-chef” without giggling nervously. I won’t pay $18 for 2 ounces of infused “anything.” And if it takes longer to make my drink than my entree, I’m out the door faster than you can say “shaken not stirred.”

So when this bona-fide “beer and whisky” gal got a chance to attend the 12^th Annual Whiskies of the World® Expo aboard the “San Francisco Belle,” I donned my plaid party pants, jumped on the “N” Train and headed down to The Embarcadero at Hornblower Yachts, Pier #3.

Right at 5 o’clock, the VIP members began to file-in, hoping to get a spot in one of the master classes taking place on neighboring boats. I was hoping to get-in on the popular Laphroaig seminar with Scot Simon Brookings, but I was held captive by the two main tasting rooms and the sounds of the Bushmill’s Irish Pipe Band, who seemed to appear at every turn.

I realized quickly that we wouldn’t disembark at all during the entire affair, which was probably best as it would have been a bit dodgy to carry a boat full of passengers steeped in whisky.

Thanks to a respite from the storms, cigar aficionados were able to climb to the upper deck where the clouds parted and smoke ensued. The stogies were enjoyed with whisky and chocolate, a trio which never would have made sense until I saw it first-hand. I eschewed the cigar, though, and left it to the men who huddled under the tarp puffing away.

From my experience, the cigar and whisky events are reserved for men so being a single girl, I couldn’t resist. At first glance I figured it was at least 7-1 in my favor.

I kept wondering, however; Should I swirl and spit in a lady-like manner? Would I stand out because I don’t drink Chardonnay? Would I be the only woman there not only tasting the whisky, but enjoying the "water of life."

In anticipation of the dozens of vendors hawking hundreds of products, ranging from single malt scotch to local artisan jerky and bottle palate cleanser to Celtic chutney, I prepared my digestive system with a hearty meal of roast beef sandwiches, antipasti, cheeses, fruits, chocolates and pastries. The lines were long but it was worth the wait.

There were also a few great local artisans offering samples of food. Among them were, Krave Jerkey, Scharffen Berger Chocolates and McQuade’s Celtic Chutney, to name a few.

Fashions ranged from men in suits, jeans and Fedoras to ladies in stilettos or Ugs. There were kilts galore, (I believe I counted 47) including one worn by a gent who looked suspiciously like “Hagrid” of Harry Potter fame. I even spotted a guy dressed as Thirsten Howell with yachting hat and scarf, obviously waiting in-vain for a three-hour tour of the Bay.

As I collected my share of schwag, wishing for a Sherpa and trying not to spill a dram of whisky, I spotted two women laughing hysterically. One had a cigar and the other was wearing a t-shirt that read “Real Women Drink Whiskey.”

“If I’m going to come to an event like this with my fiancé, I’d better know what I’m in-for,” said Laurel Sutter, who was visiting from Michigan.

She and her sweetheart, who is a local, have attended the event three years running. She says that over the years she has developed a taste for single malts and other blended whiskies.

“I’m not afraid to try new things, and even though I am still a novice, I’m getting better and better at understanding all of the nuances of each brand. I like the good stuff, the finer side of life.”

She and he future husband are planning a Whisky tour of Scotland for their honeymoon.

As I swirled and spat my way around the room, I noticed that I was drawn to certain types of single malts and shied away from American brand single-barrel styles.

It seemed I gravitated towards drams of peat and smoke, and away from sugar and caramel. Was that normal for a woman or was my tom-boyish nature carrying over to the whisky? Was I about to run up and smoke a cigar for the first time?

I bellied-up to the Johnnie Walker bar and asked the whisky master for some guidance.

“I’ve found in the tastings I’ve conducted throughout the country that women actually tend to have a more evolved palate,” said Richard Sickler. “So, it’s quite natural that you would go for smoke, peat, salt and other nuances in your whisky.”

He went on to say that whisky is the wine of the spirits world, because all of the taste is due to factors like barrel type, aging, soil, region, etc.

And, like wine, tasting and appreciating whisky takes time, patience and knowledge. Most masters will guide you through five aspects of a style; color, nose, body, taste and finish. It’s also important to swirl the liquid under then to the middle of the tongue, to get the full effect.

It’s also best to cleanse your palate in-between taste. I over-heard from several vendors that still or bubbly water is recommended, or you can purchase a cool product called SanTasti, a palate cleanser in a bottle. I found it rather genius sine the company is run by women.

With swelling tongue, I headed out, and stopped at one of the no-host bars for a bit of water. There, I spotted a girl drinking a snort and chasing it with a bottle of Anchor Steam beer.

We clinked glasses and I told her that it was refreshing to find a girl from my tribe. Meet Jennifer Ackrill, San Francisco bartendress extraordinaire.

“People will ask me to make them something interesting, based on what I like, she says. “Maybe it’s a gentleman asking for his lady friend. I always tell them that I can make them anything, but if they want to know what I like, it’s beer and whiskey.”

When she isn’t slinging cocktails at Rye Cocktail Bar, 688 Geary Street, she says she can be found at one of the many watering holes around town, drinking beer and trying out new whiskies. Like any good City girl, and one after my own heart.

***The word "Whisk(e)y" can be spelled both ways, depending on the region. Mostly, one leaves off the "e" for Scottish Single Malts, but the debate goes-on.

For more information:

www.whiskiesoftheworld.com

www.glenmorangie.com

www.malts.com/joinus

www.bushmills.com

www.mcquadechutneys.com

www.sharffenburger.com

Popular San Francisco Whisk(e)y Bars:

Bourbon and Branch-501 Jones St., SF. 415-931-7292

Elixir-16^th and Guerrero, SF. 415-552-1633

Whiskey Thieves-839 Geary, SF.

Occidental Cigar Club-471 Pine St., SF. 415-834-0485

Play Review: "The Homecoming" by Harold Pinter

At first there was laughter from everywhere in the audience. A.C.T.’s production of Harold Pinter’s “The Homecoming” is bursting with such clever lines and witty dialogue, to view the play as comedic seemed natural.

But, by the middle of act one, laughter faded into uncomfortable silence. Shock and discomfort followed.

Pinter’s Tony© Award winning play, directed by long-time Pinter collaborator Carey Perloff, hits every note a dysfunctional family can withstand and reminds the onlooker that comedy can only mask pain for so long.

Set in an old 1960’s North London house, The Homecoming centers on a family of men, whose lack of feminine influence leaves them embittered and fighting for alpha-male status, each one gaining territory and retreating with every verbal exchange.

Presented with no set changes, the scene is a living room, stairs leading up to the bedrooms, a front door and an imagined kitchen to the right. The walls are dark and the furniture old-fashioned, suggesting a long-time absence of a female.

The presumed “alpha” is Max, (Jack Willis) a retired butcher whose hard work-ethic afforded him the luxury of keeping the house in which he grew up. He shares the home with his brother and two of his sons, to whom he is physically and emotionally aggressive, wielding his cane like a sword and breathing verbal fire like a chained dragon.

Lenny (Andrew Polk) is the middle son who acts like he is the top dog to his washed-up, pathetic father. At first it appears he merely sits around the house and bets on horses. When his real pursuit becomes clear, we start to understand how his upbringing has affected his attitudes towards the opposite sex.

Baby brother Joey (Adam O’Byrne) is a strapping lad in his twenties, who works in demolition and aspires to be a boxer. His physicality is all he knows and the lack of motherly influence has left him nearly devoid of deep emotion.

Uncle Sam (Kenneth Welsh) humbly accepts his role as the house-proud caretaker, and is a constant source of scorn for Max. The elder brother all but sews a pink “letter” on Sam’s apron and drops innuendo about his sexual orientation at every given chance. Sam has his own way of fighting back, reminding Max of a shared past he can’t escape.

The four males seem confined to endure their co-dependant “Lord of the Flies” existence, until the dynamics change.

Halfway into the first act, it’s after midnight and the men are asleep. A key turns the front door and in walks Teddy, (Anthony Fusco) the prodigal eldest son, who has been away in the U.S. teaching philosophy for six years.

He brings his wife Ruth (Renė Augesen) who has never been introduced or even mentioned to the rest of the clan.

Lenny wakes up and meets her, trying to intimidate her with bravado until he is rebuffed with a symbolic sexual overtone.

The next morning, the housemates are surprised to see a woman coming down the stairs, a presence missed after mother and wife Jessie, died several years prior.

As Ruth enters the cave of Neanderthals there is an energy shift. She’s is suddenly a woman on the front lines; a girl in the locker room; a hen in the cock-house.

Will she be capable to defend herself against the infantry or become cannon fodder?

As the second act progresses, Teddy realizes his mistake and tries to initiate a departure, but it’s clear that Ruth loves the new attention and power, a far cry from her domestic duties and three children back home.

As the past unfolds, secrets emerge. Max’s paternity is questioned. Ruth’s previous life is revealed her emotional and physical seduction of the men leads to a shocking plot twist few could foresee.

Perloff’s female sensibilities are apparent as she rejects the obvious overtones of misogyny and understands the power in Ruth’s presence.

“Ruth sets the terms of her own future,” says the director. “She decides exactly how she wants it to go.”

Willis’ “Max” is a loud, crass and domineering geezer whose bitterness is emblazoned on his sleeves. He bellows and spits, then coos through a devilish grin. Welsh’s “Sam” is understated and docile without being effeminate.

Lenny could be portrayed as purely spiteful, but Polk reveals sensitivity to the written vitriol. O’Byrne’s Joey is fit and believable and doesn’t allow the character to be one-dimensional.

Teddy, played with restraint by Fusco, seems emotionally castrated by Ruth, but manages to create some kind of logic and balance to a world he eschewed

Ruth is played to perfection by Augesen who serenely allows the men beat their chests, as if to already be defeated. In the end, her subtlety is well-calculated and ultimately serves her well.

With a stage full of North American actors, mastering regional London accents can be tricky. These professionals choose to pull-back and don’t try to get clever with over-the-top accents, which makes them all the more believable.

The set, designed for ACT by Daniel Ostling, gives the audience a sense that there hadn’t been any female energy in the house for sometime. The lighting is designed by Alexander V. Nichols and sound by Cliff Caruthers. Costume design was authentic 1960’s London and selected with discretion by Alex Jaeger.

The Homecoming is not for the sensitive or those without a stiff resolve. It can be brutal and raw and often hits on nerves that many families prefer to keep buried in the emotional archives.

-Gina Horan

The Homecoming by Harold Pinter

Directed by Carey Perloff

WHERE: American Conservatory Theater, 415 Geary Street, San Francisco, CA 94108

WHEN: March 3–27, 2011

TICKETS: Tickets start from $10. (Current pricing $10–$85)

Tue.–Sat. at 8 p.m. (3/15 performance at 7 p.m.)

Wed., Sat. & Sun. at 2 p.m. (no matinee performances on 3/9)

Additional 7 p.m. performance on 3/13

TIX & INFO: 415.749.2228 | www.act-sf.org

NOTE: There is constant cigar and cigarette smoking on stage.

Living the Dream...today

Here I am in Thailand again. Trying to figure out if I want to move to Asia. I've decided to change my blog page to better reflect how I'm feeling lately. The G in Gina and Gypsy is still relevant but since I am chasing adventures and experiences I thought his updated version was more appropos.

There's No Turning Back Now...

This is it. I'm starting a whole new adventure. And, this time, it's not about debauchery and vomiting. It's about chronicling the debauchery and vomiting. Hallelujah!

Going on a wing and a prayer, spit and glue, faith and and especially the support of friends and family, who I constantly take for granted but could never live without.

You don't have to write or call...just think of me.