I wouldn't exactly tell anyone to go out and see Roman Coppola's CQ, though I can't say I would go to heroic measures to stop a person who had a bee in their bonnet to see it. It has a few interesting points in it, but ultimately is more about style than story, which is kind of a failure on both fronts. Also the female star, Angela Lindvall, is hopelessly bad. The night before CQ I dusted off Manchurian Candidate, which went over much better than I ever would have anticipated. I was actually thinking it is ripe for a remake, though they would probably ruin it with Ben Affleck or something. The name is a homonym for seek you, though I don't know how that makes any more sense. The only high point in the movie is a tiny role by Giancarlo Giannnini. He's great. I think, to be fair, I was watching it with high expectations because his dad is Francis Ford Coppola, though I guess that is totally unfair of me.

We went and visited the farmer's market at the Ferry Building yesterday. The Ferry Building is about three blocks long and has been done over with the kind of brushed concrete floors popular whenever architects get involved, and the whole place has a hushed majesty, though it has very little of the charm of the original building visible. Although I think they restored the outside to look like the old days. Two days a week they bring in farmers, who set up small stalls with their fruit and vegetables, all of which is both tasty and expensive. There is also small fronts for bigger bakeries, with things like double baked honey brioche filled with lemon marmalade. At one stand an old man with a giant pocketknife cut off a piece of nectarine, which was very nice. We wound up buying some fancy sandwiches, but that later caused some discord, because it wasn't clear what we were going to do with them.

Even though it is a horror show, we walked to the Fisherman's Wharf. It is far worse than a person could ever anticipate, like a cross between South Street Seaport and the boardwalk on Atlantic City. Which is to say, fat white people with their demented children eating fried clams. All around the crowds are the kind of hustlers who proliferate in such places, doing magic, playing music, dancing and in one case that made me want to kill him, jumping out at tourists. Which is what he thought I was. In case I'm not being clear, I mean there was a guy who hid behind a bush and as I walked by he jumped out and yelled. Which I guess is somehow how he makes his money, since he had a cup that said tips and he had on a shirt that said the bush man. That is what I call irritating.

There wasn't much in the way of out doing the wonderful sauce my honey made me, by putting a bunch of tomatoes in the cuisinart, though the there was some cous cous that brought in a close second. I've been eating a lot of cous cous lately, mixing Israeli cous cous with black lentils, sometimes called French lentils. It's funny how different grains have marked different periods in my life. I used to eat a lot of quinoa, and before that rice, and my childhood involved a lot of alfalfa. I don't know if alfalfa counts as a grain. There was also a brief spelt period, though I never really took to spelt. Apparently the coming grain is flax seed, though I haven't really gotten involved.