Yeah Write Mark

Category: Memoir

  • The Lonesome Diaries vol. 2

    The Lonesome Diaries vol. 2

    Food Writer Blues

    A hole between two donuts

    I never intended to be a food writer. It just kind of happened.

    For 10 years I wrote about bands and reviewed shows and albums back in San Francisco. All of that came to a screeching halt when I moved to Tucson. Sure we get shows here but not enough to continue my tenure with some of the publications that I was contributing to.

    Although I did land a temporary gig with an alternative newspaper that folded maybe two articles of mine in. The big one being an interview and show review with Richard Marx. Yes, that Richard Marx. The 80s guy with the then legendary fluff mullet.

    He was great. We got along so famously that he wanted to take the wife and me with him on his tour. Kinda “Almost Famous” like. His tour manager was not having it.

    Not my finest moment

    So I just kind of languished with here and there jobs, scribbling in notebooks, typing the occasional story.

    Then, it hit me. The Sonoran Hot Dog.

    After consuming my fair share of that bean and mayo filled glizzy vestibule I knew that I wanted to write about it. So I did. Now what?

    Not too sure of the exact date but I started my blog, The Tucson Homeskillet, somewhere between the timelines of 2008-10. It was a simple little scrolly thing. I’d post now and then with no real intention of doing much with it.

    That is until 2014.

    That year was rough, chock full of family deaths. First my dad’s husband died, then my dad died less than a month later. Then my wife’s grandfather died. About a month after we had to put the dog down post having a stroke. About a week after him we found the cat half devoured by coyotes in the back brush.

    I was barely at work that year. My depression and anxiety really got on top of me. So I needed a distraction.

    How it all began

    In early 2015 I gave the Homeskillet a facelift. Cleaned it up, made it more legit and dedicated that I would contribute at least once a week, 1000 words, a dozen photos each. It worked and it kind of took off.

    One day I got an email. It was from the assistant editor from the Tucson Weekly. At the time their food writer was a mess and generally hated by most. She was a food writer living in Tucson that hated both food and Tucson. That editor liked my blog enough and asked if I wanted to meet with the managing editor to see if I’d be a good fit. I of course said yes.

    The managing editor and I hit it off a little too easily. I pitched her some ideas, she liked them and before you knew it I was now the food writer for the Weekly.

    That’s when things actually began to take off for me. Sort of.

    Oh how I miss doing stuff like this

    This was my first excursion into public scrutiny. The comments in my first year were brutal. “This new guys sucks”, “Bring back the old food writer”, “Who is this guy?”, etc. I even managed a regular hater. Going by the handle of HumanBean, this person would dismiss almost every feature I produced. It went on for quite some time until it got so bad that other commenters commented back to them (after I gained their trust and some followers) and eventually HumanBean just kind of disappeared.

    Things went okay and pretty smooth for the next couple of years. Because of the Weekly I was now invited to judge culinary and cocktail competitions, be present at the Tucson Iron Chef finales, free admission to all sorts of food and beer festivals – it was cool.

    Perks of the job

    That is until 2020 hit.

    My last article went up in January of that year which had been pushed back by at least a month. Unbeknownst to me the Weekly was beginning to transition into a different format as they and countless other weekly newspapers were getting devoured by a Los Angeles based publishing house. That article, about a soul food restaurant inside a liquor store by the university, closed over the holidays. I had no idea; I was too busy working on other features. That’s when my editor told me that I was on an undisclosed hiatus as they ‘figure things out’. Then Covid hit and I was then officially let go.

    With no print country to call home, along with my wife’s restaurant shutting down, I took an emergency job with Total Wine. During that time I refurbished the old Tucson Homeskillet and began writing about businesses that were doing curbside service, opening but with serious social distancing, stuff like that.

    That’s when I noticed a locally popular food site was being managed by literally one person. Seeing as I had little to do other than work at Total Wine and occasionally post on the Homeskillet, along with taking care of my wife and our cat, I asked if he needed any help.

    Months went by but one day I got an email from a guy saying he is the new owner of said food site and was curious if I wanted to contribute. After a meeting at our local pub, we all seemed to be on the same page and before long I was writing for them.

    Then things really took off.

    An extremely rare selfie

    Man I was so busy writing for them, going to events, meetings, tastings, private dinners, restaurant previews and, yes, judging competitions again that I thought I was their head writer and a big part of the team. Heck they even let me do a food truck event sponsored by them, which went over really well.

    Thing is, after about a year being with them, I felt as if things were a little…off.

    It first came when they announced that there was going to be a staff meeting over Asana. When I saw it I asked when and where. My phone rang about ten minutes later.

    It was the COO of the site and she had a message for me.

    “Mark the meeting is for core staff only.”

    On the invite list were other random “core staff” including two photographers they sometimes used and a new hire who did…something. And here I thought I was the head writer, turning in at least 2 articles a week, 1,500 words each. With photos. That I took!

    Okay. That hurt a bit, but, whatever.

    More perks of the job

    The other was my anxiety. It was going off the rails.

    Most days, if not every day, I was glued to my phone, trying to find the new cool food truck, trying to keep in contact with chefs, restaurant and bar owners, seeing what long standing eatery was celebrating an anniversary or which was shutting down. Heck I even had access to a map via the county that had all of the new trucks, bars, places, etc that recently passed their health inspection and were set to open soon. Any opportunity on days off, slow times at the day job or whenever, I was thumbing my way into screen time madness.

    Not to mention, but I always felt not really part of the team. I was older, weirder, looked like I actually ate and drank (most on the team were pretty thin) and definitely not a shmoozy hipster. When I arrived for any function I was welcomed, made them laugh, with this hovering feeling that they were all “Who’s this old guy?”

    In fact, my anxiety got so bad that my wife rented us an emergency Airbnb. We’d sit by the pool, not stare at our phones, get takeout, sleep late and try to relax.

    Day one at the Airbnb my phone rang. It was the COO. Again.

    This time she was saying that they were “moving in a new direction” (that old noodle), rethinking their brand while trying to get their finances in order. That last one did not surprise me at all.

    Several times with them they skipped a paycheck. Once while the wife and I were road tripping and I kind of needed that check for gas money. So getting rid of me meant more cash for them.

    And that was that. So now what?

    The answer is pretty obvious: it is time to move on!

    I now have this handy dandy website, a lot of ideas and so much fun stuff to write about. Of course I’ll be covering food, duh, but there is a lot more that needs your and my attention. So stay tuned.

    And thanks for reading my stuff.

    Cheers!

  • The Lonesome Diaries, vol. 1

    The Lonesome Diaries, vol. 1

    My relationship with alcohol

    Notice how I didn’t use the word “problem” when describing my drinking. Its been a relationship. Sometimes it’s fun and in control, other moments its dark and complete chaos. There are and were stages where I don’t even want to get involved – don’t need it, not in the mood. Then it can flip and it’ll be all I can think about that day. Oh boy, the minute I clock out I’m hittin’ the bar and hittin’ the sauce. Heck I have tomorrow off…shots all around!

    Funny thing is, I never intended to be a drinker. Heavy, light, special occasions, weekend warrior. None of it.

    Because the first time I got drunk I was almost 22.

    Growing up, I was never surrounded by drinkers. My dad would have the occasional beer or glass of wine, but he preferred to take a few hits off a joint here and there. It was that old 60s mentality. Couple of puffs, watch some TV, have dinner, put me to bed then it was his turn for sleep.

    My mom though went through a phase, especially post-divorce, where she would pour brandy into her morning coffee. I just thought it was some kind of flavored syrup, which I guess it kind of is. But just like my dad, she smoked more weed that consumed booze.

    Both my parents though, their consumption never got out of control. There was no abuse, no problems, nothing. It was there though. In moderation.

    Maybe it was because my dad was so open about most issues that drinking never really seemed interesting to me. It was like cigarettes. Blecch. That smell was just so gross to me and I never grasped the concept. Thank jeebus. To this day, at age 54, I have never smoked a cigarette. Although I did go through a decades long stoner phase. But that’s different. Yep, never smoked an actual cigarette. Its true.  

    In my early teen years I discovered punk bands such as 7Seconds, Minor Threat, Attitude Adjustment, which all went by the “straight edge” credo. As a semi active skateboarder and very active D&D player, not getting all fxxked up appealed to me on a very deep level. A lot of my friends at that time started smoking, getting wasted on the weekends, and I would watch them make total asses of themselves. Yeah I don’t need that. After I level up my fighter/magic user I’m going to skate home and leave you drunk idiots behind.

    This went on even when I turned 21. No desire to drink. Drunk people looked and acted like complete fools to me. Although I will say the appeal of bars was always a pull.

    Growing up in Glendale, CA I often passed by what some would call “Bukowski bars” where there was always music playing, people laughing in a darkly lit room, they always had this dangerously curious alure to me. Plus when my dad and I went out to eat he would always prefer to sit in the bar or cantina area where he could smoke and enjoy his rare pint or two of beer.

    In fact, when I turned 21 I bought a bottle of wine for my then 19 year old girlfriend who then went off to college and immediately broke up with me. She drank from that bottle. Not me.

    The girl I dated after her was someone I got very smitten with. An aspiring singer, always wore red lipstick, bit of a hipster who managed a place called The Sock Shop, where they sold, exclusively, yep…socks. We lasted a little over a year when she up and decided to move to Austin, TX to try and become an alt-country singer. Go figure. Anyway I was quite heartbroken. It was then that my pal Richard suggested we get some beers and champagne, go back to his apartment and get loaded to help ease the pain. I really didn’t want to but he was buying and I was sad and bored. And a bit curious.

    No idea what brand of crap beer it was but that first pull I took of it hit me like the first kiss from my last girlfriend. I’m sorry, I’m just hurting here, I’ll move on.

    Anyway, by my second beer I was starting to feel good. Like really good. I’ve always been open about my depression but, man, did all of that disappear. Suddenly his crappy apartment looked good. Organized and comfortable even. Then his roommate showed up with some of his coworkers from this semi fancy Italian restaurant and they brought booze. This then turned into an impromptu party. More beer, shots of whatever, sips of champagne, I was feeling fantastic.

    Cut to hours later and the flat had gone silent with some people who have gone home to others just straight passed out. Not me though. As the sun came up I was playing Richard’s collection of hardcore punk and clunk metal, enjoying another beverage of some distilled kind.

    Drinking was fun. I had no idea.

    At the time it was nothing I really sought after. Most nights were sober. I was doing a lot of theater and usually headed home after a show to clean up and play video games till I fell asleep.

    Then I met another girl.

    This one was a server in our local coffee shop and was the love target of most, if not all of my guy friends. We became instant besties and hung out as such. When she said she was moving to Santa Barbara to study art she asked if I wanted to come along so we could be roommates. At this time my dad was barely at home as he had met his would be future husband and he was usually over at his house. Taking that as a nod to move on I said sure.

    Then our friendship went a bit further. If you know what I mean.

    Our house hunting went from 2 bedrooms to 1 very quickly. Yeah. We were young and, yes, usually drunk.

    She came from that era of high school parties where the beer flowed like wine. When my dad wasn’t around we were usually in the kitchen blending up Melon Balls, a mix of melon Midori, vodka and orange juice. Ugh. Just typing that made me nauseous.

    The three years in Santa Barbara went by very fast. Mainly because I partied the whole time. When my 2 dads moved from Monterey to Palm Springs I would make regular road trips to visit them. Wanna get real loaded real fast for kinda cheap? Go to gay bars. My guys would stock me up with scotch and cocktails that could fuel a panzer. Same went for this gay bar in Santa Barbara. It was called the Gold Coast and every Sunday they would have a beer bust, $5 all you can drink beer. Mind you it was like Bud Lite and Coors but, still. In fact it was at the Gold Coast where I actually passed out in the gutter once.

    Some guys had come back from New York for Wigstock and were so excited they kept buying us broke students (and me, a non-student) Cum Shots, which is a combo of creamy rum and whiskey. With those shots and all that beer I went outside to orally purge it all and after I did I passed out on the sidewalk and somehow rolled into the gutter. Yep. That was me around 24. I’m sure my parents would be proud if they were still around.

    After Santa Barbara we moved to San Francisco and eventually broke up.

    San Francisco for me was a sort of ‘best of times, worst of times’. There was always so much to do but if you didn’t have the money to do so you ended up not doing much. Besides drinking.

    My depression really took off here and thanks to my pal alcohol I was able to get through a lot of it. Here’s the thing; I am a very smart guy, I knew what I was doing to myself, but when you come home to a roommate filled pad and pennies to your name I tended to stay inebriated and watch reruns in my room. Yeah I had good times, a lot of them, but the booze was always there and oftentimes it was a total impediment. How many times would I have to leave a show or party or whatever because I got too drunk? Too many. My anxiety would get completely thwarted by the drink to the point where I just passed out. Sucks.

    Luckily in 2005 I met my future wife and in 2006 I moved blindly to Tucson AZ, my home still today. It was here that I found more meaning and solace so oftentimes I could go through mass periods of time not drinking.

    Then there were times when I couldn’t stop.

    My almost 7 years with the public library really pushed my limits of how I could handle the general public. Most days were filled with crushing boredom or dealing with mentally ill patrons that would sometimes scream at me or call me names for no reason. Showing up hungover at times meant I had something other to do; just get through it.

    My mental health, especially in my middle age, trips and falls a bit more these days and when it does, so do I. Sure alcohol is labeled a ‘depressant’ but for those that suffer from depression its more of an excitant. Or at least an obscurer.  

    Now in my 50s I hold the ability to keep the drinking at a sane level, mainly because I’m kind of bored with it. Looking back I don’t regret ever taking that first drink at my friend’s house but I do regret the way I let it get on top of me way too many times for way too long.

    Just thinking about the old “straight edge” Mark gives me pause to fragments of shame. What happened to that kid? That goofy little boy and teenager that had nothing to do with booze for over 2 decades but who let it in and let it stay and play for more than a comfortable while.

    In this time of semi-retirement and not really bringing in any real money the urge to drown now and then tickles in me like a tiny rock rolling in your shoe. What keeps it at bay is that being 54 means the next day after a few means getting up veeeery slow and not doing much. Quite the difference from being in my 20s or 30s where I would sprint awake, go to a job and then repeat the process with youthful zeal.

    These days I have a wife and cat to take care of, a house to maintain, a blog to write, a garden to tend to, projects to finish, things to bake – all of which would get pushed aside if I embraced the Bukowski bar days of my past. Not proud of that habit but there is also nothing I can do about it now.

    Outside of knowing when to say when. Which I do.

    For the most part.

    Yeah occasionally you can find me at our local bar and if you do pull up a stool and let’s clink glasses. Just know that I’m going home after this one. Unless you’re buying. Then maybe one more.

    Maybe. Cheers!

    The Lonesome Diaries is a collection of stories in my time of semi retirement and house husbandry in a small dimly lit desert cottage with a cat as my only day companion.

  • So, Mark…where have you been?

    So, Mark…where have you been?

    Oh, I’m still around. Kinda.

    To be honest with you all, it’s been a really rough year for your best pal here. Essentially, since last summer, like June of 2024, I have been unemployed. That job I had with the farmers market organization did not happen the way not only I thought, but how they advertised the gig, would turn out.

    The position was banked “Market Coordinator” and after sending my resume and stating that I have written about half of the vendors at their markets, I was certain that I would be some kind of liaison, doing office stuff, helping with social media, etc. Nope. All I did, 2 maybe 3 days a week, was show up to a market early, help set up their info tent, work that info tent, break down the info tent and go home. That was it.

    At first I thought that it was just training before moving me up. Nope. That. Was. It.

    Around May things here in Tucson were heating up and the notion of working the markets in 100+ degree heat was not ideal for a 50-something food writer that mainly spent his hours indoors.

    One day at the big market at Rillito Park a woman approached the info tent saying that someone had spilled a drink by the band tent. Me in my usual humor said something to extent of: “Oh don’t worry about that. It’s like ninety degrees. It’ll evaporate.” I said this right next to my immediate supervisor, who didn’t find that funny.

    Then later that day I heavily criticized an app of a former employer who teamed up with the farmers market organization, that employer who just up and let me go one day saying they are ‘moving in a new direction and need to catch up financially’. That food focused app wasn’t synching with the farmers market app and it was just becoming boring and a pain. Anyway, I said something like “No surprise that app sucks. Because they suck.” Mind you, in my best “professional” totally hushed, behind the scenes voice.

    A day or two later I get an email from that supervisor with the heading “Unprofessional Conduct”. At first I thought it was a training tool on how to deal with customers with unprofessional conduct. Nope. It was directed at me and my “unprofessional conduct” that Sunday at the market. I cracked back saying the evaporating drink was supposed to be funny and the rip on the “app Incident” was said in confidentiality. Then I said I was being grossly underutilized, you’re sitting on a goldmine here, blah blah, and, yeah. That was that.

    Then the long dark days of summer hit and I spent my time mainly job hunting, throwing resumes and portfolios out into the ether of my laptop looking for anything close to my skills and experience. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

    You’re going to suffer but…you’re going to be happy about it

    Well kids, if you don’t already know I’ll tell you all now:

    I have lived with depression and anxiety my whole life.

    As a kid I could remember telling my dad that I “didn’t feel good”. When he asked what was wrong I couldn’t give a tight answer. I just didn’t feel good.

    One day I told him it feels like I’m underwater in the deep end or like wearing that bulky vest the dentist puts on you before doing x-rays. It was that weight, that heaviness that came with my depression. It was the only way I could describe it at the time. Still is.

    So imagine having a condition you have to deal with and a situation you can’t get out of. The wife makes decent money so we are ok, but that overpowering feeling of having knife twisting guilt of not being able to land a job was, and is, sometimes absolutely crushing.

    Heck I couldn’t even get a part time job in a cute spice store, one where the owner has a seething hatred for Donald Trump and the GOP. This is a no brainer. They need help, I have retail experience, am a home cook, a food writer, a user of their products and I too have a frothing hate for Trump and the GOP. Easy.

    I thought the interview went great. Okay, let’s go. Put me on the schedule!

    Pretty sure it was the next morning, morning!, that I got an email saying they are moving on to other candidates. You have got to be joking me.

    Some days were, and are, better than others.

    Some days I see the wife off to work, I tidy up the kitchen or whatever from the night before, make coffee or tea, write a bit, clean a bit, tend to the garden, run errands, read some and before I know it she comes home and its family time.

    Other days, not so much.

    There are days when I can’t even get out of bed. The brain churning on about the dread of yet another day alone in a small dark house, doing chores, sending out resumes that mimic tossing pebbles into the Grand Canyon, trying to write, not being able to focus on words, completely uninspired on what to cook for dinner, freaking out about being middle aged and unemployed – it gets to a point where I do the bare minimum that day. If anything at all.

    Okay, that line about being “alone” is a bit dramatic since we do have our fabulous cat Franky. But he doesn’t speak English. And he sleeps on a patio chair all day.

    Most likely thinking “I’m sure by the age of 50 I’ll be rich and famous.”

    But I am trying my best to get back to being my best.

    I’ve started this new supplement called Gaba, which I take at night, and it seems to be helping with the anxiety. The depression is being fought by drinking a lot less and keeping active as much as possible. My park walks will continue by autumn when it cools down but I am now a member of the Reid Park Zoo, which is mostly shaded, so I hit that up now and then for power walks among the animals.

    The writing is slowly coming back but after being screwed yet again by a local food publication, the love of it has been sort of pounded out of me. I’m working on it kids. I miss typing and I miss you guys reading my stuff.

    Honestly I do enjoy being a house husband these days. I’ve taken up baking, love planning dinners, love cooking dinners, the garden has expanded and is doing well, nice to fix up bits around the house and, of course, being a stay at home cat dad.

    But the not working, not bringing in any income does not sit well with me. Sure I’ve gone through unemployment spells but this is on a whole new level of holy crap. I don’t even qualify for unemployment benefits. Its like, c’mon!

    Then I think the great magnet is trying to tell me something. What that is, I have no clue.

    Anyway, that’s the gist of my jive.

    Thank you to those that have reached out to me, talked me down via text talks or facetime or anyone that has asked “Hey, where have you been?”

    I’ve been here.

    But I sure haven’t been me.

    And that is something I miss most of all.

    Cheers.

    7/12/25