Why Adam Does What He Does...

Sometimes people ask me, "Adam, how in the world did you go from waiter to beekeeping plant scientist?

I thought an explanation was due.

Mark Twain once said, “Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.” Over the years, I have found myself being an armchair quarterback reading the Los Angeles Times, and complaining about policy decisions that were just being revealed but that had been maybe two years or more in the making. Like many citizens, my reactions were often emotional, devoid of any appreciation for the thoughtful analysis that had been so sagaciously applied to the problem at hand. It dawned on me that there is much more to life than merely having a point of view. With this in mind, it is my deep desire to be a useful, contributing member of society that propels my interest in agriculture and specifically plant science and its implications on California’s food supply.

My father was an analyst for the Rand Corporation in the 1950s, who then spent 35 years at IBM. He instilled in me an appreciation for, and, simultaneously, a healthy skepticism of statistics. I am reminded of comedian Steven Wright’s quote, “Forty-three percent of all statistics are made up on the spot,” but I digress. My father also taught me the power of big ideas, and how logic coupled with passion could transform society. He also taught me the computer programming concept of GIGO (Garbage In, Garbage Out). One gets out of a problem what one puts into the problem. Logic and emotion are strange bedfellows indeed! It’s a synthesis of classical and romantic paradigms similar to those outlined by the protagonist in Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. As there is more than one way to view a motorcycle (logic of engineering vs. emotion of riding one), there is also more than one approach to agriculture.

To risk a cliché, I want to be part of the panacea, not the problem. To live in the solution requires a commitment to optimism, as well as a rejection of the cynical notion that “the world is going to hell in a hand basket.” To live in the problem is easy. It’s right there staring at us. The solution is more elusive. Developing solution-oriented policies requires a multitude of approaches, but a few that come to mind are: a selfless commitment to the concept that “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts,” a cool determination to succeed where others have failed — especially in the face of passionate, and often ill informed, resistance — as well as stamina and more than a truckload of tolerance for those in disagreement, who fully deserve our empathy.

A Masters in Plant Science, with an emphasis on sustainable environmental practices in regards to honeybee health, will give me a solid foundation on which to build a house — a mansion, really — that has many doors, all of which lead to an exciting, solution-oriented future. By working with faculty and other aspiring farmers, I will gain a deep understanding of the food production techniques that help shape our society and how those ideas come to fruition and are implemented, hopefully for the common good. As a single father I strive to teach my two young children that love, patience, and tolerance are the lifeblood of personal happiness. Love of learning, patience in the face of demands for immediate change, and tolerance for divergent opinions, form a trinity that I hope to utilize on a daily basis as a professional farmer.

On a personal level, my children are growing up fast, and when they graduate from high school, I hope to relocate to Northern California where I have family. Being a professional farmer would be invaluable in my quest to positively affect California, and to help solve the environmental, economic, and societal challenges that have driven so many people away from farming in recent years.

Although the above-mentioned challenges of the politics of agriculture are pressing, my mind keeps returning to the one thing we cannot survive without: water and the food it grows.  Water dominates my thoughts. I guess I have “wet brain.” Ever since I was a kid, I have been fascinated by how California moves water around. Dams and reservoirs, the California Aqueduct, not to mention the rivers that feed them, totally enthrall me. Little did I know, at the time, how politically charged the issue was to California. I was less interested in the actual engineering — fascinating as it is — than in the massively important role it played in our prosperity.   For instance, the 1982 battle over the peripheral canal revealed the conflict between Northern California and Southern California. In fact my children’s mother is from Orange County and we used to argue over this issue, which shows how subtly our beliefs have been formed by our geographical references.

Many great books address this geographical conundrum.  Cadillac Desert by Marc Reisner shows the precariousness of our very existence.  Kevin Starr’s Material Dreams shows the cunning steps taken by Southern Californians like William Mulholland to secure water, as there was no future without it. More recently, California Public Policy Institute researcher Ellen Hanak has written many thoughtful articles on the subject of the health of the Delta. In fact, the concept of the delta serves as a fitting metaphor for the challenges facing California’s water future. There are many tributaries, and it is more than easy to get lost, for water policy addresses so many important issues: sustainability (agriculture, aquaculture, fisheries), environmental restoration of native plants and animals, safe drinking water, and preservation of farmland from poorly planned suburban sprawl.

And of course without water, there is no food.  Michael Pollan’s Food as a National Security Issue reveals the importance of having a food supply that originates within a few hundred miles of the markets. My years of experience in fine dining in Los Angeles as a waiter at Wolfgang Puck’s Spago exposed me to the vibrant world of organic farming and viticulture. The romance of the farmer’s market and the incredible wines we make in California reveal a legitimate and, dare I say, almost irrefutable truth. There is profit to be made in the preservation of farmland. This idea alone could be used to promote a reverse migration from urban to rural. California Farmlink, of which I am a member, has been addressing this challenge for over 10 years now, as it seeks to link retiring farmers who don’t want to sell to developers and young “beginner” farmers who seek a better quality of life.

As Rivers of Empire author Donald Worster puts it, “The social consequences that follow from the modern commitment to instrumental reason and the disenchantment of nature have been antidemocratic and antihuman.”  It is precisely this threat and my desire to remedy this injustice that propels me.   I believe the judicious application of sustainable farming practices serve as the foundation on which to build a better future, and I wish to be part of that indispensable team that helps build and improve the incredible home that we call California.  A Masters in Plant Science would assure that I have the tools to make a difference.

T & A Honey on Beignets

T & A Honey served with fresh made beignet from The Beignet Truck! We have honey.  Not enough to sustain a spot at the Atwater Farmers Market, so we set up a little table on Glendale Blvd and see how it goes.  Great way to connect with people.  Bees are front and center in the collective conscience.  Atwater village has really come a long way. 

 

Meet the Fakers

Some of you have inquired how my orchard supervisor interview went at the organic farm yesterday. Not so great. In fact, profoundly disappointing. I drove out there early, and when I entered the farm, I was really impressed. Obviously whoever owns it has serious cash. The land alone is worth about 3 million (based on a Zillow comparison for a barren lot down the road).

Biodyamic farms are self-contained entities ("living organisms") as Rudolf Steiner would call them. There were beautifully laid out pastures, rolling orchards,Scottish highland cattle and exotic sheep. There was a pond that had been converted into a classic California riparian xeri-scape.

Anyway I got there on time, and then a farm employee, told me to wait as they were meeting someone else. I waited nearly a half hour, then met the young man who along with his wife are the "farm managers". Neither of them have an agriculture background beyond the three years the farm has been in existence. He's a documentary film maker, she was/is an in-house chef with a celebrity/vip clientele. You can see how I might have thought, "These are my people!" Anyway, they invited me into an office, and immediately embarked on one of the lamest interviews I have ever experienced. The husband was obsessed with my tractor skills. I am certified, but he kept talking about how "they" (the Mexicans) wouldn't respect me if my skills weren't as good as theirs. Never mind that I've worked with Mexicans of all stripes for 25 years, and my ex-wife is of Latina heritage (I declined to reveal this info). Plus the use of the phrase "they won't respect you" struck me as incredibly racist. That language is used for training stubborn breeds of dogs (i.e Rhodesian Ridgebacks, which I own btw!). Anyway, they told me nothing of the farm, which was peculiar, as it was a truly amazing place. I had to ask them all the questions. I told them about my honey business and how much I love bees, and he replied, "Sounds like you should stay in the bee business" BTW bees are indispensable to biodynamic farming, and they didn't have bees there.

I could go on and on, but perhaps it is another chapter in my book. LOL! Some might find this amusing, as I try to connect the dots, but I was suspicious of a company that has one investor (from Chicago) but they decline to reveal who he/she is, and the farm was featured in a OWN special on organic farming. Maybe it's Oprah, but what kind of investor shells out at least 5 million dollars but has two beginning farmers as managers. The wife had self published a cookbook with a foreword written by the musician Beck. Now, call me paranoid, but Beck is a well known Scientologist, and Scientologists only help each other. So as I sat there holding court with these charlatans, I could only think of the great existential film, "The King of Hearts", where the town has been deserted save for the inmates of the local asylum, who assume the roles of the town folk.

There is a vibe to Scientologists. For instance, a cult will tell you all the things to "talk you out of" wanting the position, so you'll beg to join. The wife actually said to me, "We're here to talk you out of it."--"DANGER, Will Robinson, DANGER!"--And they also insisted the position was a live-on position. The ad said "housing may be available"--a nice perk for the right person--but when I pointed this out, the husband proceeded to lecture me about farm-life. This being a small farm with a drip irrigation system. There are so many orchard emergencies!

I could be wrong, but my wife has a background in stunts, and she worked for a Batman stunt show years before where the company was owned by Scientologists. And they were always posturing in an arrogant, "we know better than you" way, and hired subcontractors who were scientologists, and then were humiliated when the million dollar set they built was built backwards!

OK enough whining...I've got a proposal to finish!

Bottom of the Barrel

OK...Money has been tight, but I have come to the conclusion that no matter how broke I am, I cannot settle for the "cheapest" coffee at the market. Cheap...ok...cheapest--NO! All coffee claims to be "hand selected" by Juan Valdez in the highlands of Colombia, but the cheapest coffee tastes like it was hand selected by Juan's cousin who sweeps the floor in the bean grinding room.

Chain of Fools

An excerpt from my memoir "We Got a Bad Potato!"

I’m a huge fan of independent restaurants.  My experience at Il Fornaio and a brief stint at a SF joint called Palomino in the 1990s, left a bad taste in my mouth for chains.  Corporate interests, like Restaurants Unlimited, and the Compass Group measure their success in units of onion blossoms sold and they create these highly detailed employee handbooks that reduce the human element to zero, but the one “bad service” aspect they can’t seem to eliminate is the manager “servicing” the hostess in the office after hours.  When chains aren’t hiring, and promoting sexual predators, they’re busy filling their proverbial butt cracks with fucking morons.  Case in point, in 2008, when the economy took a shit, I got desperate, and even considered suicide, but ended up doing something worse: I applied at Roy’s house of Hawaiian Fusion.  They’re so authentic.  They have seafood from all the great fish cities, like Phoenix and Chicago, and serve radical artful haute-cuisine like “pineapple upside down cake”.  Anyway, they had this elaborate psychological profile exam—you know how this is gonna end, right?-- and yet, they can still hire no-nothing managers with superiority complexes, or the flip side, obsequious taint lickers whose only job is to placate one star reviewers on Yelp. 

And on top of that, you go to these chains and get Stepford service or shitty service anyway.  I fucking hate chains like Roys.

Back to the interview/exam.  So on the skills section; I had to check a box on wine knowledge.  I checked “expert”.  I was trained by Michael Bonnacorsi for fuck’s sake.  The manager, this frumpy she-male, looked and said, “Oh, I see you are an expert on wine.” Yes I replied.  She then asked me the usual bullshit questions, “What are the major grapes of Burgundy?”  I answered one or two, thinking all the while, “Why did I check anything?”  I mean, for fuck’s sake, their list is heavy on California Johannisberg Riesling!  Then she asked me about the noble grapes of Bordeaux and I answered, “There are four: cabernet sauvignon, merlot, malbec, and cabernet franc.” She pounced, “You forgot Petit Verdot”  I acknowledged my omission, with the same emotional intensity one might have if you omitted Timothy Dalton from the list of actors who have portrayed James Bond, but as the words flowed from my mouth, all I could imagine was her blood flowing out of a severed neck artery into the cheap ass wine glass conveniently embedded in her neck. 

I didn’t get the job. 

Speaking of not getting hired, one time I was hired then fired in one interview.  This prick GM who, himself, had been fired by Wolfgang Puck's CUT, was overseeing the opening of an upscale Italian joint in downtown LA.  It was the real deal, with a killer wine list.  We hit it off well and he hired me on the spot.  I was so excited—I needed the job bad—so I asked a few follow up questions about parking and the holidays—and he did something wholly unexpected.  He said, in that comical accent that makes people hate Italians, “You-a ask-a too many-a questions…” and he put a big question mark through my application.  I was fired!  Something rare happened.  I was knocked off the horse!  I couldn’t respond.  He shocked me into a speechless stupor.  We were in an empty conference room on the 31st floor of an unoccupied skyscraper in downtown LA.  Thoroughly beaten I skulked out of the ad-hoc office space.  It wasn’t until I was in the elevator going down that I wished that I could have thrown him to his death.  Really. 

I hope the pharmacy is still open.

My Latest Search for Housing in Fresno

The first ad I clicked on....I hit the jackpot.

$350 Room mate wanted to share Country Home (Woodlake Foot hills)

You gotta read to the end....

$350.00 Per Month Plus Utilities.

To Share Country Home with 2 Acres in the Foothills outside of Woodlake.  Plenty of space to park horse trailer.

Also have 80 Acres to ride horses on, in the pasture next to residence.Full house privileges, which includes access to Internet via Clear Wire, Washer, Dryer, Full Kitchen. House is located in a quiet area with a crime free environment.  

So far so good...

Especailly in todays World. Safety should be considered when finding a place to reside, and rest your head at night.

You would be sharing this residence with a former United States Army Veteran with a decade of military service in combat arms.

Veterans and Preppers are welcome.

Outside pets ok.  No indoor pets unless it is a trained attack dog. 

If intrested please send me your Phone Number and I will call you to set up an appointment/interview. All other inquires will be treated as spam.

Must be clean.

Female preferred, but all applicants welcome.

If you can cook, and clean, I can lower rent (see above).

Thank you for your time.

I love this ad! It's crime free but then he wants a prepper with an attack dog....

See LA the John Gailey Way

Artwork: Behnan Shabbir

                John Gailey was a legend.  He was a waiter’s waiter.  He had worked for Richard and Lynn for years.  He was a Gangly Mulatto Homo--his own description—which phonetically sounds like the Swahili word ganglimulatohomo, which roughly translates to “black man with dick in mouth.”  He stood 6’ 3” with size 13 feet and weighing in at 150 lbs soaking wet.  He was a total nut, and totally dishonest.  He would cheat his own Grandmother.   He was infamous.  He would train waiters and be vague about how many tables they had in their section, then steal those unattended tables. 

And he was cheap.  One time he was limping real bad.  “My foot is killing me. I bought these new shoes from a busboy at the Ivy by the Shore, whose brother got them when they fell off a truck.”  The bussers were famous for their “five finger discounts”

“One of them feels okay, but the other one is real tight.”  “Maybe they need to be broken in,” I said feigning concern. “Take them off and stretch them.” So he did and soon we heard him cursing to high heaven.  Apparently the busser’s brother had sold him 2 shoes. One size 13, the other, size 12.

Tom partied hard. He told this “I’m lucky to be alive!” story about being at a BBQ up in the Hollywood Hills, and being on a deck, tapping a keg, and he was laughing, and pumping the keg, and was chortling at someone else’s lame joke and went to lean on the deck rail, which would have been great if a rail existed.  And as he tumbled over backwards and fell into some gravel he realized that he was still holding the keg hose, and had managed to drag the keg to the edge of the deck. 

“I looked up and saw this keg of Coors Silver Bullet plummeting down at me, and I thought, ‘This kind of booze isn’t going to  kill John Gailey!’” He was right about that.  Another kind did the job later.

Photo: Batrachus

                Tom went to Las Vegas with me and some friends a few years later, and the highlight was him, as token gay man, threatening to drape is flaccid penis across the face of the first of us straight guys to pass out, and memorializing it with a polaroid photo.  I switched to club soda early that night.

I hadn’t seen John in weeks, and if you didn’t see someone for  awhile, but their name still appeared on the schedule, this meant they were either suspended, fired, or worse: scheduled to work at The Ivy at the Shore (aka Siberia by the Shore).  The Shore is to The Ivy as Khloe Kardashian is to Kim. 

The ugly sister who might still put out, but not like her ho-bag sister.  We were guaranteed to make money turning tricks at The Ivy.  The Shore was often just one big party of Europeans waiting to shove a five percent dildo up your keister. 

Turns out he was sick.  In a normal restaurant world employees are kept informed about other employees illnesses, or family tragedies.  Obviously privacy is paramount, but restaurants are a tribal system, and if someone is suffering, others help out.  I heard the Latinos would actually pool their tips and give them to their uninsured co-worker friends.  The Ivy wouldn’t allow us to post any non-Ivy notices on the bulletin board.  Our focus was always to be on “our important guests” and their needs.

John was not fired, suspended, or working at the Shore.  He was very sick.  And soon he was hospitalized.  In the end he was in a hospice wing at Cedars Sinai, which was just around the corner from The Ivy.  I went to visit him after the lunch shift.  Strangely, Roberston Blvd. was quiet that day.  I recall seeing a few open parking spaces.  I walked passed Chaya Brasserie, and entered the hospital.  I noted that I hadn’t stepped foot in Cedars since my own nervous breakdown in 2000.  I took the elevator up to ICU.  He was all alone in his own private room.  He would have been happy to make the list.  I entered, and waited for that vaguely warm yet dismissive greeting he was so famous for, “Hello, Stupido!”  coupled with his usual crazed, Jerry Lewis smile.  Instead I saw his eyes wide open, and unblinking.  He had a breathing tube, and his gangly legs poked out of his gown revealing his big feet.  Now I understood why he was in such pain that day when the busser sold him mismatched shoes.  I held his hand, and told him about my day.  I told him about the waiters, about Brenda crying about how she was being seated, and Marc cheating the busboy, and who got suspended this week, and the paparazzi being desperate for any kind of picture and having to settle for David Hasselhoff.  The whole time he just clutched my hand, despairing, unblinking, as if he was afraid that if he closed them for a second too long they would never open again.  I cried for John.  I wept like a soldier weeps for a fallen comrade.  We were waiters.  We were veterans.  I had served at Spago.  He had served at Wolfgang Puck’s Granita in Malibu.  I was sober.  He was dying.  I was glad I showed up for my “frienemy” John.  Soon, I said my final goodbye. I looked back, hoping that maybe he would say, “Adios Stupido!”.  He was staring at me, unblinking.  The next morning he died.  It was his final checkout.  I hope he kept all the tips.