Long day's journey

photo by Johan Bjorkegren

I guess it's been too hot to write. Or maybe it's that I have been out doing too many activities. Or perhaps the lack of comments has forced me to seek attention and recognition elsewhere. Whatever the causes I have decided to come back. Not because I have anything really of import to say. But mostly, so that when I die there will be some kind of record for which I could posthumously receive acknowledgement, maybe an award or two, like for Most Improved Blog, or even just a coupla thank you's from my former employers. I don't know. I guess it's pointless. But yet. We persevere.

My dog got bit on the face not too long ago. Blood gushed from his nose as I watched helplessly while he shook a Rottweiler, firmly attached to his snout, across the gravel driveway. The neighbors looked on and while they weren't exactly cheering, nor where they offering any assistance. As I banged the Rottweiler on the head with the only instrument I had handy: a DVD of Casino Royale as rented from Blockbuster, the owner of the aforementioned assault weapon ran out and got his damn dog off of mine.

We survived having only lost a t-shirt and dishrag in the bargain. The five-hour vet trip was pretty exciting however what with all the swallowed fox-tails, violently shaking Chihuahuas and the unexpected entrance of a hit-by-car that took up all of the resources of the staff. For the remaining four hours, I sat in silence next to the perpetrator's owner with absolutely nothing to say save a brief exchange about our dog's ages. Thankfully there were no stitches involved and all damages were assumed by the guilty party.

And that's the extent of it. Allergies. Sweat. Ripe Fruit. And more strawberry rhubarb pie.

It's gonna be a long summer.

Whoa!

Mary Conrad, Tell Your Stories Here

This week as I left the office for a lunch break, I ran into the adult-learners' ESL class in the stairwell. Literally, ran into them. It's that time of year. The time of year when the class escalates to a frenetic climax, where exuberance is at it's apex because the adult ESL students now know enough language to be allowed to roam the halls. Yes, it's Spring and apparently that means the students can leave behind the primitive instructions of the classroom–with it's ticking clock, assigned seating and dry-erase board–for the more tangible language experience that resides in our hallways, elevators, and, yes, even the stairwell.

Stairs
and then, in unison
sta-airs!
up
up!
down
do-own!
wall
wall!
carpet
car-pet!

Can I help it if I smile at the intimate class of little–and I mean all under 5 feet–old Asian ladies and a surprisingly tall and thin white lady, as they giggle and shuffle through the building, all the while apologizing profusely in a very well enunciated English? Do you blame me for finding the whole thing cute and, well, refreshing? Am I really that racist or ageist?

It's probably even worse than that.

But the good news is:
that I still find a couple scenes from my film funny
that the bike ride home only gets better
that pork chops are not only easy, but quite tasty to make
that, despite the tireless debates–about fashion, politics and who is doing a better job of listening–the man across the kitchen table
is a man I find quite worth the meal.

Ha Ha

San Francisco in Jell-O, LIz Hickok

Isn't it time to be funny? Isn't that why you come here? Isn't that the point of surfing the internet? Who wants to hear about my problems? Certainly not you. Well, not me neither. I want to laugh. Right now. Goddamnit. Someone make me laugh.
Is it too much?

Now

urban irony project , wroclaw poland 2007

Last night we watched someone hang themself on television.

Close Up someone grabs a seashell off the night table
Cut to Wide Shot a man clutching his neck, a paroxysm for air, legs kicking
Cut to The Next Scene wherein life goes on but not for our man hanging from the rafters

Fade into me on the couch with a pillow over my face. Pillow soft and smothering. Quick. Access to memory banks. Retrieve new memory to replace the one of Cayce hanging himself like the man on tv. Did his legs kick? Did he grab the prayer beads like the man on the tv grabbed the seashell? Was it just suddenly the only idea possible? The only one worth having? THE LAST IDEA?

The last idea.

Imagine that.

Or was the last idea regret? Did that one make it's way before the end of life did? Would it matter? Would it matter to me? Would it make things different somehow?

It's not unpredictable that these things happens. It's the risk of watchingtelevision, openingabook, walkingoutside. It's the risk of the living.

And I am not afraid of it.

I'm sorry.

I'msosorry.

A way to be with you. To be close.

Here.

And I mean now.

What love should mean?

If I tole you that last night's dinner was baked tofu–courtesy of Trader Joe's, microwaved popcorn, and beer from the local liquor store. If I tole you three rejection letters in 1 week. If I tole you, if I tole you, if I tole you.

That.

Things aren't so bad.

The sky was pink last night for a real long time. And then a perfect water's blue. We sat on the wet beach. And sand got in my shoes, in my pockets, in my drawers.

There is a Foster's Freeze I walk by every day. At night they have an old neon sign they light up. The lights pop on and off and makes a nighttime sound as comforting as crickets.

We walked the beltway. We saw jackrabbits too fast for the dog to catch. We carried the dog across the brambles and still, afterwards, he stopped, paw in the air, waiting for someone to clean out the thorns.

Shortcake.

Strawberry.

With whipped cream except I forgot to buy the cream.

seventh grade excerpt from film:

what love should mean?
huh?
what love should mean?
i don't even know what the heck you are talking about.
first you don't care about anybody and then you do?
how 'bout generous? i don't know!

Very

Squeeze. Erin V. Sotak is an installation and performance artist concerned with notions of absurdity, futility, consumption, labor, and aesthetics. Her work is best described as a moving tableau that is re-rendered through the photographic process. Sotak will fabricate a new space in the Sesnon gallery using a variety of materials including wood, wall coverings, raw silk, and pomegranates. The piece revisits ideas of constraint versus restraint, seen versus unseen, interior versus exterior, and the distinct blur of the separateness of experience that occurs in a singular shared moment.

Don't ask me why the TV is blaring in the background. Generally I hate TV. I mean I really hate it. It has a lot to do with having been a really bad cable television editor for two many years. It has a lot to do with having started my career as an editor for really bad cable television editor in broadcast news. It has to do with cringing every time I hear an audio-booth recorded voice over. Or see a Queer-Eye style animated show open. Or am manipulated to stay tuned for the next half hour by the much-repeated dangling carrot of a grand deus ex machina executed in a ten-second tease.

There. I just saw a commercial for Cotton. Cotton? Yea, cotton. Pussycat Dolls. Tyra Banks. It's been a while since I tuned in. Clare Danes and The Boyfriend Trouser™. Cheese-It Stix. I recognize none of the station bugs.

The mute button. The remote. My kingdom for the remote.

The week. In fragments. My week. Just like the TV. My friend who decided to don his Tibetan prayer beads, shortly before killing himself. The toxicology report. The Vicodin in his system. His wife. His wife. Who will never be the same. His kids. His precious kids. Who I love more than warm, straight-from-the-tap maple syrup on waffles. Nothing better than to hear them giggling. Nothing more reassuring. And thank god. There are still giggles. Thank god. Even when I don't believe.

And the leaves. How quickly they grow back on the trees. As if they were never gone. And we have forgotten what the bare tree is.

How quickly. We forget.

The difference between me and you

Jo Hanson, Mother Courage – "from work that I call urban spirit figures, using metals that are crushed by street traffic."

It has been my goal to come here and write at least once a week. And I have to admit, that I have been having a hard time doing even this. So tonight I pour myself a small glass of my favorite whiskey–yes, the kind that's sealed with wax–put on some inspirational tunes and confess that I am just not sure what to write about. A free write? A political diatribe? A nostalgic walk down memory lane? What will it be?

I wonder. As for the music, I am listening to David Byrne's playlist. Too lazy and too–um, what is the word, non-committal? yes, we'll take that–I am allowing someone else to do the work for me. But listen to this. I always like the thoughtfulness with which he crafts his themes. Tonight it's: Pop as in popular. That's where this playlist falls apart. Not all of these songs reached or will reach a wide enough audience to be considered truly popular, but it wasn't for want of being poppy, catchy or sticking to your brain pan. David Byrne. I don't care much for his fine art. And he has this really earnest blog that's like, do I really need to know all about David Byrne's tarmac adventures in trying to get back to Newark, NJ from Austin, TX? But, you all know how I feel about My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts. And those Brazil Classic compilations he put out in the early 90's, I mean, we played the shit out of those albums! And they were, albums, that is, back then. But listen to this. Right now. How perfectly did Gnarls Barkley's Crazy ooze right into The Arcade Fire's My Body Is A Cage? The man knows his pop music. So why should I reinvent the wheel here?

Hunh. And now I s'pose I should write about something. Now would be the time, right? I mean, I have your attention and all. So. Do I write about helping my recently widowed friend sort through her husband's belongings and determine which items to save for the kids and which items get donated to Good Will? Do I write about the lengthening days and how encouraging Spring can be? How it always seems to come right when you need it most? Do I write about my nasty cough that has kept me and my neighbors up for the last week and how sore and tired I am from coughing? Do I write about the argument I got in to earlier today about whether or not one should aggressively confront another aggressive person, namely one who drives like a maniac, endangers other people's lives and then acts like it is his right as an American citizen to do so. Do I write about the woman's obituary I read that moved me so, a woman who died at 89 years old, but lived that life as an artist, an activist, who could teach us a thing or too if we bothered to listen, a woman who made her point out of trash, compiled an archive of city litter that showed us who we were and a time line of how we got here?

Where do I begin? And where should I stop? Where do I look to for guidance?

When was the last time you prayed?

This morning I rode my bike to work. It took 45 minutes, and it was lovely. A lovely day. A lovely introduction to spring. A lovely feeling of accomplishment for riding my bike to work, for starting the week riding my bike to work. Course, that could all change tomorrow, but for now, things feel possible and, hell, downright rosy.

It wasn't until the ride back, though, that I really started to see. You know, the kind of seeing that only comes from practice, from a strict discipline of noticing the things around you, of seeing the new, of looking beyond the usual. I had forgotten. I had forgotten what that was like. But my field of vision opened and I was gifted the following. A brick factory boarded and empty, remnants of its industry being taken over by the earth. The sycamores that line the wide streets of this island, the tiniest green leaves shaking in the sun. A shiny black police car, reflecting the brightest, harshest light. The produce district where warehouses brimming with crates and crates are loaded, unloaded, and forklifts move in slow-motion.

Riding over the drawbridge I could see the water beneath the metal slates. There were crevices and cracks over which I rode, there were signs and lights that were disobeyed, there were helmets laid by the wayside, and there were motorists to curse. There were legs to get tired, an ass to get sore, and a face to get sun-kissed. There was grit in my teeth, there was wind between my legs and there was a certain music–traffic, down strokes, the last song in my head–I couldn't ignore.

The instances swimming around in my head are the instances in which

1.

A man I once cared for far more than I knew was wise to, complained about his relationship with his ex: they were total opposites, she was a horrible communicator, he always felt like she had one foot out the door. Sick of hearing about it, I finally asked him why he even went out with her in the first place. His response was sure and quick. She's beautiful.

The ease with which he said it and the fact that he had never said as much to me, made me acutely sad. Not only for me, but for him as well.

2.

My office is next to an adult English Language Learners' class in Chinatown. Every day I hear them shouting in unison, with the enthusiasm of a grade-school calisthenics class things like
HELLO!
GOODBYE!
WHAT IS YOUR NAME!

Each phrase is shouted with the same absence of intonation that comes, well, with a group of people shouting random phrases while staring straight ahead at the dry erase board where a woman with a pointer taps each word printed on it.

As the semester progresses, so do the complexities of the phrases. And I don't know if this is the entirety of the class, or if things like conversation and comprehension are just done at a more hushed level.

But today what I heard was
WHERE ARE YOU GOING FOR DIM SUM!
and
I LOVE YOU!
and really, what more do you need to know how to say?

3.

In searching for a third instance, I must now admit to both you and myself that there is no three. At the end of the day, this is all I can really offer. But, this I know: things usually come out better in threes. So use your imagination.

Love Hard, Fight Beautifully

I read that the other day in the lobby close to the elevators of the office where I work. It's part of an art exhibit–I'm not exactly sure for what–but it's a phrase to which I find myself returning daily. Like when my boyfriend and I fought all night on Valentine's Day. Or when I talk to my New York friend, who had a New York meltdown and left it all behind–the job, the apartment, the collection of short stories he couldn't get published–to move in with his relatives in sunny Los Angeles and is suddenly feeling a helluva lot better. But mostly I think of it because this last week has been hard as hell for me and for a lot of my close friends.

Cayce lost the fight last week and we miss him horrbily. He left behind a wife of some twenty years, two boys young enough that they still take baths together, and siblings as close as they make 'em.

You think you know grief. You think you know loss. And then along comes something that is as impossible to understand as Einstein's theory of relativity. And that's the thing. What one day seemed impossible to understand eventually grows to become something you just accept as true. And I guess, that's where I am with it all right now. Things are in the process of becoming true. And it's not an easy place to be.

I first met Cayce at film school many years ago. I was a graduate TA for a class that was small on a good day, and more like an intimate yet uncomfortable job interview on a bad one. I don't think I ever prepared harder for a class, and I don't think I ever ended up flailing more. Cayce was the only student who actually tried to respond to my questions. The only one who attempted to engage with the readings–even if he hadn't read them. And the student for whom I ended up teaching the entire course. Cayce encouraged me, as best as one of your students can, by, at least, acting like he was getting something out of the class. Years later, Cayce himself would become a teacher: a much more relaxed, genuine and knowledgeable one than I ever was. And from that first encounter, Cayce turned me on to more films, music and obscure Internet sites than seems possible for one person to be aware of. If you asked any of his friends, students or colleagues you'd hear the exact same thing. Anything Cayce championed was something worth investigating.

Cayce, his wife Chela and their boys, Django and Taj, made a home not far from mine. There's was a home I would visit, not just for the free meals and lively conversation but for the open door policy, the unlimited sustenance and playtime with two of the most mischievous boys I've known. I loved nothing more than to visit Cayce when his wife was out of town and watch him, overwhelmed with the boys, trying to give them a bath and put them to bed, and they, in turn, knowing just how to work the crowd to their own benefit. Trying to act the role of the father, you could see Cayce was clearly no match for them. And at the same time, you could see just how much he loved it all.

I could go on and on about Cayce. About how he was the best Sasha Baron Cohen impersonator I knew, about how when he left you a phone message it was so shit-your-pants funny you collected them all, or about how when he loved something, be it a song or a film or a new drink at McDonald's, he proselytized to such effect, you soon found yourself praising their merits as well. But it breaks my heart too much to think about. To realize the memories I have are the only ones I get.

Cayce was rock and roll. He was unbridled affection. He was for real when nothing else was.

And he was loved. And he was beautiful.

Not that the story need be long, but it will take a long time to make it short.

Michelin Man, Christie Nielson

When I go for porno, it's of the vintage variety. That's not to say I don't indulge in the occasional pay-per-view when away from home, say touring a plummy Motel 6 or knocking around a Mid-Western Holiday Inn. There are some things that are simply more fun when done in the unfamiliar place. I imagine you all know what I am talking about here. Nonetheless, back at the ranch, I have my own stash of tried and true. The fewer the fake tits and the lesser the landing strips, the better off we all are, in my humble opinion. Sure we might have to put up with some blemishes, some bad–and I don't mean baaaddd–Shaft riffs. And yeah, the director might have fancied himself an auteur and thusly encumbered the porn with more plot than it could possibly accommodate. But I'll take my stray hairs and eggy breasts over any modern-day revision of My Big Fat Greek Penis.

To get to the point, when I went out of town last week to visit that film festival of note in the ski-sloped resort just south of the desert, my sort-of boyfriend opted to stay behind and vacation at my little resort on the island. The night before I left, let's just say, we indulged. Fast forward to me, bundled to the size of which would rival the Michelin Man and wattling through the snow to wait in line for the highly-acclaimed and very sold-out shows the festival of note had to offer. No doubt watching yet another independent film or queued up in front of the theatre in the six-degree weather, I missed the phone call from the sort-of boyfriend. But, oh, the message was well worth it's recording:

Hey dude, just wanted you to know, that when I returned King Kong, I had taken the first DVD out of the freakin, uh, player and it happened to be Deep Throat and that's what they saw when they opened it up to check it back. [change of voice] Excuse me sir, this isn't the DVD for King Kong....
...agh!

Apparently, he mumbled it's my girlfriend's...but we're not quite sure they heard that.

Of course, I played the message for my cohorts to hear, and, of course, we laughed until tears sprung and crystallized on our cheeks. In fact, I laughed all the way through the hour and a half line for a disappointing, soon-to-be released documentary. I laughed every time one of us said King Kong! And I laughed at the thought of this man, staying alone in my apartment for the first time, tentatively trying on the role of sweetheart, and trying to explain to a sixteen-year old, Blockbuster employee why the accidental substitution of Deep Throat in the place of King Kong was just an honest mistake.

Sugar

Reynold Reynolds & Patrick Jolley with Samara Golden, still from Sugar

The OSC calls me kid even though I am technically older than him and even though we dated, what, about two decades ago. It seems like I have known The OSC for just about ever. He is the only man who has ever asked me to marry him–though he was drunk at the time and we had already long stopped dating. He is the first person to pour me a beer after heartbreak, the first shoulder I cry on when it gets hard to drag my ass out of bed, and–plug your ears, mom–the first lay when there has been a particularly long draught. Though his once lithe skate boarder's body has now grown soft, his hair has considerably thinned, and we don't even have to go into what years of smoking, dry walling and lack of health care has done to his capacity to breathe, looking at him is much akin to looking into a mirror, a painfully accurate mirror. Our dreams a bit more battered, our cross-word puzzling skills a bit improved, we look at each other and we read our own histories. I may not be balding and, at least I can climb up a set of stairs without coughing up half a lung, but he does know exactly what to say to make me feel better, precisely how to piss me off, and absolutely how to, um, push my buttons.

We moved in together to save money, not a good enough reason at any age, let alone when you are twenty-two. We lived in a one-bedroom, third floor walk-up where I was the apartment manager. Together we paid about two-hundred dollars a month in rent and sometimes we couldn't even scrap that together. For most of the time we lived together, I remained indignant. He never picked up a finger to help with the maintenance of the building, though, he benefited with the cheap rent. He wasn't particularly neat. And his idea of apartment decorating included hanging up his baseball cards willy nilly on the mantel so that they fell anytime the door slammed shut.

Still, we had fun. It was new, this living together thing, and we made the best of it. In our hearts we knew this was just a practice run for later, when we had the capacity to take these things more serious. We played house. And in the process, we learned one or two things. One Thanksgiving someone had given us a twenty pound bird, no doubt a freebie with the one they had purchased for themselves. We invited over a few friends and stuck it in the oven. Four hours later, it was no where near being cooked. It seemed our tiny oven couldn't handle a turkey of that size, and so, minus any kind of meat thermometer, we started sawing off the drumsticks hoping we could at least eat those. And we did. And lived to tell about it.

The OSC once tried on one of my dresses. It was a slinky, low-cut number and it startled us both to see how good he looked in it. He pranced about the house, dancing back to the full-length mirror to wag his ass and giggling the entire time like a schoolgirl in her first bra. I can't remember if it turned us on, or if the absurdity of his hairy chest and his high, round buttocks kept us in hysterics the rest of the night. He could make me laugh, that man, he could also make me forget, and for those alone, I will always keep his company. He might have been the boyfriend that behaved the worst–we were kids, after all, it could be argued that we hadn't known any better–but he was the one whom I have actually known long enough to completely forgive.

We've been to hell and back, both as a couple and each on our own. We've seen each other act the worst and we haven't always been there to witness the best. One marriage, one divorce and one abortion between us. We share a million stories. And one hopes there will be a million more. Lovers, jobs, apartments, they may change. But he is the well-worn map I turn to when lost. Separating at the seams, edges thinned from touching, the map may not always tell me where I am headed, but if I traces it's contours, it can begin to tell me where I've been.

Morning Rituals

Kathryn Spence, Pigeons, 1997, street trash, wire, string, rubber bands, glue

Some people have their coffee, some their morning mass and others still wake up to the Today Show. And those of us with dogs, well, you know what we have. The morning walk. A ritual that I now look forward to more than than the smell of coffee percolating, more than the sight of espresso steaming, more than the screeching sound of milk foaming. I never thought it was possible to enjoy something more than these sacred things. But. Look at me now.

My morning walk, like all rituals, begins and ends with the same thing: the donning and the shedding of many layers, the leashing and the unleashing, the picking up and the letting go of a plastic bag. We button up, we grab our coffee and we hit the road. What is most enjoyable about this ritual is that we walk the same route every morning, we reach the same landmarks, we see many of the same people. And yet, what is most striking about traversing the exact same path day after day are all the subtle changes: the ones that weather, season and sunlight afford. It is the closest to religion I get. And I look forward to it more than anything.

The walk begins as we cut through the park. We pass the empty playground, we notice our breath in the air, and often the grass is full of dew, sometimes, even, brittle with frost. We head down the stairs, we come to the barren baseball field, we marvel at the energy of the tennis players so sprightly in the bitter cold and pale light. We come across the one or two ambitious joggers, the all-business dog walkers, and the middle-aged Asian couples comfortably bundled in sweats. We walk past the pond with its sleeping ducks, its one solemn egret and its still marsh reeds. And the moment I first lay eyes on the sea, like the exquisiteness of a first kiss, is the moment my day officially begins.

Once we are walking along side the beach, I notice everything. How calm or furious the tide is, the colors of the leaves on the ground, the wee little plovers alight on the sand. I mark the winterness of the trees, whose nests have become suddenly visible by their nakedness. I regard the cast of the sun on the water. I near the paved walkway, my second landmark, where the shifting tides swell over or under to reveal it's architecture. And like a prayer, a meditation, a really impossible yoga move, I am unabashedly thankful. On days like today, with the sea high and frothy, the moon sufficiently waxed, the air crisp and the coffee hot in my hand, I stand and ponder my good fortune. It's not a bad way to start the day.

The walk from there is brisk and to the point. We approach the school playground, the sounds of recess and PE echoing across the water, we pass, for the second time, the elderly man who carries a camera and whom I see, not once, but twice, each morning, we exchange another good day greeting, and we reach the house with the Butoh, or perhaps it's Kabuki puppets and bottle tree. This is the third and final landmark by which I measure my walk: a row of Butoh puppets mysteriously lining the entire windowed-wall of this last house on the water. Most of the puppets face inward, but a select few look down on us forlornly as we reach the sidewalk and leave the ocean's side. Depending on the light, the blue bottle trees leave either a tragic or regal impression.

By this point I am already thinking of all the things I have to do that day. I am dreading or looking forward to going into the office, I am ready for breakfast, I am making lists in my head. I stop noticing. I turn inward. I obsess, or stress, or act the way I normally act throughout the day, mostly as if my eyes were blinded and my ears plugged. I act the way we all act. The walk is officially over. The work day has officially begun. Life has officially taken over. But. For a brief moment in time, I bore witness to the morning. And I was humbled by it's wit.

Enough about me

OK this is a weird time of year, but also kinda fun if you're into baking and parties and what not. People do all kinds of crazy things this time of year. And I, in turn, feel some of that ambivalence, some of that excitement. Click on santa to watch the video. Aram did the music and recorded the self-motivational talking picture frame you hear in the background. Thank you Aram ep

Or try me on for size

Things We Don’t Understand and Are Definitely Not Going To Talk About

Things We Don’t Understand and Are Definitely Not Going To Talk About,
Miranda July

An intern at my work copied for me a CD full of covers of Joy Division's Love Will Tear Us Apart. Now, I can't think of a thing out there that will cheer you up more than listening to that song over and over, each artist with their own unique interpretation of pain, suffering and humiliation as individually experienced. The world is never short of grief. Nor, does it seem to me today, are our lives.

James Kim was found dead. I recently watched a documentary about the incurable neurological disorder, Dystonia, where those afflicted loose control of their muscles. The sun was bright this morning, but I, trying to soak up its rays, was not. It's proving to be one of those days. You know the kind I am talking about. The emotional kind. I would like to call it pesado, because the word feels right in my mouth, but it turns out pesado really means boring...which might not, after all, be that far from the truth.

James Kim was my age. His wife and children survived only because his wife was able to breast-feed both their children and burn the car tires to keep them warm when the gas ran out. Those with Dystonia can implant a device in their brain that uses a remote control to stimulate neuro-transmitters to keep their muscles from spazzing. When the battery in their remote control dies, they go back to being hunched over or wheel-chair bound. Last night, the sun set at 4:45 and there was nothing I could do, but watch it slip away.

When I'm 64

Felix Gonzalez-Torres, Untitled (Portrait of Ross)

Today I bought a package of Werther's Original at Ye Ole Bed Bath and Beyond. For reasons still inexplicable to me, I opened the package and poured it's conveniently wrapped contents into a small bowl. I then preceded to place that which you might call a candy bowl on that which I do call the coffee table. It was at that exact moment I realized that my fear of turning into my mother had instantly suddenly changed into my fear of becoming my grandmother. Mon dieu! What had I just done? What person of my age in their right mind would do such a thing? OK maybe candy in a bowl. Something neat like an obscure Japanese candy. But Werther's? That's like, so, Florida. It's the kind of candy that's so unloved, no one, not even the most sugar-starved two-year old would reach for. The kind of candy that stays in the bowl—which is precisely its purpose—well beyond the expiration date...
...of its original purchasers.

Sigh.

Sometimes I wonder. Just how dotty am I gonna be? I mean, how bad are things gonna get? I can handle cutting out newspaper articles on any possibly relevant subject and mailing them incessantly to my descendants and I could deal with becoming an old crank who cusses up a storm in line at the bank teller to anyone who is willing to listen. But what if I decide 2 dozen feral cats is an appropriate number of roommates? Or what if I start seeing the Virgin Mary in my pancakes? I mean, what if I start turning to Talk Radio for an answer?!

I already have no qualms about using expired milk for my cereal. And I do have a tendency to hoard. For chrissakes, it was only today when I caught myself gesticulating wildly while talking out loud in search of the perfect salad spinner (not found!) It can't be too much longer now!

Granted, there are things to look forward. Mostly they consist of finally not giving a shit: about what you say, the way you look, or what people think about you. So what if I wanna wear a Real People t-shirt over a hot-pink track suit with alligator cowboy boots? Who cares if I decide the local PTA meeting is an appropriate podium for my erudite theories about pasteurized cheese? And really, who would mind if I zydeco danced my way down the aisle at my only daughter's wedding?

Something for nothing

Marina Shterenberg, Improbable Architecture

My dad is of the opinion you can get something for nothing. Wait. Scratch that. My dad is of the opinion that you should get something for nothing. Or, at least, that he should. It goes something like this: the family goes out to dinner, we order our entrees and then, my father thinks all desserts should be complimentary. It's his daughter's birthday for chrissakes! There are nine of us! Do they know how long he has been dining at this establishment? Do they know who he knows? He has signed letters from two different presidents! He has photos of himself with Sting on more than one occasion! And do we need to bring up Tom Hanks?! Yes, Tom Hanks! He has his telephone number! His home number! He could call him right now if you like! Do you want him to call Tom Hanks?! Cuz he can! Right now! You could call them bosom buddies!

My father's tolerance for putting up with bullshit is low. But so is his tolerance for being treated like a regular customer. And that's just it. He doesn't want to be treated like a regular customer. He wants to be treated like a celeb. Or like a friend of the celebs. Or maybe just like a friend. If it's a ballgame, he'll waltz into the most desirable section like he's Jack Nicholson at a Lakers game. If it's airline seats, he'll demand an upgrade. If it's a hotel room, he firmly requests the suite on the corner, poolside. That's after he's already paid for the ground floor double with the view of the parking lot. And then he won't back down. Relentless is a word we might use to describe him. Pain in the ass others might say. Or still yet, you might see a manager mouthing the words do anything to get rid of him.

We are, all of us, used to it at this point. And we each take a unique approach in response to the situation. My one sister, at age thirty-six, will make sure to arrive at the movie theatre before he can buy her and her husband any 12 and under tickets. My mother will casually walk away from the man haggling with the maitre d' over the table with reserved seats. And I personally try not to encourage him to continue to use his dead mother's handicap placard.

It's a battle none of us will ever win. Nor one we can even begin to understand. I can't tell you the hand that my father's been dealt. But I sure as hell know the hand he will try and play. And I know precisely the moment everyone else will fold.

Anything you need to know about somebody you can learn about by the kind of soup they make

(Gratuitous Halloween photo of cute kid making "scary" face)

And if they don't make soup, consider them not worth knowing.

The general consensus around these parts is that Sunday evening is a perfect evening for soup making. Soup you can eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner—if need be—for the rest of the week. Soup made out of whatever is found in the cupboards, fridge and garden. The kind of soup that can easily be extended and modified as the days progress. A soup that molds (uh, no pun intended there) to your liking, much like those pair of Levi's you've had since college.

As it sometimes happens, this Sunday evening I find myself still consuming last week's soup while at the same time beginning next week's. Unfortunately, last week's soup, a butternut squash puree, was less successful than usual. Puree is always hard over here, since we are lacking a food processor. For reasons I find hard to explain even to myself, I have never owned a microwave, a food processor, a garbage disposal nor a dishwasher and though some would swear by these conveniences of the twenty-first century, we over here like to do things the old-fashioned way. Or that is to say, we have been to cheap to date to make any such culinary advances. To wit, the butternut squash puree was not entirely my fault. But it did make it hard for me not to steal a bowlful of the steaming, aromatic, anything-goes udon soup.

It goes something like this: open fridge and look for ingredients that must be used immediately or rendered hazardous to one's health. The bok choy looked pretty good, the onions in perfect shape, but the mystery cabbage rescued from the bottom drawer and initially gotten by way of weekly-organic-food-box-shared-with-neighbor needed to be dealt with pronto. The ingredients, once brought out and modeled on the kitchen counter, spoke and when they did they decidedly said asian. What next, you might ask? Peruse the refidgerator again. Discover the packaged udon and packaged tofu that have been languishing in isolation unecessarily long. Realize wilted carrot that feels embaressingly familiar, shrivelled ginger and limp scallions would perk up nicely when combined with Trader Joe's Ginger and Soy Broth™. Become ebullient at thought of such resourcefulness synthesized with such gastric shrewdness. Note that dog doesn't much care for dropped block of tofu. Begin.

With some regret I remember the two mushrooms I so carelessly tossed out earlier. While small in number, it would have given me great pleasure to find a role in tonight's soup for those two homeless fellas. Once the ingredients have been chopped (somewhat) and tossed into the dutch oven, the seasoning should begin. This one is a no brainer. Look for asian-inspired condiments and begin pouring. Soy sauce: natch. Hoisin: we'll go with that. Sesame oil: a dash. Sriracha Chili Sauce: why not? Add more soy sauce. And then add some more. Realize low-sodium soy sauce is not much help when it comes to soup. Make way to spice jars. Vague recollection that star anise is key ingredient in favorite Vietnamese soup. Taste. Add more soy sauce. Vigoursly shake soy sauce into pot. Curse at now empty bottle of soy sauce and add more hot sauce to make up for it. Taste again. Congratulate self. Not too shabby! Enjoy bowl of soup and retire to living room smug, sated and full.

The Wagon Box Fight

another opportunity to view

This is leftover video from my stay in Wyoming. From the Jim Gitchell Memorial Museum in Buffalo to be precise. Who can resist a diaorama? So wee, so precious, so antiquated. I especially love them when they are extra dusty and the people's limbs are missing and the animal's hair has fully disentagrated. This one was fairly intact and a pretty grim story. File under how we won The West. And then feel all crappy about it.

Election day coverage

Hank Willis Thomas

Who doesn't love an election day?! Giving your name and address at your local polling place, last minute attempts to figure out which Board of Education Supervisors to vote for, listening to the pundits duke it out as the poll returns come in. Well, if we are to look at statistics—and I'm not saying that we are—then that'd be about half of you out there. Even if I hadn't paid that much attention to the state-wide elections and municipal measures in a non-presidential election such as this one (and again I'm not saying or not saying that is the case here) I still get caught up in the fervor once the actual voting day arrives. I'll be the first to admit

Today was the first day for me voting in my new hometown, or the island as we islanders like to refer to it. A new polling place, new mayoral canditates—none of which rang a bell—and new voting machines, ones that, ironically, seemed quaintly pastoral as if from a time gone by. My friendly poll worker told me there were no hard drives, no hanging chads, no blurry touch screens and none of those pesky Diebold Voting Machines any Rubrics Cuber could hack in about five seconds. Just pencil and ink this time around. Standing alone at my voting booth, I almost felt a pang of nostalgia for those earlier Rube Goldbergian contraptions that took up so much space. There was nothing but myself, my cheat sheet and a couple of pieces of paper on which I was supposed to fill in the arrows and mark my picks for the best candidates.

I have to admit, my new polling place did not quite stir the emotions like my last one. Maybe it was the fact it was not in the basement of an old Baptist Church. Maybe it was the fact that I used to live in a much poorer neighborhood—OK friends, between you and I, we can call it ghetto—where people seemed to remember what it was like to be disenfranchised. Or maybe it was the fact that I voted amongst gas station attendants on their way to work, security guards on their way home from work, and that the polling volunteers were all elderly black women—the chuch-going kind—who worked at a snail's pace. But today, there were none of the tears in my eyes, the swelling up of civic pride, I used to experience on voting day. At a last ditch effort, I called a friend to see if he wanted to watch the poll returns in some working class bar. But alas, all I got was the machine.

I don't care who you vote for—OK, again this may not be factually accurate—but, yes, I think you should vote. It builds character. It generally makes you feel better about yourself much like how you feel after going to the gym. It makes you feel a part of somethig bigger. Is that so bad? Besides what have you got to lose? This is one test that you will never fail.
Hank Willis' Priceless