A few years back -- around this time of year -- I met with one of my close friends to discuss something that was bothering me. After an animated lengthy diatribe her response was: I wish I could find the off switch in your brain.
In the years that have followed I have often wished that she, or I (or somebody please!), had located that off switch.
I say this becasue I'm in desperate need of a break from being myself.
Last night, with my Borders 40% coupon in hand I went in search of DVDs. And yes I stood in front of the Criterion Collection for so long I was pretty sure that the announcement for security to zoom in on "Section 2" was about me. It's not that I'm vain but I must've looked a bit suspicious, kneeling and pondering for close to an hour. The thing is, I have a process that is probably best described as "finely ground." I mean that. And boy, you should be lucky if your process happens to be more coarsely ground.
The problem is I kept selecting Japanese movies made in the 1950s and 1960s and I envisioned myself watching another b/w Japanese film and I wanted to shoot myself. Not that there's anything wrong with b/w Japanese movies but why oh why can't I just go home and watch Step Brothers? (Where is that off switch?)
In a move that I considered (almost) paradigm shifting I purchased The Hunger, even though Catherine Denueve was a lame-ass and sued DeNueve magzine for using her name. (Did she even bother to look into their sales figures? It wasn't like they were going to the bank all that often on her name.) Anyway, we all know Susan Sarandon rocks and the line, "Mrs. Blaylock are you making a pass at me?" Which might be delivered telepathically -- is forever etched in my mind.
What sucks is I've tried all sorts of things over the years to try to break free of my patterns, once in while I'll shave my legs or fast or try to watch a romantic comedy. Nothing works. I always end up being me.
And to be perfectly honest, my next visit to Borders will be with a coupon and I will purchase those Japanese movies. And one chilly night, with the pellet stove warming me, I'll be as happy as a clam watching Women of the Night.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
I'm just back to New York City. It's the same grimy expensive place it was when I left a few weeks back. But I'm not the same grimy dude I was when I left.
C was cool enough to loan me the use of her house in rural Massachusetts where I holed up and spent my time working on a novel. Never before have I allowed myself to focus all my intention and most of my energy in the waking state, on writing. It'll be some time before I get any feedback on the manuscript and I hope folks don't think it's total crap. But wow, what a way to pass the time.
The photo (below) is me in my writing get-up. I bought new clothes to write in. I'm sporting a gray sweater, a gray shirt, and gray hair (!). Normally I don't wear sweaters and I don't have such long hair but as the outdoor temps were in the low 30s and 20s, to fight catching my death of cold I went for the sweater and hippie era hair.
Tomorrow I'm going to do two things one cannot do in rural Massachusetts: ride the subway and buy a falafel sandwich near Ground Zero. Fucking cannot wait!
C was cool enough to loan me the use of her house in rural Massachusetts where I holed up and spent my time working on a novel. Never before have I allowed myself to focus all my intention and most of my energy in the waking state, on writing. It'll be some time before I get any feedback on the manuscript and I hope folks don't think it's total crap. But wow, what a way to pass the time.
The photo (below) is me in my writing get-up. I bought new clothes to write in. I'm sporting a gray sweater, a gray shirt, and gray hair (!). Normally I don't wear sweaters and I don't have such long hair but as the outdoor temps were in the low 30s and 20s, to fight catching my death of cold I went for the sweater and hippie era hair.
Tomorrow I'm going to do two things one cannot do in rural Massachusetts: ride the subway and buy a falafel sandwich near Ground Zero. Fucking cannot wait!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Last night as I was drowning my sorrow in alcohol and Isabelle Huppert, I had to stop and think about what I was doing. Somewhere in the midgst of vieiwing Violette I realized that instead of drowning my sorrows I should be celebrating life. As soon as I had that thought I adjusted my mindset and made myself hit pause, cook something healthful (steamed organic brocolli and cauliflower, and polish off the awesome pumpkin custrad I've become addicted to) then I returned to alcohol/DVD.
In some ways my mindshift was prompted by something Robert Thurman said at Death and Dying IV. He was talking about the way people use drugs or alcohol to knock themselves out but that, "They're afraid of the final knock out [death]." When he said that I thought of my years as an alcoholic and the years when I was using too many drugs and I thought, "Ah, so I was being a wimp." I was numbing myself to the fear of the final knockout. Who knew?
Last night it occurred to me that it's ok to be upset about Julian's death but I can't let it go on too long bc then I've lost the point, or I've lost what I perceive to be the point. The point is to respond to things in the appropriate manner and then [get back in the saddle] and live as fiercely as possible.
And now for a tiny digression about Violette. Isabelle Huppert was as awesome as always (I Heart Huckabees not withstanding). BUT. I was pleasantly surprised to find that Staphane Audran played the mother. Stephane Audran is right up there with Jeanne Moreau. I can't decide if Claude Chabrol is lazy or expects the audience to be intelligent. My understanding is that Violette was supposed to be a school girl and yet we never see her in school and so it was a little odd to only see her in cafes, hotel rooms, and the cramped apartment she shared with her parents. I wouldn't have minded one or two sceens of her juxtaposed against a schoolyard and then cavorting. All of that being said, if you like Chabrol (& I do) then you'll probably like this film. If you like Isabelle Huppert than you'll not be able to take your eyes off the screen.
In some ways my mindshift was prompted by something Robert Thurman said at Death and Dying IV. He was talking about the way people use drugs or alcohol to knock themselves out but that, "They're afraid of the final knock out [death]." When he said that I thought of my years as an alcoholic and the years when I was using too many drugs and I thought, "Ah, so I was being a wimp." I was numbing myself to the fear of the final knockout. Who knew?
Last night it occurred to me that it's ok to be upset about Julian's death but I can't let it go on too long bc then I've lost the point, or I've lost what I perceive to be the point. The point is to respond to things in the appropriate manner and then [get back in the saddle] and live as fiercely as possible.
And now for a tiny digression about Violette. Isabelle Huppert was as awesome as always (I Heart Huckabees not withstanding). BUT. I was pleasantly surprised to find that Staphane Audran played the mother. Stephane Audran is right up there with Jeanne Moreau. I can't decide if Claude Chabrol is lazy or expects the audience to be intelligent. My understanding is that Violette was supposed to be a school girl and yet we never see her in school and so it was a little odd to only see her in cafes, hotel rooms, and the cramped apartment she shared with her parents. I wouldn't have minded one or two sceens of her juxtaposed against a schoolyard and then cavorting. All of that being said, if you like Chabrol (& I do) then you'll probably like this film. If you like Isabelle Huppert than you'll not be able to take your eyes off the screen.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The call of the wild.
About Fitzcarraldo:
"...Blank interviews members of the cast and crew, including the impoverished Indian extras, and captures the troubles of the seemingly cursed production, but his interviews with Herzog are the focal point of the film. "If I abandon this project," Herzog explains at one point, "I would be a man without dreams, and I never want to live like that. I live my life or I end my life with this project." ~ Josh Ralske, All Movie Guide All Movie Guide
About myself:
I'm living with a fair amount of agony in the wake of Julian's death. His suicide is yet another wake up call. This one will not go unheeded.
In 2 days I will embark on a month's-long project to finish a novel I began a while ago.
I'm leaving my job. I'll be living off savings. (But I've done this before.) I am living without fear. I wish I could say I'm living without sadness but that would be silly. Sadness isn't bad it's just that right now it pervades my being and weighs on my heart. And there is this ache in my body. I think my emotional body and my authentic self are screaming at me to get away from the square world, to leap headlong into the creative process.To delve deeper into my faith. This is the call of the wild.
I am ready.
Did you hear me?
I am ready.
There is no turning back. There is no treading water. To borrow from Herzog: "I would be a man without dreams, and I never want to live like that."
No more living without dreams.
Tonight: I'll drown my sorrow in alcohol and Isabelle Huppert. Well, not the actual woman. (Can you imagine?) I'll watch: Violette.
Lat night I drowned my sorrow in vodka, beer, and Andrew's cooking, after I invited myself over to his place.
Andrew and I spoke candidly about death. I told him I'd like to live to see more days but I'm ready to go.
He said, clutching the sofa cushion to illustrate hanging on for Dear Life, "I'm the sort of person who doesn't want to go. Sign me up for all the experimental treatments. I don't want to go."
I almost envy him. But then we argued about what's on the other side. I told him it's so beautiful and glorious there's no reason to fear death. He wasn't buying it. He said, "You're wrong." I shouted, "I hope I see you on the other side, just so I can say: See! I told you so." Can you imagine?
I plan to get the last laugh on him on this one.
It's really not death and dying that bothers me, it's how do I get through another day? How do I make the most of life? Or how do I accept what I've got an realize that whatever today was, that was the most of it?
Arrrgh!
To the wild life! The only one worth living.
"...Blank interviews members of the cast and crew, including the impoverished Indian extras, and captures the troubles of the seemingly cursed production, but his interviews with Herzog are the focal point of the film. "If I abandon this project," Herzog explains at one point, "I would be a man without dreams, and I never want to live like that. I live my life or I end my life with this project." ~ Josh Ralske, All Movie Guide All Movie Guide
About myself:
I'm living with a fair amount of agony in the wake of Julian's death. His suicide is yet another wake up call. This one will not go unheeded.
In 2 days I will embark on a month's-long project to finish a novel I began a while ago.
I'm leaving my job. I'll be living off savings. (But I've done this before.) I am living without fear. I wish I could say I'm living without sadness but that would be silly. Sadness isn't bad it's just that right now it pervades my being and weighs on my heart. And there is this ache in my body. I think my emotional body and my authentic self are screaming at me to get away from the square world, to leap headlong into the creative process.To delve deeper into my faith. This is the call of the wild.
I am ready.
Did you hear me?
I am ready.
There is no turning back. There is no treading water. To borrow from Herzog: "I would be a man without dreams, and I never want to live like that."
No more living without dreams.
Tonight: I'll drown my sorrow in alcohol and Isabelle Huppert. Well, not the actual woman. (Can you imagine?) I'll watch: Violette.
Lat night I drowned my sorrow in vodka, beer, and Andrew's cooking, after I invited myself over to his place.
Andrew and I spoke candidly about death. I told him I'd like to live to see more days but I'm ready to go.
He said, clutching the sofa cushion to illustrate hanging on for Dear Life, "I'm the sort of person who doesn't want to go. Sign me up for all the experimental treatments. I don't want to go."
I almost envy him. But then we argued about what's on the other side. I told him it's so beautiful and glorious there's no reason to fear death. He wasn't buying it. He said, "You're wrong." I shouted, "I hope I see you on the other side, just so I can say: See! I told you so." Can you imagine?
I plan to get the last laugh on him on this one.
It's really not death and dying that bothers me, it's how do I get through another day? How do I make the most of life? Or how do I accept what I've got an realize that whatever today was, that was the most of it?
Arrrgh!
To the wild life! The only one worth living.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Dude. I'm sorry we let you down.
I've been wanting to blog but I've been having trouble finding my old-self lately.
But let me back up a smidge and get to the heart of why I feel like shit. The boifriend of my friend T committed suicide 2 weeks ago. And I'm going to have to be very clear about many things. First I'll start with my relationship to Julian. I hardly knew the guy but I've been freinds wtih T for almsot 10 years and when I saw the two of them together, a month ago, I noticed that she was in-love and it was nice to see her in-love. I'd never seen her like that before.
Julian lived with his fair share of troubles -- chief among them, he had Multiple sclerosis. I have no idea what it feels like to live with MS.
But when I start to think of cataloging all the things that bothered Julian, beyond the MS: bills to pay, finding a new apartment, wanting to work but not wanting to lose his Disablity benefits, arguing with T -- I feel like, the MS not withstanding, he was a lot like the rest of us. When he stepped out of the house didn't he step into a world of company?
The reason I say this is that T told me that his last words to her were, "I have nothing. You can't understand."
But Julian. No one has anything. Really.
I have nothing. I've got a lot of bills. I've got a job (so I can pay my bills). I'm currently without healthcare.
And of material possessions. Does a DVD collection really count as having something?
No.
When Julian said, "I have nothing. You can't understnad." I think he meant that he'd lost his connection to the good in himself. And I won't speculate as to how that happened. I'm going to accept it at face value.
Some years ago I had a friend who was suicidal. She threatened taking her life. I took her seriously. Over the course of a month I'd spend hours discussing why she didn't want to live and why she should live. It was exhausting. Eventually, as she was a British subject, I convinved her to buy a plane ticket and go back to London and check herself into hospital. She complied.
But in having talked with her all those hours, I know that when she told me how and why she was unhappy --she meant it. I never tried to tell her to be happy. I just wanted her to see that maybe someday she might not want to kill herself and that she owed it to herself to try to see that day. People who have reached the end of their belief in living rarely mince words.
I have to believe Julian.
And because I believe him I feel like shit. Another queer took his life. I feel like the entire society let Julian, and continues to let those like him, down. What good is a healthcare system that's only available to those who can afford it? Why do Disability payments have to be all or nothing?
A person with MS will live through good periods and bad periods.
I have another friend who is a social worker. She works in a shelter for battered woman. And I guess a couple of these women living in the shelter aren't that nice.
But no one ever said that people in need have to be nice people.
People in need deserve to be cared for. End of story.
But this brings me to my next point. Julian was a generous guy. Every person at his memorial service said he was generous with his time and heart. So not only did we lose someone to suicide, we lost a sensitive, caring, giving person.
Apparently he was very stubborn and I have a suspicion that he was hiding his pain and suffering from those around him as as not to be a burden to them.
People. We're here for each other. Our motto should be: burden me. And we should mean it. Let our loved ones come to us with their troubles. And you know -- some people are gonna exhaust you with their needs and demands. But who's to say you won't have to lean, hard, on someone some day?
I have a friend in the country and he says, "People are going to look back at this period in history and say we were unkind." And I have to agree with him. Except I don't have to look back any farther than yesterday to note how unkind the world is. And sure there are people giving time, money, volunteer hours etc to make the lives of those around them better. But until the day when there are NO homeless people living in my subway station I won't be patting myself on the back. (For the record I've got a homeless woman living in the station and a homeless man (who is wicked obnoxious, especially when he's drunk) living at the top of the stairs to the station. As far as I'm concerned both of these people deserve housing, food, and medical care. And if they can't provide it for themselves, then it should be provided for them.
I guess I feel like shit bc I'm sorrowful for the loss of Julian and for this pathetic system of which I'm a part and of which I feel powerless to effect lasting change.
Ok. Now I'm cranky and sad.
But let me back up a smidge and get to the heart of why I feel like shit. The boifriend of my friend T committed suicide 2 weeks ago. And I'm going to have to be very clear about many things. First I'll start with my relationship to Julian. I hardly knew the guy but I've been freinds wtih T for almsot 10 years and when I saw the two of them together, a month ago, I noticed that she was in-love and it was nice to see her in-love. I'd never seen her like that before.
Julian lived with his fair share of troubles -- chief among them, he had Multiple sclerosis. I have no idea what it feels like to live with MS.
But when I start to think of cataloging all the things that bothered Julian, beyond the MS: bills to pay, finding a new apartment, wanting to work but not wanting to lose his Disablity benefits, arguing with T -- I feel like, the MS not withstanding, he was a lot like the rest of us. When he stepped out of the house didn't he step into a world of company?
The reason I say this is that T told me that his last words to her were, "I have nothing. You can't understand."
But Julian. No one has anything. Really.
I have nothing. I've got a lot of bills. I've got a job (so I can pay my bills). I'm currently without healthcare.
And of material possessions. Does a DVD collection really count as having something?
No.
When Julian said, "I have nothing. You can't understnad." I think he meant that he'd lost his connection to the good in himself. And I won't speculate as to how that happened. I'm going to accept it at face value.
Some years ago I had a friend who was suicidal. She threatened taking her life. I took her seriously. Over the course of a month I'd spend hours discussing why she didn't want to live and why she should live. It was exhausting. Eventually, as she was a British subject, I convinved her to buy a plane ticket and go back to London and check herself into hospital. She complied.
But in having talked with her all those hours, I know that when she told me how and why she was unhappy --she meant it. I never tried to tell her to be happy. I just wanted her to see that maybe someday she might not want to kill herself and that she owed it to herself to try to see that day. People who have reached the end of their belief in living rarely mince words.
I have to believe Julian.
And because I believe him I feel like shit. Another queer took his life. I feel like the entire society let Julian, and continues to let those like him, down. What good is a healthcare system that's only available to those who can afford it? Why do Disability payments have to be all or nothing?
A person with MS will live through good periods and bad periods.
I have another friend who is a social worker. She works in a shelter for battered woman. And I guess a couple of these women living in the shelter aren't that nice.
But no one ever said that people in need have to be nice people.
People in need deserve to be cared for. End of story.
But this brings me to my next point. Julian was a generous guy. Every person at his memorial service said he was generous with his time and heart. So not only did we lose someone to suicide, we lost a sensitive, caring, giving person.
Apparently he was very stubborn and I have a suspicion that he was hiding his pain and suffering from those around him as as not to be a burden to them.
People. We're here for each other. Our motto should be: burden me. And we should mean it. Let our loved ones come to us with their troubles. And you know -- some people are gonna exhaust you with their needs and demands. But who's to say you won't have to lean, hard, on someone some day?
I have a friend in the country and he says, "People are going to look back at this period in history and say we were unkind." And I have to agree with him. Except I don't have to look back any farther than yesterday to note how unkind the world is. And sure there are people giving time, money, volunteer hours etc to make the lives of those around them better. But until the day when there are NO homeless people living in my subway station I won't be patting myself on the back. (For the record I've got a homeless woman living in the station and a homeless man (who is wicked obnoxious, especially when he's drunk) living at the top of the stairs to the station. As far as I'm concerned both of these people deserve housing, food, and medical care. And if they can't provide it for themselves, then it should be provided for them.
I guess I feel like shit bc I'm sorrowful for the loss of Julian and for this pathetic system of which I'm a part and of which I feel powerless to effect lasting change.
Ok. Now I'm cranky and sad.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
c'est la vie.
Urban beekeepers do not have to worry about bears. And they should thank their lucky stars for that.
I'll write more in the near future on this...suffice to say a bear got my 3 hives. Not a lick of honey left and hive parts scattered across the pasture.
I'll write more in the near future on this...suffice to say a bear got my 3 hives. Not a lick of honey left and hive parts scattered across the pasture.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
possibly perfect pumpkin custard
Last year around this time I made my first pumkpin custard. It turned out ok. It was resembled nothing that I had in mind and I vowed to get it right next year. Next year is now upon me and the CSA I belong to has been supplying me with (awesome) sugar pumpkins and free range eggs. I googled pumpkin custard and was bummed out because there were about a gagillion recipes but I could tell that none of them were for me.
You see I've got a particular flavor and texture in mind.
So I started from scratch which is to say I started out where I left off last year - making a custard that had pumpkin in it. Can you see what's going on here? I end up with a custard that's pulpy and lacks the smooth yummy goodness I'm in search of.
After making another unsatisfactory custard I meditated on this highly flawed dish and what came through was "emulsify." I have an emulsifying blender at the house but not the apartment. I've also got a coworker who is vegan and so she's had to overcome all kinds of food challenges. She makes a pumpkin pie with silken tofu. (And I might go there someday but it won't be anytime soon.) I told her about my dessert disastifcation and one thing led to another and she suggested that I put the cooked pumpkin through a metal strainer (or food mill). I said I'd give it a shot.
I rushed home (because I'm obsessive like that) and got into the thick of things.
The strainer did the trick. The pumpkin was the consistency of baby food and that's what I needed to get it all happy with the eggs and the milk and sugar.
If you're looking for a pumpkin custard (& one that won't remain uneaten for long) give this a shot.
Preheat over 350 F
1 c baked organic pumpkin (pushed through a strainer)
1.5 c milk (heat to almost boiling)
1/4 c organic granulated sugar
3 eggs (free range)
1 tsp ground cinnamon*
a pinch of ground cloves*
a pinch of salt
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
in a large bowl mix the sugar, spices, salt, vanilla, and eggs.
slowly add the heated milk, stirring constantly (unless you like sugary spiced scrambled eggs)
pour mixture into ramekins. Place ramekins into large baking dish. Pour boiling water into baking dish until water comes halfway up the sides of ramekins. Place the baking dish at center of the oven.
Bake 25 -- 30 minutes.
* Smokers and those who drink coffee will probably want to up the spices as taste buds might have become dull due to aforementioned smoking.
You see I've got a particular flavor and texture in mind.
So I started from scratch which is to say I started out where I left off last year - making a custard that had pumpkin in it. Can you see what's going on here? I end up with a custard that's pulpy and lacks the smooth yummy goodness I'm in search of.
After making another unsatisfactory custard I meditated on this highly flawed dish and what came through was "emulsify." I have an emulsifying blender at the house but not the apartment. I've also got a coworker who is vegan and so she's had to overcome all kinds of food challenges. She makes a pumpkin pie with silken tofu. (And I might go there someday but it won't be anytime soon.) I told her about my dessert disastifcation and one thing led to another and she suggested that I put the cooked pumpkin through a metal strainer (or food mill). I said I'd give it a shot.
I rushed home (because I'm obsessive like that) and got into the thick of things.
The strainer did the trick. The pumpkin was the consistency of baby food and that's what I needed to get it all happy with the eggs and the milk and sugar.
If you're looking for a pumpkin custard (& one that won't remain uneaten for long) give this a shot.
Preheat over 350 F
1 c baked organic pumpkin (pushed through a strainer)
1.5 c milk (heat to almost boiling)
1/4 c organic granulated sugar
3 eggs (free range)
1 tsp ground cinnamon*
a pinch of ground cloves*
a pinch of salt
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
in a large bowl mix the sugar, spices, salt, vanilla, and eggs.
slowly add the heated milk, stirring constantly (unless you like sugary spiced scrambled eggs)
pour mixture into ramekins. Place ramekins into large baking dish. Pour boiling water into baking dish until water comes halfway up the sides of ramekins. Place the baking dish at center of the oven.
Bake 25 -- 30 minutes.
* Smokers and those who drink coffee will probably want to up the spices as taste buds might have become dull due to aforementioned smoking.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Shut up and skate.
When I was young (a long time ago) before the X Games, kids would skate pools and sidewalks and public works of art (you know steel sculptures) and there would invariably be some d.bag who owned an expensive baord and blabbed about his skills but he couldn't skate for shit. As anyone who's ever been in any sort of BS session knows there's only so much time to run your mouth and then it's time to show everyone the skills that you have (or haven't) got.
Right now I'm telling myself to shut up and skate. (& BTW I love when I get tough on myself. It's a hobby of mine.)
For a long time I've been writing here and there. But I treated my writing like a hobby. I'm also impossibly annoying in many ways but in the is way in particular, I don't really care about being published. I've written for myself.
And then something happened.
I went and farmed. And you wouldn't think that farming would lead to novel writing but in my case, it did. I went to farm because I thought that the food system in this country was broken and I wanted to do my part to fix it. Owning and operating an organic market garden seemed like the best contribution I could make. (I will not get into the entire farm experience here...that used to be a blog of its own.) Suffice to say when I was done farming -- had accumulated a lot of devoted farmer's market customers, extremely happy CSA customers, and had eaten the best effing organic vegetables in my entire life; after all that I realized there's only one thing I'm any good at -- writing.
I bring all this up because November is National Novel Writing Month. When I heard about this I thought, "I wonder what James Joyce would think if this. Didn't he need 11 years to write Ulysses?"
And as far as putting my money where my mouth is: I'm going to be putting the finishing touches on a novel in the month of November. (Nice coincidence that.) As you've probably guessed I wouldn't write a novel in a month (6 weeks maybe) but it's taken decades for me to even speak publicly about my writing and to bother finishing a book. And I've decided to apply to grad school. Whether or not I get in is another story but I'm taking a Zen approach. I'll be accepted into a program if that's right for me. I've reached a time in my life where I'm no longer interested in forcing anything.
& I kind of wish November would hurry up and get here already so I can jump into the Novel Writing Madness.
Time for a couple of Mctwists, a stale fish or two, and I'm definitely going fakey.
Right now I'm telling myself to shut up and skate. (& BTW I love when I get tough on myself. It's a hobby of mine.)
For a long time I've been writing here and there. But I treated my writing like a hobby. I'm also impossibly annoying in many ways but in the is way in particular, I don't really care about being published. I've written for myself.
And then something happened.
I went and farmed. And you wouldn't think that farming would lead to novel writing but in my case, it did. I went to farm because I thought that the food system in this country was broken and I wanted to do my part to fix it. Owning and operating an organic market garden seemed like the best contribution I could make. (I will not get into the entire farm experience here...that used to be a blog of its own.) Suffice to say when I was done farming -- had accumulated a lot of devoted farmer's market customers, extremely happy CSA customers, and had eaten the best effing organic vegetables in my entire life; after all that I realized there's only one thing I'm any good at -- writing.
I bring all this up because November is National Novel Writing Month. When I heard about this I thought, "I wonder what James Joyce would think if this. Didn't he need 11 years to write Ulysses?"
And as far as putting my money where my mouth is: I'm going to be putting the finishing touches on a novel in the month of November. (Nice coincidence that.) As you've probably guessed I wouldn't write a novel in a month (6 weeks maybe) but it's taken decades for me to even speak publicly about my writing and to bother finishing a book. And I've decided to apply to grad school. Whether or not I get in is another story but I'm taking a Zen approach. I'll be accepted into a program if that's right for me. I've reached a time in my life where I'm no longer interested in forcing anything.
& I kind of wish November would hurry up and get here already so I can jump into the Novel Writing Madness.
Time for a couple of Mctwists, a stale fish or two, and I'm definitely going fakey.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
f*ck fixer-uppers
Driving along country roads I used to see old buildings (houses, barns, what have you) and I'd think, "Wouldn't it be cool to fix that place up?"
Then a couple of years ago I met C and started helping her fix up her place. Now, if you're the sort of person who has a ton of money and will write checks to contractors and watch as other people do the fixing up, cool.
However, should you live with slightly more modest means and be the one who is doing the fixing-up, you are looking at years of sweat equity. And no matter how finely honed your DIY skills are you are going to sink a serious chunk of change into home improvements.
Shacks and old barns and houses that have been neglected for many years look cool in photos. "Before" and "After" scenarios can give one a sense of accomplishment. Or you can join me in abandoning the romantic notion of fixing up a much-neglected house and just go ahead and treat yourself to a house that's been well-cared for. In the mountains. Near a lake. Or a river. Or by the shore. Whatever suits your fancy.
After visiting Lake Arrowhead I've decided I'm down for something like the "cabin" pictured above.
It ain't off the grid but that's just another one of my romantic notions. Funny thing is -- my off-the-grid cabin just might come into being one of these days...
Then a couple of years ago I met C and started helping her fix up her place. Now, if you're the sort of person who has a ton of money and will write checks to contractors and watch as other people do the fixing up, cool.
However, should you live with slightly more modest means and be the one who is doing the fixing-up, you are looking at years of sweat equity. And no matter how finely honed your DIY skills are you are going to sink a serious chunk of change into home improvements.
Shacks and old barns and houses that have been neglected for many years look cool in photos. "Before" and "After" scenarios can give one a sense of accomplishment. Or you can join me in abandoning the romantic notion of fixing up a much-neglected house and just go ahead and treat yourself to a house that's been well-cared for. In the mountains. Near a lake. Or a river. Or by the shore. Whatever suits your fancy.
After visiting Lake Arrowhead I've decided I'm down for something like the "cabin" pictured above.
It ain't off the grid but that's just another one of my romantic notions. Funny thing is -- my off-the-grid cabin just might come into being one of these days...
most excellent
When visiting friends in Los Angeles you might be lucky enough to harvest fresh oranges from the frontyard.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Barring an unfortunate event I'm posed to live to be 110 years old, at least.
Read this.
I have more than 1 relative who lived past 90. Paternal great-grandmother lived to 99 years old. Maternal great-grandmother lived to 91. Paternal great-uncle lived to 95 (actually I think he's still living and might be 97?) Maternal grandmother still living, age 90.
If the following is a harbinger of things to come, I'm living to 250 years old...
"According to one study, survivors of traumatic life events learn to cope better with stress and poverty and are more likely to live to 100."
- traumatic life experienes. Check.
- stress. Check
- poverty. Check.
- figured out how to cope with the three aforementioned obstacles. Check.
- more likely to live to 100. Yet to be seen.
And if I die early please let it be the result of traveling at a high rate of speed while driving a high performance automobile on a country road (preferably an autumn day with no rain on the roads) and then I make contact with a tree. Smack. Game over. I'd like a succinct, dramatic exit. No dying peacefully in my sleep. Nope.
I have more than 1 relative who lived past 90. Paternal great-grandmother lived to 99 years old. Maternal great-grandmother lived to 91. Paternal great-uncle lived to 95 (actually I think he's still living and might be 97?) Maternal grandmother still living, age 90.
If the following is a harbinger of things to come, I'm living to 250 years old...
"According to one study, survivors of traumatic life events learn to cope better with stress and poverty and are more likely to live to 100."
- traumatic life experienes. Check.
- stress. Check
- poverty. Check.
- figured out how to cope with the three aforementioned obstacles. Check.
- more likely to live to 100. Yet to be seen.
And if I die early please let it be the result of traveling at a high rate of speed while driving a high performance automobile on a country road (preferably an autumn day with no rain on the roads) and then I make contact with a tree. Smack. Game over. I'd like a succinct, dramatic exit. No dying peacefully in my sleep. Nope.
Monday, October 18, 2010
mind wander 10/17/10
I won’t get into the whys and wherefores of the wanderings of my mind. But I will say this -- it do wander.
Last night as I was in the first leg of the car ride home (when C does the driving and I can relax for a little bit) I was doing what I always do, letting my mind drift.
I’d had a disturbing dream on Saturday night about women and unprotected sex and my mind picked up the thread there. I began to contemplate women having unprotected sex even though they might be on the pill. I won’t disparage the Pill right now, but if you’re on it you might want to look into research on the long term effects.
And you might want to consider the consequences of unprotected sex with male partners if you are not married to them. Yes, I said married. And I’m not becoming more conservative in my old age, I’m actually just worried for my single straight female friends that they may be doing serious damage to their bodies having unprotected sex on the pill.
In any event. I was mulling over the consequences of HPV. And then my mind shifted into wondering about men who have unprotected sex with men and are exposed to HPV. Next I wondered if HPV (male to male) transmission put men who are exposed to HPV at a greater risk of HIV infection.
Turns out I’m not the only one who has been pondering this. Read here.
If nothing else, I guess I was right, male to male transmissions of HPV does appear to put men at a greater risk for contracting HIV.
If there’s good news here, it’s this: you can protect yourself. Use a condom.
And unless you’re married -- or in the case of homosexuals who can’t officially say “I do,” in a church or temple, then please be sharing a mortgage, car payments, and the care of pets and/or your children – please please please don’t rely on the pill to protect you from serious diseases. (And just so I'm clear, I am not suggesting that marriage will protect anyone from disease, it's just that in a marriage there's probably less exposure to disease from your mate and should either of you become gravely ill hopefully your mate will stick around to nurse you back to health.) And to prove that I’m not being old fashioned, for anyone who wants to have sex with multiple partners, go for it, just please protect yourself.
The one thing I’ve noticed in just about everyone I’ve ever known (myself included) is what I’ll call “generalized soul-myopia.” And by that I mean people rarely seem to take into consideration the consequences that today’s choices will have on life way on down the road.
The best way to remedy that: look at old people. I’m not kidding. I’ve been scrutinizing old people for years and when I see something I like (Damn she looks great for 75) I try to find out how the person lived and then I emulate that.
I feel I could get into a serious ramble here but I won’t. Instead I’ll ask that you consider taking your self-respect to the next level.
Last night as I was in the first leg of the car ride home (when C does the driving and I can relax for a little bit) I was doing what I always do, letting my mind drift.
I’d had a disturbing dream on Saturday night about women and unprotected sex and my mind picked up the thread there. I began to contemplate women having unprotected sex even though they might be on the pill. I won’t disparage the Pill right now, but if you’re on it you might want to look into research on the long term effects.
And you might want to consider the consequences of unprotected sex with male partners if you are not married to them. Yes, I said married. And I’m not becoming more conservative in my old age, I’m actually just worried for my single straight female friends that they may be doing serious damage to their bodies having unprotected sex on the pill.
In any event. I was mulling over the consequences of HPV. And then my mind shifted into wondering about men who have unprotected sex with men and are exposed to HPV. Next I wondered if HPV (male to male) transmission put men who are exposed to HPV at a greater risk of HIV infection.
Turns out I’m not the only one who has been pondering this. Read here.
If nothing else, I guess I was right, male to male transmissions of HPV does appear to put men at a greater risk for contracting HIV.
If there’s good news here, it’s this: you can protect yourself. Use a condom.
And unless you’re married -- or in the case of homosexuals who can’t officially say “I do,” in a church or temple, then please be sharing a mortgage, car payments, and the care of pets and/or your children – please please please don’t rely on the pill to protect you from serious diseases. (And just so I'm clear, I am not suggesting that marriage will protect anyone from disease, it's just that in a marriage there's probably less exposure to disease from your mate and should either of you become gravely ill hopefully your mate will stick around to nurse you back to health.) And to prove that I’m not being old fashioned, for anyone who wants to have sex with multiple partners, go for it, just please protect yourself.
The one thing I’ve noticed in just about everyone I’ve ever known (myself included) is what I’ll call “generalized soul-myopia.” And by that I mean people rarely seem to take into consideration the consequences that today’s choices will have on life way on down the road.
The best way to remedy that: look at old people. I’m not kidding. I’ve been scrutinizing old people for years and when I see something I like (Damn she looks great for 75) I try to find out how the person lived and then I emulate that.
I feel I could get into a serious ramble here but I won’t. Instead I’ll ask that you consider taking your self-respect to the next level.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Fake it til you make it
This morning as I was about to disembark from the downtown #1 train at 23rd street, I see a young man (in his late 20s) with long blond hair and a long blond beard crawling under the turnstile.
And it must have been his first time cause he kinda got stuck and then flushed pink. I looked at him and noted that he was wearing designer jeans, designer sneakers, and a nice sweater.
Conclusion: his days in Manhattan are numbered.
And it must have been his first time cause he kinda got stuck and then flushed pink. I looked at him and noted that he was wearing designer jeans, designer sneakers, and a nice sweater.
Conclusion: his days in Manhattan are numbered.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Ouch!
After a couple of weeks of eating what I'll call road-food I've decided to detox.
It's not like I was eating horrible food to begin with. The food at Menla -- delicious and carefully pepared. The food this past weekend -- average Amrican fare. Scrambled eggs, pancakes, french toast, turkey on whole wheat. Nothing that's gonna kill anyone but a far cry from the diet I've tailored for myself which is gluten free, vegetarian, and includes a whole lotta eggs.
So the guidelines for this week are as follows --
NO
-- wheat
-- meat
-- eggs
-- refined sugar
and right now it's nothing but pain.
When I factor in that my brain is undergoing a serious recalibration from all the Healing Touch over the weekend, let's just say I'm ready to curl up into a little tiny ball and sleep this one off.
No such luck. Life awaits.
Did you know that when Marianne Williamson asked us: "What would you change about your life if you were living without the fear of death?" Some of the people in the workshop replied, "Nothing."
It made me wonder if those people had never grieved. Come on. Think about it, if you were living without the fear of death (which really means the fear of dying) you'd be living the most ballsiest, daring, loving, caring life possible. And not to knock the folks who wouldn't change a thing, great, don't change a thing. But for those of us who are still in the midst of trying to determine our relationship to death, lose the flotsam and jetsam, dream big, don't settle. Give up the trite.
If you can honestly day that tomorrow you'd go to your maker with no regrets -- Congratulations. For everyone else, get back to work on yourselves today.
You're facing several situations:
1. You become sick and you are actively dying and you know it and time is running out.
2. You die suddenly.
3. You live a large life like you mean it.
I can't find the logic in waiting -- if you haven't contemplated scenarios 1 & 2 then you won't make it to scenario 3. (Unless of course you're an infant or a young child who has not yet become aware of the power that the knowledge of mortality will lord over you -- usually that knowledge gets twisted into fear.)
So I'll ask you to give up all the conventional wisdom that you hold so preciously dear and ask you to dare yourself to live a bold life. Trust me, it'll be a life that's a whole lot more interesting to live.
It's not like I was eating horrible food to begin with. The food at Menla -- delicious and carefully pepared. The food this past weekend -- average Amrican fare. Scrambled eggs, pancakes, french toast, turkey on whole wheat. Nothing that's gonna kill anyone but a far cry from the diet I've tailored for myself which is gluten free, vegetarian, and includes a whole lotta eggs.
So the guidelines for this week are as follows --
NO
-- wheat
-- meat
-- eggs
-- refined sugar
and right now it's nothing but pain.
When I factor in that my brain is undergoing a serious recalibration from all the Healing Touch over the weekend, let's just say I'm ready to curl up into a little tiny ball and sleep this one off.
No such luck. Life awaits.
Did you know that when Marianne Williamson asked us: "What would you change about your life if you were living without the fear of death?" Some of the people in the workshop replied, "Nothing."
It made me wonder if those people had never grieved. Come on. Think about it, if you were living without the fear of death (which really means the fear of dying) you'd be living the most ballsiest, daring, loving, caring life possible. And not to knock the folks who wouldn't change a thing, great, don't change a thing. But for those of us who are still in the midst of trying to determine our relationship to death, lose the flotsam and jetsam, dream big, don't settle. Give up the trite.
If you can honestly day that tomorrow you'd go to your maker with no regrets -- Congratulations. For everyone else, get back to work on yourselves today.
You're facing several situations:
1. You become sick and you are actively dying and you know it and time is running out.
2. You die suddenly.
3. You live a large life like you mean it.
I can't find the logic in waiting -- if you haven't contemplated scenarios 1 & 2 then you won't make it to scenario 3. (Unless of course you're an infant or a young child who has not yet become aware of the power that the knowledge of mortality will lord over you -- usually that knowledge gets twisted into fear.)
So I'll ask you to give up all the conventional wisdom that you hold so preciously dear and ask you to dare yourself to live a bold life. Trust me, it'll be a life that's a whole lot more interesting to live.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Healing Touch, here I come.
This weekend I will find myself in Upstate New York once again. This time I'm taking the Level 1 Healing Touch class.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Time to make cookies while contemplating my own deep nature.
At the beginning of last week I'd never heard of Frank Ostaseski. I had heard of the Zen Hospice (in San Francisco) but as I tend to live most of my life on the East Coast I can be a bit blind to what's going on on the Other Coast. When I was contemplating the Art of Dying IV it began to dawn on me that Frank was flying across the country to lead a day-long institute so perhaps I could drag my lazy bones out of bed a little earlier than planned and drive to Menla. Of course I did not leave my Zen Mind (Begginner's Mind) behind.
I arrived at Menla around 9:30 a.m. and much to my horrror found Phoenicia underwater and a state of emergency having been declared. The normally bucolic rivers and streams had completely overrun their banks. The waters rushed in a torrent and there's the sound of a flood and if you've heard a flood you know what I mean. A babbling brook's babble gets turned up beyond 10 and it sounds like a wall of white noise. In hearing this I was reminded that Mother Nature can give us the beatdown whenever she feels like it and we can take measures to protect life and limb and salvage property afterwards.
As I pulled into Menla I wondered how much the weather would affect the travel plans of everyone else who was planning on attending. In the end everyone, save Joanne who had died a week earlier of ovarian cancer, made it to the conference.
Friday at 10 a.m. I took my groggy self (I am not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination) and headed to the conference center. Here I met Frank. It will be old age and senility that drive from my memory the first day spent with Frank. Yup. It was that cool (for me). I'm sure a lot of folks were feeling him in there own way but it was my time and I was ready to listen and hear and synthesize Frank.
Today I emailed him asking permission to post the 5 Precepts to my blog and he asked that I not do that so that his words are not taken out of context and misused. (But it's okay for me to give a photo copy to my closest friends. You've all been forewarned -- the precepts are on their way to you...)
And there are plenty of books and lectures on tape out there for anyone who is interested in becoming a Zen scholar. I'm not here to flog the Zen horse.
But -- I am going to leave you with things that Frank said that resonated with me. If they do something for you, great. If not, please leave this blog and get to the things that matter.
"No contact with suffering -- not much compassion."
"Our relationship to our own deep nature can illuminate the darkness."
"Compassion has a fierceness to it."
"Compassion wants to snuggle up to pain."
"This is intimate work. You cannot do this work from afar."
"I find a great meeting place with others in my suffering."
"I have confidence in my suffering -- let me be with my suffering."
Kind of pithy and annoying on the one hand, kind of instructive and helpful if you're ready for it.
And now I'm off to bake cookies. It's finally cold and gray and rainy (like October should be -- yay!) and the kitchen is once again the place where warmth and the yumminess of baking belongs.
I arrived at Menla around 9:30 a.m. and much to my horrror found Phoenicia underwater and a state of emergency having been declared. The normally bucolic rivers and streams had completely overrun their banks. The waters rushed in a torrent and there's the sound of a flood and if you've heard a flood you know what I mean. A babbling brook's babble gets turned up beyond 10 and it sounds like a wall of white noise. In hearing this I was reminded that Mother Nature can give us the beatdown whenever she feels like it and we can take measures to protect life and limb and salvage property afterwards.
As I pulled into Menla I wondered how much the weather would affect the travel plans of everyone else who was planning on attending. In the end everyone, save Joanne who had died a week earlier of ovarian cancer, made it to the conference.
Friday at 10 a.m. I took my groggy self (I am not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination) and headed to the conference center. Here I met Frank. It will be old age and senility that drive from my memory the first day spent with Frank. Yup. It was that cool (for me). I'm sure a lot of folks were feeling him in there own way but it was my time and I was ready to listen and hear and synthesize Frank.
Today I emailed him asking permission to post the 5 Precepts to my blog and he asked that I not do that so that his words are not taken out of context and misused. (But it's okay for me to give a photo copy to my closest friends. You've all been forewarned -- the precepts are on their way to you...)
And there are plenty of books and lectures on tape out there for anyone who is interested in becoming a Zen scholar. I'm not here to flog the Zen horse.
But -- I am going to leave you with things that Frank said that resonated with me. If they do something for you, great. If not, please leave this blog and get to the things that matter.
"No contact with suffering -- not much compassion."
"Our relationship to our own deep nature can illuminate the darkness."
"Compassion has a fierceness to it."
"Compassion wants to snuggle up to pain."
"This is intimate work. You cannot do this work from afar."
"I find a great meeting place with others in my suffering."
"I have confidence in my suffering -- let me be with my suffering."
Kind of pithy and annoying on the one hand, kind of instructive and helpful if you're ready for it.
And now I'm off to bake cookies. It's finally cold and gray and rainy (like October should be -- yay!) and the kitchen is once again the place where warmth and the yumminess of baking belongs.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Is it possible to be a dork about death?
It’s odd to think that I’d like to surround myself with the dying and those who want to aid in making the dying process better, but that’s exactly where I find myself.
Tomorrow I’ll be attending Frank Ostateski’s pre-conference institute at Menla Mountain Retreat.
I’ve got the pre-conference butterflies. This means that I’m looking forward to… what? For one thing I won’t be at my desk in Manhattan and that’s reason enough to be happy. I’ve set my expectations for Death & Dying IV very low (as I always do). I’ll enter tomorrow’s day-long experience with nothing on my mind other than keeping an open mind. I’ll be prepared to have my brains turned into a paradigm-shifted soup. Oddly enough I think I’ll be grounded throughout all of this even though my mind will be in a whirlwind of wonderful activity.
The presenters at Death & Dying could be called heavy hitters. Robert Thurman? Marianne Williamson?
Yes, I’ve read some of their books, been to their talks/discussions and I hate to say it but Death & Dying IV isn’t about them -- it’s about me.
It’s taken a long time for me to finally understand that I’m here to help other people. (I’m following up this conference with a workshop where I’ll become certified Level 1 in healing touch.) For me the big question is: who am I as a practitioner? The other questions: what can I do to become the best? How can I serve the most people? How can I effectuate change on a massive scale?
Over the coming months and years I will get answers to these questions
Tomorrow I’ll be attending Frank Ostateski’s pre-conference institute at Menla Mountain Retreat.
I’ve got the pre-conference butterflies. This means that I’m looking forward to… what? For one thing I won’t be at my desk in Manhattan and that’s reason enough to be happy. I’ve set my expectations for Death & Dying IV very low (as I always do). I’ll enter tomorrow’s day-long experience with nothing on my mind other than keeping an open mind. I’ll be prepared to have my brains turned into a paradigm-shifted soup. Oddly enough I think I’ll be grounded throughout all of this even though my mind will be in a whirlwind of wonderful activity.
The presenters at Death & Dying could be called heavy hitters. Robert Thurman? Marianne Williamson?
Yes, I’ve read some of their books, been to their talks/discussions and I hate to say it but Death & Dying IV isn’t about them -- it’s about me.
It’s taken a long time for me to finally understand that I’m here to help other people. (I’m following up this conference with a workshop where I’ll become certified Level 1 in healing touch.) For me the big question is: who am I as a practitioner? The other questions: what can I do to become the best? How can I serve the most people? How can I effectuate change on a massive scale?
Over the coming months and years I will get answers to these questions
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
"SUUUUUE."
It's been an interesting week in the Big Apple.
Monday morning as I made my way into the office I passed Danny Glover on the downtown #1 platform at 59th Street. He was gracious enough to pose for a photo with and older African-American woman. I wondered if he rides public transportation in an effort to be eco-friendly or if there's a little of the Thrifty-Scot lurking inside him. Ain't nothin' wrong with frugality.
Then last night I met one of my friends, I call him Papi, who used to be one of my vendors met for drinks. Back in the day (like 24 months ago) we used to go to these lavish lunches and dinners. When I started to rattle off the list of celebrities we've dined next to he laughed and interjected, "Anna Wontour!" (And it's true we sat two tables from her at Pastis a couple of years back.)
Nowadays we're all spending a little more time consulting the Thrifty-Scot and I've told Papi I don't care where we eat, if it's pizza and a can of coke that's fine by me. Papi isn't ready to take it to that level so we had drinks and burgers at Trailer Park Lounge. I told him I'd meet him at any tiny hell-hole at the end of the world if need be and he said, "You're a good friend."
After dinner I stumbled home -- and if you order a burger at Trailer Park Lounge you get a free can of beer then chase that with a few $5 margaritas and you too can stumble home... where I fell into an uneasy sleep.
I was wide awake at 2:45 a.m. (Was it the tater tots?) This has become a new habit. I used to wake up at 3:15 a.m. And now I think I'm going to take a hint from Lindsay Lohan's route to a good night's sleep and read... REST.
Today as I was walking along the sidewalks of Manahattan because last night when I stumbled home I managed to misplace my monthly MTA card and so it was time to take a stroll as I did my errands. Meandering around Manhattan is always interesting but I was wishing the cool, sexy breeze that ought to be present in the almost-month of October, would show up already.
After stops at Petco and Duane Reade and the discount DVD store, as I headed towards Penn Station I congratulated myself on DVDs purchased for $5.99. (Go Thrifty!) I ambled onto the subway platform and there was Sue Wicks. Glowing -- as she always does.
I said, "Sue Wicks, what are you doing on this platform?" She smiled and said, "Waiting for the train." (Duh)
The last time I got close to Sue was outside Madison Square Garden in 2001. The Liberty were in the playofffs. The atmosphere near the entrance to the Garden was electric. Fans were milling about and everyone was all smiley. I had brought a box of Bazooka bubble gum for Becky Hammon and just as the security guard took the box from me I turned and saw Sue. All thougths of Becky vanished. (Sorry Bubba.) Then -- as if I was in a trance -- I found myself making a slow deliberate march towards Sue. I do recall I pushed past a throng of young girls and women. I stood about a foot taller than the rest of them. And when I found myself face-to-face with Sue, she stood a foot taller than me. The woman is refulgent. And she's a hell of a ball player. And she's openly gay. I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. I stood there. (I believe this is called star-struck and it was the first time I'd ever experienced this.) Sue stepped forward and hugged me. When she stepped back I said, "Thank you for being out." She smiled. Then with nothing left to say, I turned and headed into the Garden.
This afternoon we did not hug but she seemed to recognize me. She beamed (as she always does) and said, with genuine interest, "How have you been?" I was all smiles and this time I was able to locate my words. I told her what I had been up to and asked how she was. I asked, "Are you happy?" She smiled and replied, "Yes. Are you?" I said, "I'm very tired but happy." After more small talk I excused myself and headed to catch my train.
I could tell the story about the time I approached Tracey Ullman on the sidewalk to discuss the Liberty -- during the regular season -- but I'll save that for another day. Suffice to say we had a very pleasent chat. And I thanked her for coming to the games. You'd think I was the ambassador for the Liberty or something the way I go around acting all familiar with the players and celebrities who participate in the Liberty games. But I am genuinely happy that I've been able to attend so many games over the years. I've watched the way the players got younger (that was a natural progression), watched the level of play turn more agressive (Hell ya!), and seen a few players dunk during games (on highlight reels).
It's only Wednesday. I wonder what the heck Thursady will bring?
Friday I'm heading to Menla to attend the pre-conference hosted by Frank Ostaseski.
Now if only that cool breeze would show up...
Monday morning as I made my way into the office I passed Danny Glover on the downtown #1 platform at 59th Street. He was gracious enough to pose for a photo with and older African-American woman. I wondered if he rides public transportation in an effort to be eco-friendly or if there's a little of the Thrifty-Scot lurking inside him. Ain't nothin' wrong with frugality.
Then last night I met one of my friends, I call him Papi, who used to be one of my vendors met for drinks. Back in the day (like 24 months ago) we used to go to these lavish lunches and dinners. When I started to rattle off the list of celebrities we've dined next to he laughed and interjected, "Anna Wontour!" (And it's true we sat two tables from her at Pastis a couple of years back.)
Nowadays we're all spending a little more time consulting the Thrifty-Scot and I've told Papi I don't care where we eat, if it's pizza and a can of coke that's fine by me. Papi isn't ready to take it to that level so we had drinks and burgers at Trailer Park Lounge. I told him I'd meet him at any tiny hell-hole at the end of the world if need be and he said, "You're a good friend."
After dinner I stumbled home -- and if you order a burger at Trailer Park Lounge you get a free can of beer then chase that with a few $5 margaritas and you too can stumble home... where I fell into an uneasy sleep.
I was wide awake at 2:45 a.m. (Was it the tater tots?) This has become a new habit. I used to wake up at 3:15 a.m. And now I think I'm going to take a hint from Lindsay Lohan's route to a good night's sleep and read... REST.
Today as I was walking along the sidewalks of Manahattan because last night when I stumbled home I managed to misplace my monthly MTA card and so it was time to take a stroll as I did my errands. Meandering around Manhattan is always interesting but I was wishing the cool, sexy breeze that ought to be present in the almost-month of October, would show up already.
After stops at Petco and Duane Reade and the discount DVD store, as I headed towards Penn Station I congratulated myself on DVDs purchased for $5.99. (Go Thrifty!) I ambled onto the subway platform and there was Sue Wicks. Glowing -- as she always does.
I said, "Sue Wicks, what are you doing on this platform?" She smiled and said, "Waiting for the train." (Duh)
The last time I got close to Sue was outside Madison Square Garden in 2001. The Liberty were in the playofffs. The atmosphere near the entrance to the Garden was electric. Fans were milling about and everyone was all smiley. I had brought a box of Bazooka bubble gum for Becky Hammon and just as the security guard took the box from me I turned and saw Sue. All thougths of Becky vanished. (Sorry Bubba.) Then -- as if I was in a trance -- I found myself making a slow deliberate march towards Sue. I do recall I pushed past a throng of young girls and women. I stood about a foot taller than the rest of them. And when I found myself face-to-face with Sue, she stood a foot taller than me. The woman is refulgent. And she's a hell of a ball player. And she's openly gay. I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. I stood there. (I believe this is called star-struck and it was the first time I'd ever experienced this.) Sue stepped forward and hugged me. When she stepped back I said, "Thank you for being out." She smiled. Then with nothing left to say, I turned and headed into the Garden.
This afternoon we did not hug but she seemed to recognize me. She beamed (as she always does) and said, with genuine interest, "How have you been?" I was all smiles and this time I was able to locate my words. I told her what I had been up to and asked how she was. I asked, "Are you happy?" She smiled and replied, "Yes. Are you?" I said, "I'm very tired but happy." After more small talk I excused myself and headed to catch my train.
I could tell the story about the time I approached Tracey Ullman on the sidewalk to discuss the Liberty -- during the regular season -- but I'll save that for another day. Suffice to say we had a very pleasent chat. And I thanked her for coming to the games. You'd think I was the ambassador for the Liberty or something the way I go around acting all familiar with the players and celebrities who participate in the Liberty games. But I am genuinely happy that I've been able to attend so many games over the years. I've watched the way the players got younger (that was a natural progression), watched the level of play turn more agressive (Hell ya!), and seen a few players dunk during games (on highlight reels).
It's only Wednesday. I wonder what the heck Thursady will bring?
Friday I'm heading to Menla to attend the pre-conference hosted by Frank Ostaseski.
Now if only that cool breeze would show up...
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
My roommate rocks.
My dear friend (and my best friend) CC once said, “You and C have such an odd relationship.” And she’s right. C and I do have an odd relationship. We’re roommates. We’re unmarried and well past the age of 40. So we’re spinsters. We split the expenses on the car and the apartment. We care for a motley crew of pets: 1 mini-lop rabbit, 1 English Angora rabbit, 1 (17 year old) Persian cat.
Basically C let’s me enjoy the experience of being me which means she let’s me run rampant. And I’d like to think that I’m cool enough to return the favor. But C is not the rambunctious type. She gets thing done, in her own time, in her own way. She’s never moody (which is something I find hard to comprehend). I try to stay out of her way but I’ve got the personality of an overly-caffeinated person, even though I rarely touch the stuff, so I’m always pestering C about every little thing. She has rightfully stated, many times, “You’re lucky I’m such a good natured person.”
This past summer – when I was being extra moody & yet sometimes extra Zen (I refer to this as the paradox of my personality) -- I’d get cranky with C for no apparent reason. And some days I’d be cranky but then I’d think of all the cool things she’s done and I’d be really glad that we’re friends. In particular, my spinster roommate started a low-income CSA in NYC. Yup. That’s how cool she is.
C works in the non-profit world and she partnered with a bunch of other non-profit folks, hung up a flyer, and before you knew it she’d lined up a farm and lined up members and then once the first week of June rolled up, folks were filing into the community center to grab their shares.
The way the system worked, 30 members paid full-price so that 15 members could receive a discount. This means that 30 people paid $450.00 per share and 15 members paid $225.00 per share.
I ask you: How cool is that?
Answer: Very.
C & I had dinner with my mother over the weekend. The whole time they were talking food politics I had one thought rolling around my very tired brain: I have to get back to farming.
Listening to them go on and on was enough to make me cranky. Not about their conversation but about just how broken the food system is across the globe. They were talking about the farmers who have committed suicide in India.
My mother asked, what can I do?
I said, you’re already doing. Eat organically locally grown food.
She said, but that’s not enough.
I said, then convince more people to do the same.
It only takes a patch of dirt 10’ x 10’ to feed a family of 4. And gardening is not that hard. Throw some starts in the ground. Maybe amend the soil now and then. Water the plants. And voila. Food.
When I farmed I was amazed time and again that a little tiny seed could yield a head of broccoli, or cabbage, or lettuce. Have you ever seen a carrot seed? It’s like the tiniest thing ever. And a month after sowing the darn thing, you’ve got delicious carrots.
Ok. My point here is this: my roommate is an awesome person who puts up with my many moods and she put organic food into the hands of a lot of people this season.
Thank you C.
Basically C let’s me enjoy the experience of being me which means she let’s me run rampant. And I’d like to think that I’m cool enough to return the favor. But C is not the rambunctious type. She gets thing done, in her own time, in her own way. She’s never moody (which is something I find hard to comprehend). I try to stay out of her way but I’ve got the personality of an overly-caffeinated person, even though I rarely touch the stuff, so I’m always pestering C about every little thing. She has rightfully stated, many times, “You’re lucky I’m such a good natured person.”
This past summer – when I was being extra moody & yet sometimes extra Zen (I refer to this as the paradox of my personality) -- I’d get cranky with C for no apparent reason. And some days I’d be cranky but then I’d think of all the cool things she’s done and I’d be really glad that we’re friends. In particular, my spinster roommate started a low-income CSA in NYC. Yup. That’s how cool she is.
C works in the non-profit world and she partnered with a bunch of other non-profit folks, hung up a flyer, and before you knew it she’d lined up a farm and lined up members and then once the first week of June rolled up, folks were filing into the community center to grab their shares.
The way the system worked, 30 members paid full-price so that 15 members could receive a discount. This means that 30 people paid $450.00 per share and 15 members paid $225.00 per share.
I ask you: How cool is that?
Answer: Very.
C & I had dinner with my mother over the weekend. The whole time they were talking food politics I had one thought rolling around my very tired brain: I have to get back to farming.
Listening to them go on and on was enough to make me cranky. Not about their conversation but about just how broken the food system is across the globe. They were talking about the farmers who have committed suicide in India.
My mother asked, what can I do?
I said, you’re already doing. Eat organically locally grown food.
She said, but that’s not enough.
I said, then convince more people to do the same.
It only takes a patch of dirt 10’ x 10’ to feed a family of 4. And gardening is not that hard. Throw some starts in the ground. Maybe amend the soil now and then. Water the plants. And voila. Food.
When I farmed I was amazed time and again that a little tiny seed could yield a head of broccoli, or cabbage, or lettuce. Have you ever seen a carrot seed? It’s like the tiniest thing ever. And a month after sowing the darn thing, you’ve got delicious carrots.
Ok. My point here is this: my roommate is an awesome person who puts up with my many moods and she put organic food into the hands of a lot of people this season.
Thank you C.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Robot Dreams by Sara Varon
If you’re not into graphic novels or books for young readers, by all means please take your mouse and click away from this blog at once. No reason to waste precious time here.
My brother is dating a woman who has a 5-year-old son. When I met the boy while we were on vacation I nicknamed him the “Mom-bird,” because every two minutes he’d say, “Mom?” even when he was seated 2 feet from her. Sometimes I'd been in the kitchen, his mother would be on the porch, he'd be upstairs in his room building lLeegos and I'd hear a small, "Mom?" The interesting thing he wasn't so much asking a question as declaring himself as an extension of her -- her dependent, and seeking re-assurance that she was still within earshot. He's a total fledgling at this stage in his life.
I brought the Mom-bird two presents. A box of Legos and Robot Dreams.
I have a policy of reading all books I plan to pass along to young readers. Mainly I want to vet the content. This is not to say I would not give a young person a book with objectionable content, it’s just that I better know that’s what I’m doing beforehand which gives me time to prepare for an argument/discussion with the mother (or legal guardian or probation officer, etc)
Robot Dreams, according to the First Second catalog, is intended for readers age 8 and up.
As I “read” the book on the subway I laughed out loud and thought that an adult in the proper frame of mind would love this story. And I thought screw all these cranky, miserable commuters. (Perhaps more people should read funny books while commuting if only to remove that dull gray sheen from their eyes.) I don’t want to give anything away but the panels where the dog ended up puking after eating ants with ant eaters was just plain awesome.
The best way for me to describe Robot Dreams:
Wordless tenderness that is absolutely brilliant.
I’m not sure Varon will be able to repeat the success she’s exhibited here. I’m not talking about book sales, or an Amazon ranking, I’m talking about telling a terrific story without using words. (There’s something I’ll never be able to do. Ever.) As with all illustrators she's got a style that's all her own and here she's pitch perfect.
If you know a youngster who likes to curl up with a good graphic novel (or just plain likes a great story) you might want to consider sending him/her a copy of this book.
My brother is dating a woman who has a 5-year-old son. When I met the boy while we were on vacation I nicknamed him the “Mom-bird,” because every two minutes he’d say, “Mom?” even when he was seated 2 feet from her. Sometimes I'd been in the kitchen, his mother would be on the porch, he'd be upstairs in his room building lLeegos and I'd hear a small, "Mom?" The interesting thing he wasn't so much asking a question as declaring himself as an extension of her -- her dependent, and seeking re-assurance that she was still within earshot. He's a total fledgling at this stage in his life.
I brought the Mom-bird two presents. A box of Legos and Robot Dreams.
I have a policy of reading all books I plan to pass along to young readers. Mainly I want to vet the content. This is not to say I would not give a young person a book with objectionable content, it’s just that I better know that’s what I’m doing beforehand which gives me time to prepare for an argument/discussion with the mother (or legal guardian or probation officer, etc)
Robot Dreams, according to the First Second catalog, is intended for readers age 8 and up.
As I “read” the book on the subway I laughed out loud and thought that an adult in the proper frame of mind would love this story. And I thought screw all these cranky, miserable commuters. (Perhaps more people should read funny books while commuting if only to remove that dull gray sheen from their eyes.) I don’t want to give anything away but the panels where the dog ended up puking after eating ants with ant eaters was just plain awesome.
The best way for me to describe Robot Dreams:
Wordless tenderness that is absolutely brilliant.
I’m not sure Varon will be able to repeat the success she’s exhibited here. I’m not talking about book sales, or an Amazon ranking, I’m talking about telling a terrific story without using words. (There’s something I’ll never be able to do. Ever.) As with all illustrators she's got a style that's all her own and here she's pitch perfect.
If you know a youngster who likes to curl up with a good graphic novel (or just plain likes a great story) you might want to consider sending him/her a copy of this book.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Death and Dying.
I'm obsessed with death. When I was young a lot of people at various stages of life died in a variety of ways. My greatgrandfather (heart attack), a young girl my age (rare blood disease), my aunt (murdered). I suppose when I was early death seemed scary and incomprehensible.
In the years that have follwoed I've lost friends and co-workers in a variety of ways:
work place:
maintanence worker (fell to his death) age 22
Sybil (lukemia) age 52
Amy (murdered) age 27
friends:
Kennedy (heart attack) age 41
Don (heart attack) age 55
And death has been my greatest teacher when it comes to trying to figure out how to live. (Nothing like having someone you care about yanked from you -- forever -- to wonder if it isn't time to live a better life, right now.) First and foremost I learned that dying is a process (and usually a lengthy one). Second, death is instantaneous.
So where does the living fit in? And how does living impact dying/death? A discussion on these topics is being reserved for future posts. Right now I'm knee-deep in bittersweet removal and working just enough to pay the bills. (Within a couple of months all of this will change drastically.)
And in a couple of months I'll be heading to Menla to participate in The Art of Dying IV. And the thrifty Scot seeing an opportunity got her tail in gear and headed up to Menla for 2 days of work/trade. If you're ever heading off to a weekend-long workshop you might want to consider work/trade. Basically, the hours worked are deducted from the tuition. I like work/trade for a number of reasons. First there's the economic angle: I can save a bit of scratch. Second, and this is almost more important, I can get a real sense of the place and interact with the staff. Third, I end up having a deeper connection to a place once I've worked there.
I spent part of a rainy afternoon bagging trail mix for an influx of incoming retreatants. (I'm not sure retreatants is a word or perhaps it's better used when referring to an army that has recently lost a battle and is fleeing.) The next day was sunny and spent in the garden. I worked with Gordon, this season's head gardener, and when I asked him what to do he said, "Do what you're drawn to. Have fun." That might have been the best direction I've been given in years and my heart swelled. Then I got down to business. It wasn't until I was turning the compost and weeding that I realized I miss farming. There's also still some of that need to dig ditches that continues to course through my veins. The bittersweet removal has been fulfilling that aspect but... The bittersweet removal will end, my life will go on, and I'm just about to go full-on country. By that I mean, eke out a living doing lots of odd jobs and figure out how to get off the grid. Ok so maybe I'm not going country, maybe I'm about to go Grizzly Adams. Maybe it wasn't such a great idea to read My Side of the Mountain when I was 8 years old. The again I also loved The Phantom Tollbooth. What I'm trying to get at here -- how can I live the life of the mind in a rural setting? If I figure that one out I'll be one totally satisfied human being.
And when I'm up late staring at the ceiling (as in later tonight) I might have to re-think reading and children's literature. It's possible that books have ruined my mind by making me think that I can step out of this exceptionally square world and be happy. The world is round, right? So it's time to live round.
In the years that have follwoed I've lost friends and co-workers in a variety of ways:
work place:
maintanence worker (fell to his death) age 22
Sybil (lukemia) age 52
Amy (murdered) age 27
friends:
Kennedy (heart attack) age 41
Don (heart attack) age 55
And death has been my greatest teacher when it comes to trying to figure out how to live. (Nothing like having someone you care about yanked from you -- forever -- to wonder if it isn't time to live a better life, right now.) First and foremost I learned that dying is a process (and usually a lengthy one). Second, death is instantaneous.
So where does the living fit in? And how does living impact dying/death? A discussion on these topics is being reserved for future posts. Right now I'm knee-deep in bittersweet removal and working just enough to pay the bills. (Within a couple of months all of this will change drastically.)
And in a couple of months I'll be heading to Menla to participate in The Art of Dying IV. And the thrifty Scot seeing an opportunity got her tail in gear and headed up to Menla for 2 days of work/trade. If you're ever heading off to a weekend-long workshop you might want to consider work/trade. Basically, the hours worked are deducted from the tuition. I like work/trade for a number of reasons. First there's the economic angle: I can save a bit of scratch. Second, and this is almost more important, I can get a real sense of the place and interact with the staff. Third, I end up having a deeper connection to a place once I've worked there.
I spent part of a rainy afternoon bagging trail mix for an influx of incoming retreatants. (I'm not sure retreatants is a word or perhaps it's better used when referring to an army that has recently lost a battle and is fleeing.) The next day was sunny and spent in the garden. I worked with Gordon, this season's head gardener, and when I asked him what to do he said, "Do what you're drawn to. Have fun." That might have been the best direction I've been given in years and my heart swelled. Then I got down to business. It wasn't until I was turning the compost and weeding that I realized I miss farming. There's also still some of that need to dig ditches that continues to course through my veins. The bittersweet removal has been fulfilling that aspect but... The bittersweet removal will end, my life will go on, and I'm just about to go full-on country. By that I mean, eke out a living doing lots of odd jobs and figure out how to get off the grid. Ok so maybe I'm not going country, maybe I'm about to go Grizzly Adams. Maybe it wasn't such a great idea to read My Side of the Mountain when I was 8 years old. The again I also loved The Phantom Tollbooth. What I'm trying to get at here -- how can I live the life of the mind in a rural setting? If I figure that one out I'll be one totally satisfied human being.
And when I'm up late staring at the ceiling (as in later tonight) I might have to re-think reading and children's literature. It's possible that books have ruined my mind by making me think that I can step out of this exceptionally square world and be happy. The world is round, right? So it's time to live round.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Come as you are.
I met Frank in the early 80s but I didn’t start to spend time with him until he helped me land me an internship at Relativity Records in the 90s. And when Relativity was bought by Sony I worked for a bit at the offices on 5th Ave. We went to a lot of shows together. I can’t even name half of them. I recall giving Frank a Promo copy of the 6ths album Wasps Nests. And later a poster from The Magnectic Fields album Get Lost. I remember a CMG show when Jeff Buckley shafted the Tindersticks (one of the opening acts) because he wanted to see a show so he moved his time slot an hour earlier. After Jeff Buckley played the venue completely emptied out save for 60 people who stuck around. Frank was among that small crowd. We heard a great set from an under-appreciated British band. I met Bob Moog at a record release party (Frank got me on the list).
Nothing like humidity and gray skies and a memorial service to send a person to the doldrums post haste.
Yesterday I went to a memorial service to celebrate the life of the late Frank Mazza. Frank was a Buddhist and a pacifist which did not deter him from joining the Marines. Luckily he enlisted in the early 80s so he was never sent into armed conflict. Yesterday three Marines in full-dress uniform arrived at the house to honor one of their departed. One played Taps while the other two folded the United States flag, Old Glory. Frank was rather unemotional and matter-of-fact and I didn’t anticipate any tears of my own but when the Marine handed the folded flag to Frank’s teary-eyed mother and father, I admit I was choked up. Everyone around me was crying. (I felt that if Frank had been there he would not have been crying. He just wasn’t that sort of person.)
As I moved among the friends and family I was searching for a way to honor Frank and when they started serving food I got my insight. “Eat.” “Eat a lot.”
Frank was not a foodie. Frank was particular. Frank ate a lot. He at from his own personal food pyramid: sushi, pizza, pastrami on rye, cookies, coca cola, and grape soda. (Please note the absence of fruits and vegetables in Frank’s diet.)
So I ate a lot. Even though I’m a vegetarian I had a small piece of pastrami on rye, lots of sushi, 2 pieces of Joe’s pizza, many cookies, and a glass of coke with ice. Oh and one piece of a yummy fruit tart (which I don’t think Frank would’ve eaten).
I can hold my own when it comes to big eaters, which is not to say I’m ready to enter Nathan’s hot dog eating contest but I’m sure I did Frank proud yesterday. (His only criticism might have been that I should have eaten more sushi.)
After I tossed my dietary restrictions out the window I spent the next several hours catching up with a lot of guys I hadn’t seen in over a decade. Other than gaining a few pounds and having a bit more gray hair, these guys were all surprisingly unchanged by the passage of time. I find that a bit odd. I don’t see life as a constant. I see life a huge adventure in which we meet our challenges head on. I see life as urging loved ones to live larger lives, to embrace change, to engage in interesting pursuits. It was really weird that everyone was still (more or less) doing the same thing they’d been doing back in the 90s. I couldn’t wrap my head around that.
Some of the guys wore t-shirts but when pressed on this (not by me) Mike Del Tufo who wore a Smiths t-shirt told this story. “I met Frank in a bar and I was wearing a Smiths t-shirt. Frank said, This Charming Man is one of the greatest songs ever written. Would you like me to sing it? Mike said, Sure. Frank walked over to the juke box selected the song and then sang it ‘note for note.’” Gene Gritzan wore a Radio Head t-shirt and replied, “Frank wouldn’t have cared how anyone dressed. Come as you are.”
Are you starting to get to know Frank a little bit here?
He liked to eat like a 10-year old boy but could pack it on like a man. He was an ardent follower of music. He was unabashed.
I suppose if I had one memory of Frank it’s that I never felt judged by him ever. That’s refreshing. It’s also something I wish I could offer other people. Sadly I’m a bit OCD when it comes to personal growth so I’m always pressing myself onward. Naturally any of my friends feel the force of this when they’re in my presence.
One of the big topics of conversation was Frank’s music collection. The guy assembled an impressive collection over a variety of genres. I think the collection should be donated to a school (or archive) that can appreciate the depth and scope of Frank’s taste. Sadly, it looks like the family is going to figure out what’s valuable (in terms of $$$) and will most likely dismantle the collection. In my opinion that’s a shame. In Frank’s opinion (and I’m guessing here) I don’t think he’d care too much either way. I’m going to see if I can agree with him in the coming months.
And before I sign off I will describe the circumstances of Frank’s death.
He went for his daily jog on Friday. He left the house without ID. When he failed to show up at his parent’s house Saturday morning his sister realized he was missing. She filed a missing person’s report and then started calling local hospitals. Monday he was located in the morgue, John Doe. During his jog he collapsed. A good Samaritan called an ambulance and Frank died en route to the hospital.
Frank was 52 years old when he died.
I take away from Frank's death the following:
1. You never nkow when you're going to die.
2. Eat like I mean it.
3. Eat with people I like and care about.
4. Don't sweat things too hard.
5. Actively participate in things that matter to me.
6. Don't leave the house without ID.
7. Contemplate my legacy: what do I want to leave behind?
I leave you with one of Frank’s favorite quotations.
“The only real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.” Marcel Proust.
R.I.P. Frank.
Nothing like humidity and gray skies and a memorial service to send a person to the doldrums post haste.
Yesterday I went to a memorial service to celebrate the life of the late Frank Mazza. Frank was a Buddhist and a pacifist which did not deter him from joining the Marines. Luckily he enlisted in the early 80s so he was never sent into armed conflict. Yesterday three Marines in full-dress uniform arrived at the house to honor one of their departed. One played Taps while the other two folded the United States flag, Old Glory. Frank was rather unemotional and matter-of-fact and I didn’t anticipate any tears of my own but when the Marine handed the folded flag to Frank’s teary-eyed mother and father, I admit I was choked up. Everyone around me was crying. (I felt that if Frank had been there he would not have been crying. He just wasn’t that sort of person.)
As I moved among the friends and family I was searching for a way to honor Frank and when they started serving food I got my insight. “Eat.” “Eat a lot.”
Frank was not a foodie. Frank was particular. Frank ate a lot. He at from his own personal food pyramid: sushi, pizza, pastrami on rye, cookies, coca cola, and grape soda. (Please note the absence of fruits and vegetables in Frank’s diet.)
So I ate a lot. Even though I’m a vegetarian I had a small piece of pastrami on rye, lots of sushi, 2 pieces of Joe’s pizza, many cookies, and a glass of coke with ice. Oh and one piece of a yummy fruit tart (which I don’t think Frank would’ve eaten).
I can hold my own when it comes to big eaters, which is not to say I’m ready to enter Nathan’s hot dog eating contest but I’m sure I did Frank proud yesterday. (His only criticism might have been that I should have eaten more sushi.)
After I tossed my dietary restrictions out the window I spent the next several hours catching up with a lot of guys I hadn’t seen in over a decade. Other than gaining a few pounds and having a bit more gray hair, these guys were all surprisingly unchanged by the passage of time. I find that a bit odd. I don’t see life as a constant. I see life a huge adventure in which we meet our challenges head on. I see life as urging loved ones to live larger lives, to embrace change, to engage in interesting pursuits. It was really weird that everyone was still (more or less) doing the same thing they’d been doing back in the 90s. I couldn’t wrap my head around that.
Some of the guys wore t-shirts but when pressed on this (not by me) Mike Del Tufo who wore a Smiths t-shirt told this story. “I met Frank in a bar and I was wearing a Smiths t-shirt. Frank said, This Charming Man is one of the greatest songs ever written. Would you like me to sing it? Mike said, Sure. Frank walked over to the juke box selected the song and then sang it ‘note for note.’” Gene Gritzan wore a Radio Head t-shirt and replied, “Frank wouldn’t have cared how anyone dressed. Come as you are.”
Are you starting to get to know Frank a little bit here?
He liked to eat like a 10-year old boy but could pack it on like a man. He was an ardent follower of music. He was unabashed.
I suppose if I had one memory of Frank it’s that I never felt judged by him ever. That’s refreshing. It’s also something I wish I could offer other people. Sadly I’m a bit OCD when it comes to personal growth so I’m always pressing myself onward. Naturally any of my friends feel the force of this when they’re in my presence.
One of the big topics of conversation was Frank’s music collection. The guy assembled an impressive collection over a variety of genres. I think the collection should be donated to a school (or archive) that can appreciate the depth and scope of Frank’s taste. Sadly, it looks like the family is going to figure out what’s valuable (in terms of $$$) and will most likely dismantle the collection. In my opinion that’s a shame. In Frank’s opinion (and I’m guessing here) I don’t think he’d care too much either way. I’m going to see if I can agree with him in the coming months.
And before I sign off I will describe the circumstances of Frank’s death.
He went for his daily jog on Friday. He left the house without ID. When he failed to show up at his parent’s house Saturday morning his sister realized he was missing. She filed a missing person’s report and then started calling local hospitals. Monday he was located in the morgue, John Doe. During his jog he collapsed. A good Samaritan called an ambulance and Frank died en route to the hospital.
Frank was 52 years old when he died.
I take away from Frank's death the following:
1. You never nkow when you're going to die.
2. Eat like I mean it.
3. Eat with people I like and care about.
4. Don't sweat things too hard.
5. Actively participate in things that matter to me.
6. Don't leave the house without ID.
7. Contemplate my legacy: what do I want to leave behind?
I leave you with one of Frank’s favorite quotations.
“The only real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.” Marcel Proust.
R.I.P. Frank.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Monday, May 31, 2010
mouse interrupted.
ha ha. The joke was on me.
When I read up on beekeeping and the various pests to keep an eye open for I came across a passage that suggested mice will make nests inside hives. When I read that I knew that my hives were the perfect candidates for just such situations. This affternoon as I was inspecting the hives I thought, "I wonder if there's a mouse in this hive?" And sure enough, after removing a couple of frames-- away from the main bee activity, there he was. Chillaxing. Catching up on General Hospital.
He blinked at me a couple of times and before I could get the camera on him he'd darted into the nearby stone wall.
It was after this that I installed the entrance guard.
I sort of wonder if I wanted that mouse to move in. I could've put the guard in place on Day 1.
I guess my curiousity got the better of me and I wanted to see if a mouse would take up residence in one of the hives.
And aside from a little bit of the wax being chewed off a couple of frames, no harm was done.
When I read up on beekeeping and the various pests to keep an eye open for I came across a passage that suggested mice will make nests inside hives. When I read that I knew that my hives were the perfect candidates for just such situations. This affternoon as I was inspecting the hives I thought, "I wonder if there's a mouse in this hive?" And sure enough, after removing a couple of frames-- away from the main bee activity, there he was. Chillaxing. Catching up on General Hospital.
He blinked at me a couple of times and before I could get the camera on him he'd darted into the nearby stone wall.
It was after this that I installed the entrance guard.
I sort of wonder if I wanted that mouse to move in. I could've put the guard in place on Day 1.
I guess my curiousity got the better of me and I wanted to see if a mouse would take up residence in one of the hives.
And aside from a little bit of the wax being chewed off a couple of frames, no harm was done.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
I may yet get my fill of edgy.
Tonight I'm off to the New York Philharmonic to see Le Grand Macabre.
From the NY Times online:
"The work is set in a land inspired by the grotesqueries of Brueghel paintings and peopled by a drunk, a dominatrix, entwined lovers who emerge from a crypt, and a boy prince attended by two ministers, one dressed in white, one in black. The generally dissonant music encompasses a Brueghelian landscape of sounds, including lusty, growling and otherworldly singing, skittering woodwinds, surging brasses, crashing percussion and a prelude played by a battery of car horns."
When I was asked by a friend, who is a NYP subscriber, to pick an upcoming concert -- I flipped through the calendar and this was the ONLY show that appealed to me. What does this say about me? A lot.
I guess I'm still edgy, pretentious, and risky. Here's hoping the artistic director and the conductor are on-board with me or else I'm going to be bummed out. Nothing is as big a let down as say bad dessert or bad sex, but bad culture ends up feeling hollow and at this stage of my life I'm not in the mood to deal with anymore hollow experiences.
For a full pre-view check out the following link.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/24/arts/music/24gilbert.html
From the NY Times online:
"The work is set in a land inspired by the grotesqueries of Brueghel paintings and peopled by a drunk, a dominatrix, entwined lovers who emerge from a crypt, and a boy prince attended by two ministers, one dressed in white, one in black. The generally dissonant music encompasses a Brueghelian landscape of sounds, including lusty, growling and otherworldly singing, skittering woodwinds, surging brasses, crashing percussion and a prelude played by a battery of car horns."
When I was asked by a friend, who is a NYP subscriber, to pick an upcoming concert -- I flipped through the calendar and this was the ONLY show that appealed to me. What does this say about me? A lot.
I guess I'm still edgy, pretentious, and risky. Here's hoping the artistic director and the conductor are on-board with me or else I'm going to be bummed out. Nothing is as big a let down as say bad dessert or bad sex, but bad culture ends up feeling hollow and at this stage of my life I'm not in the mood to deal with anymore hollow experiences.
For a full pre-view check out the following link.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/24/arts/music/24gilbert.html
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Excuse me while I opine.
In working on the List of Top 100 Films, I’ve realized that I really miss the Daily Double Features of my youth. I miss sneaking into the Daily Double features. (Anyone out there remember when you could pull open the double doors in the alley behind the Harvard Square Theater?) One of the finer moments of my early teens years was a snow day spent riding the T, trudging by foot (because I said so) all the way from South Station to the Charles River, then hopping back on the Red Line and heading into Harvard Square. All with my excellent younger brother in tow. I dragged him to the 3:30 screening of “Satyricon.” I think he was a bit confused and being dyslexic probably didn’t read many of the subtitles. I watched in rapt silence. This was my first Fellini experience. My brother and I stumbled out of the theater into the icy cold dusk, hopped on the bus, and headed back to the suburbs.
My brother and I also spent many Saturday afternoons at the Coolidge Corner movie theater. I’d pound back a box of Jordan Almonds and with a mild allergy to almonds then have an “itchy mouth” for the rest of the afternoon. It would be hard to classify our parents. They weren’t hippies and I know my father would hate to be characterized as an eccentric because he adores conformity so I guess they were just plain weird. They were buying organic food and grains in bulk way back in the 1970s. My brother and I sat through a movie while they shopped at the Bread and Circus in Brookline because way back then that was the closest health food store to our house. Ok so it was 10 miles away but that doesn’t factor in Saturday afternoon driving which meant we were in the car for almost an hour each way. My brother and I went to the movies while our parents shopped.
Then later as a teenager as I roamed the streets of Cambridge there were 3 rep houses playing second-run films. Can you imagine? 3 rep houses within less than 2 miles of each other. The Orson Welles, The Brattle, The Harvard Square Theater (and let’s not forget Harvard Film Archives). I was lucky to have my pick of flicks. And later when I was a homeless teenager, the woman who worked the ticket booth at the Orson Welles took myself and the 2 Marks in and then I got all the free movies I could stand. And free popcorn. We re-used a small plastic bowl. And beyond the daily double feature there were such bills as “Night of the Killer Bs” at the Somerville Theater in Davis Square. And there was “Schlock Around the Clock” at the Orson Welles, which started the first screening of the night at Midnight.
And one dreary Saturday afternoon Karl Britto and I sat in the balcony of the Brattle and watched “The Singing Detective” in its entirety.
The reason I mention all of this is I want you to understand that I loved going to the movies. Later I became a licensed projectionist. (A Motion Picture Machine Operator.) I worked the booths at the Somerville Theater and the Brattle. This was cool because I could get called into movies at any theater in Boston or Cambridge. (Of course, as a projectionist I got into hot water a couple of times but those stories will have to be shelved for another day.)
Working on the Top 100 Movies is part of a larger project and I’ll describe the scope of that later. But for now I’m watching a lot of films. I’m also working on my criteria. Thus far the following films will not be considered for the Top 100. No bio-pics. No Westerns (because I don’t like them). I’m leaving bio-pics out because I’m going in search of the intersection where art and watch ability intersect. I’m looking for pure works of the imagination. This is not to say there aren’t interesting worthy bio-pics (Malcom X by Spike Lee for instance.) But I watched that Hamilton Woman and I’ve realized that bio-pics can take too many short cuts because the movies expect the viewer to have an understanding of the story going into the film. I prefer to walk into a film cold. Not that I want to be shivering and in need of a sweater and a cup of hot tea. I mean cold as in, “I know very little and now, please blow my mind.”
I was thinking of leaving out Silent-era films. And I’ll have to ponder that some more. The ghosts of Pabst and Eisenstein might get crabby with me.
And that’s where I’m at. But a sneak peak into an upcoming post: “The Man with the Golden Arm,” (the movie) and “Junky” (the book). Sometimes entertainment comes in themes.
My brother and I also spent many Saturday afternoons at the Coolidge Corner movie theater. I’d pound back a box of Jordan Almonds and with a mild allergy to almonds then have an “itchy mouth” for the rest of the afternoon. It would be hard to classify our parents. They weren’t hippies and I know my father would hate to be characterized as an eccentric because he adores conformity so I guess they were just plain weird. They were buying organic food and grains in bulk way back in the 1970s. My brother and I sat through a movie while they shopped at the Bread and Circus in Brookline because way back then that was the closest health food store to our house. Ok so it was 10 miles away but that doesn’t factor in Saturday afternoon driving which meant we were in the car for almost an hour each way. My brother and I went to the movies while our parents shopped.
Then later as a teenager as I roamed the streets of Cambridge there were 3 rep houses playing second-run films. Can you imagine? 3 rep houses within less than 2 miles of each other. The Orson Welles, The Brattle, The Harvard Square Theater (and let’s not forget Harvard Film Archives). I was lucky to have my pick of flicks. And later when I was a homeless teenager, the woman who worked the ticket booth at the Orson Welles took myself and the 2 Marks in and then I got all the free movies I could stand. And free popcorn. We re-used a small plastic bowl. And beyond the daily double feature there were such bills as “Night of the Killer Bs” at the Somerville Theater in Davis Square. And there was “Schlock Around the Clock” at the Orson Welles, which started the first screening of the night at Midnight.
And one dreary Saturday afternoon Karl Britto and I sat in the balcony of the Brattle and watched “The Singing Detective” in its entirety.
The reason I mention all of this is I want you to understand that I loved going to the movies. Later I became a licensed projectionist. (A Motion Picture Machine Operator.) I worked the booths at the Somerville Theater and the Brattle. This was cool because I could get called into movies at any theater in Boston or Cambridge. (Of course, as a projectionist I got into hot water a couple of times but those stories will have to be shelved for another day.)
Working on the Top 100 Movies is part of a larger project and I’ll describe the scope of that later. But for now I’m watching a lot of films. I’m also working on my criteria. Thus far the following films will not be considered for the Top 100. No bio-pics. No Westerns (because I don’t like them). I’m leaving bio-pics out because I’m going in search of the intersection where art and watch ability intersect. I’m looking for pure works of the imagination. This is not to say there aren’t interesting worthy bio-pics (Malcom X by Spike Lee for instance.) But I watched that Hamilton Woman and I’ve realized that bio-pics can take too many short cuts because the movies expect the viewer to have an understanding of the story going into the film. I prefer to walk into a film cold. Not that I want to be shivering and in need of a sweater and a cup of hot tea. I mean cold as in, “I know very little and now, please blow my mind.”
I was thinking of leaving out Silent-era films. And I’ll have to ponder that some more. The ghosts of Pabst and Eisenstein might get crabby with me.
And that’s where I’m at. But a sneak peak into an upcoming post: “The Man with the Golden Arm,” (the movie) and “Junky” (the book). Sometimes entertainment comes in themes.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
My observations on the behavior and habits of honey bees
I admit that I haven't read much on beekeeping. I'm reading a bit about diseases that can threaten honey bees. It's amazing to me that tracheal mites are a big problam. We're talking about tiny creatures that clog the breathing tubes of adult bees. So bees have asthma?
I'm reading enough so that I can be on the lookout. Should my hives get a sniffle -- is that a life threatening illness or the common cold?
Otherwise I'm hoping my bees will teach me about themselves.
First off, I've noticed my bees could care less about me. They have no idea who I am. They have no interest in knowing who I am. When I approach the hives there is some activity, bees moving in and out of the hive entrance. The bees are doing their thing.
It is only when I lift the cover and the inner cover and move the frames that the bees begin to notice that something is amiss.
And I've noticed that each hive has its own personality.
Hive 1 & 2 are rather peaceful and even when I disturb them they tend to fly about, buzz, then go back to their lives.
But hive 3. These guys are feisty. When I disturb the hive they buzz loudly and a lot of them swarm around me. They tend to take a little longer to settle down.
It'll be interesting to see if the more docile hives produce more or less honey in relation to the more aggressive hive.
I've also noticed that bees are fragile. I've begun to wonder if the Universe wanted me to keep bees to get me to become gentle. There's not a lot of room for a bull in the china shop when it comes to tending to bees. So I'm having to be more selfaware.
I talk to my bees when I work the hive. I use pet names like "darling" and "sweetheart." Ok, so I don't use those terms of endearment with the agreesive hive. With them I say, "Guys. Settle down already." Yeesh.
All 3 hives have begun to produce comb. I'm feeding them with a mix of organic sugar/water.
So far, so good.
I'm reading enough so that I can be on the lookout. Should my hives get a sniffle -- is that a life threatening illness or the common cold?
Otherwise I'm hoping my bees will teach me about themselves.
First off, I've noticed my bees could care less about me. They have no idea who I am. They have no interest in knowing who I am. When I approach the hives there is some activity, bees moving in and out of the hive entrance. The bees are doing their thing.
It is only when I lift the cover and the inner cover and move the frames that the bees begin to notice that something is amiss.
And I've noticed that each hive has its own personality.
Hive 1 & 2 are rather peaceful and even when I disturb them they tend to fly about, buzz, then go back to their lives.
But hive 3. These guys are feisty. When I disturb the hive they buzz loudly and a lot of them swarm around me. They tend to take a little longer to settle down.
It'll be interesting to see if the more docile hives produce more or less honey in relation to the more aggressive hive.
I've also noticed that bees are fragile. I've begun to wonder if the Universe wanted me to keep bees to get me to become gentle. There's not a lot of room for a bull in the china shop when it comes to tending to bees. So I'm having to be more selfaware.
I talk to my bees when I work the hive. I use pet names like "darling" and "sweetheart." Ok, so I don't use those terms of endearment with the agreesive hive. With them I say, "Guys. Settle down already." Yeesh.
All 3 hives have begun to produce comb. I'm feeding them with a mix of organic sugar/water.
So far, so good.
Raging Bull
I have a really bad habit. Or maybe I don't have a bad habit, but I have a habit and a preference. I have to watch one movie per day.
I'm currently working on my Top 100 Movies of All Time and so I'm revisiting all the DVDs and VHS tapes in my collection thus the buying of new movies to fill in the gaps has begun.
This past weekend I watched Raging Bull. Usually I have a very good memory for hte time, place, and format for when I've viewed movies. I have to say, when & where I first/last time watcehd Raging Bull I cannot pinpoint. It might have been art school back in 1989? This is definitely the sort of film to be taught.
The film has aged well, which is to say it hasn't really aged at all. There might be a few strands of gray hair here, maybe a couple of extra pounds around the waist, but otherwise it's in really great shape especially when you consider that it's 30 years old.
There's no reason to bore you by hashing what's been said over the years about what a great movie this is.
Instead I'd recommend it based on the following: bored by the multiplex, don't mind a bit of violence (in and out of the ring), looking to watch several power house performances -- time to watch Raging Bull.
If you can -- watch it on the largest screen possible (50" plasma?), pop a batch of popcorn, sit back and enjoy.
e
I'm currently working on my Top 100 Movies of All Time and so I'm revisiting all the DVDs and VHS tapes in my collection thus the buying of new movies to fill in the gaps has begun.
This past weekend I watched Raging Bull. Usually I have a very good memory for hte time, place, and format for when I've viewed movies. I have to say, when & where I first/last time watcehd Raging Bull I cannot pinpoint. It might have been art school back in 1989? This is definitely the sort of film to be taught.
The film has aged well, which is to say it hasn't really aged at all. There might be a few strands of gray hair here, maybe a couple of extra pounds around the waist, but otherwise it's in really great shape especially when you consider that it's 30 years old.
There's no reason to bore you by hashing what's been said over the years about what a great movie this is.
Instead I'd recommend it based on the following: bored by the multiplex, don't mind a bit of violence (in and out of the ring), looking to watch several power house performances -- time to watch Raging Bull.
If you can -- watch it on the largest screen possible (50" plasma?), pop a batch of popcorn, sit back and enjoy.
e
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Not weed.
I was going to blog about a bachelor wandering around the woods eating invasive plant species. That post would have included photos of Japanese Knotweed prepared in a couple of ways. Peeled and steamed. Simmered in a little water and sugar, a la rhubarb. And that might have lead to some good reading (or not). Then I started to investigate Japanese Knotweed and it went from invasive species to wild edible to medicinal plant. And when I got to the medicinal aspect I came to a full stop. Resveratrol? Isn't that used to fight cancer? And treat lyme disease?
But before I go on to talk about Japanese Knotweed as the Wonder Weed, let me report on the stalk as an edible. I liked it when I treated it like I would rhubarb. I wasn't a big fan when I treated it like asparagus. In both cases I found myself chewing it and spitting out the woody fibrous bits. After the rhubarb treatment I went so far as to buy strawberries and was minutes away from making a strawberry knotweed pie when I decided it wasn't worth the bother.
As I began to explore the possibilities of creating a tonic or tincture I felt like I had stumbled upon the best use for the weed and I'm glad I was too preoccupied last year to eradicate it.
I'd like to tell that I've figured out how to make a tincture but I can't. I'm still in the experimental stage.
I went into the back yard and dug up a lot of roots. Then I rinsed them in cold water and peeled off the dark brown outer layer, exposing the next layer of bright yellow/orange. Then I chopped the peeled roots into small pieces (actually I used pruners) and dumped those into a small jar. Next I poured vodka over the root pieces. I capped the jar and I'm storing it in a dark dry cabinet.
I'm going to let this sit for a bit and do a bit more research on making tinctures.
In the meantime here are a few links that might be of interest.
link 1
link 2
link 3
link 4
But before I go on to talk about Japanese Knotweed as the Wonder Weed, let me report on the stalk as an edible. I liked it when I treated it like I would rhubarb. I wasn't a big fan when I treated it like asparagus. In both cases I found myself chewing it and spitting out the woody fibrous bits. After the rhubarb treatment I went so far as to buy strawberries and was minutes away from making a strawberry knotweed pie when I decided it wasn't worth the bother.
As I began to explore the possibilities of creating a tonic or tincture I felt like I had stumbled upon the best use for the weed and I'm glad I was too preoccupied last year to eradicate it.
I'd like to tell that I've figured out how to make a tincture but I can't. I'm still in the experimental stage.
I went into the back yard and dug up a lot of roots. Then I rinsed them in cold water and peeled off the dark brown outer layer, exposing the next layer of bright yellow/orange. Then I chopped the peeled roots into small pieces (actually I used pruners) and dumped those into a small jar. Next I poured vodka over the root pieces. I capped the jar and I'm storing it in a dark dry cabinet.
I'm going to let this sit for a bit and do a bit more research on making tinctures.
In the meantime here are a few links that might be of interest.
link 1
link 2
link 3
link 4
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
a photo of a small bit of bees wax
I was curious to see how the 3rd packet of bees that had spent 2 days in their carrier would respond. I wasn't suprised to find that they had started to make wax and that they had built a small bit of comb near the queen.
I hope they like the hives that I've built and come to thrive in the community they now live in.
my first day as a beekeeper
this blog post is going to be done corporate style -- bullet points.
-- begin the day as I do everyday, in bed, asleep. Then wake up.
-- shower get dressed.
-- drive an hour and a half to the bee pick-up location.
-- become suitably impressed as I note the long line of beekeepers snaking their way out of a two car garage piled high with bee packages.
-- gather needed equipment (supers, covers, bee suit, bee brush, hive tool book on beekeeping, frame components).
-- pick up 3 packagees of bees with marked queens
-- ask owner of the bee business if I'm insane to not medicate my bees. He looks at me. Then he says you have a 75% of the hive making it through the first season. I like the sound of that.
-- drive an hour and a half back home with the AC running full blast to keep the bees cool.
-- take bees out of car place them outdoor sin the shade where there's a nice breeze.
-- drive to hardware store: purchase paint, paint brush, and nails.
-- drive back home.
-- begin to assemble hive. (paint supers and build frames).
-- notice that a fast-moving thunderstorm is about to break, dash outdoors, grab bee packages race inside and place bees in the livingroom.
-- thunderstorm passes (in dramatic fashion), place bees back outdoors.
-- notice that it's getting late and pick up the pace to finish at least one hive.
-- mix up a batch of bee food. 1 part water to 1 part organic sugar. mix 1 quart.
-- get one hive complete in the pasture. (marvel at watching the bees take care of each other after I have placed the queen in between frames and dumped the bees into the brood chamber. the bees start to sort themselves out).
-- note that beekeeping is more beautiful than I thought it would be, then collect myself and race back to the house.
-- complete a second hive as the last light of day fades.
-- bring 3rd package of bees indoors for the night.
-- eat dinner.
-- finish building 10 more frames.
-- inspect bees that are spending the night with me and note that they are very quiet and hang in a delicate cluster around the feeder can and queen container. I realize that bees are diurnal.
-- say good night to bees
-- 10:45 pm collapse into bed, fall asleep fully clothed.
-- begin the day as I do everyday, in bed, asleep. Then wake up.
-- shower get dressed.
-- drive an hour and a half to the bee pick-up location.
-- become suitably impressed as I note the long line of beekeepers snaking their way out of a two car garage piled high with bee packages.
-- gather needed equipment (supers, covers, bee suit, bee brush, hive tool book on beekeeping, frame components).
-- pick up 3 packagees of bees with marked queens
-- ask owner of the bee business if I'm insane to not medicate my bees. He looks at me. Then he says you have a 75% of the hive making it through the first season. I like the sound of that.
-- drive an hour and a half back home with the AC running full blast to keep the bees cool.
-- take bees out of car place them outdoor sin the shade where there's a nice breeze.
-- drive to hardware store: purchase paint, paint brush, and nails.
-- drive back home.
-- begin to assemble hive. (paint supers and build frames).
-- notice that a fast-moving thunderstorm is about to break, dash outdoors, grab bee packages race inside and place bees in the livingroom.
-- thunderstorm passes (in dramatic fashion), place bees back outdoors.
-- notice that it's getting late and pick up the pace to finish at least one hive.
-- mix up a batch of bee food. 1 part water to 1 part organic sugar. mix 1 quart.
-- get one hive complete in the pasture. (marvel at watching the bees take care of each other after I have placed the queen in between frames and dumped the bees into the brood chamber. the bees start to sort themselves out).
-- note that beekeeping is more beautiful than I thought it would be, then collect myself and race back to the house.
-- complete a second hive as the last light of day fades.
-- bring 3rd package of bees indoors for the night.
-- eat dinner.
-- finish building 10 more frames.
-- inspect bees that are spending the night with me and note that they are very quiet and hang in a delicate cluster around the feeder can and queen container. I realize that bees are diurnal.
-- say good night to bees
-- 10:45 pm collapse into bed, fall asleep fully clothed.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Sometimes it's hard to say goodbye (to an old computer)
Last week my Apple Powerbook G3 wouldn’t power up.
Anyone fluent in Mac is thinking, “Your what?” followed by, “Manufactured when?!”
It’s true. I was still using an extremely old -- and until last Thursday -- reliable Mac. This was one helluva machine back in its day. And yes, its day was 13 years ago. And in this instance I wasn’t trying to be cool and retro. (Ok so I’m rarely cool and retro.) What happened is that I loved the keyboard. The latest Mac laptop keyboards are too light. By that I mean my fingertips slide off the keys. The Powerbook G3, henceforth referred to as Wallstreet, that keyboard. sigh. For anyone out there who likes the feel of a woman’s skin beneath your fingers, you’ll know what I’m talking about and you’ll know why I’m going to miss that machine. Those keys hugged my fingertips. And as I spend a fair amount of time writing, a keyboard that gently hugs my fingertips makes work seem less like work and more like pleasure.
Today when I made my way to the service counter at Tekserve, the kid who waited on me was really nice although I’m sure he was thinking, “Who is this whacko? I bet she still has a landline.” And I give him a lot of credit for not trying to push a new computer on me. I said, “I’m going to miss this computer so much I could cry.” Little does he know that last night I did cry. Tears were shed when I realized The Wallstreet was pretty much dead and data recovery would be our last act together. sniff.
And I do have a landline...
Anyone fluent in Mac is thinking, “Your what?” followed by, “Manufactured when?!”
It’s true. I was still using an extremely old -- and until last Thursday -- reliable Mac. This was one helluva machine back in its day. And yes, its day was 13 years ago. And in this instance I wasn’t trying to be cool and retro. (Ok so I’m rarely cool and retro.) What happened is that I loved the keyboard. The latest Mac laptop keyboards are too light. By that I mean my fingertips slide off the keys. The Powerbook G3, henceforth referred to as Wallstreet, that keyboard. sigh. For anyone out there who likes the feel of a woman’s skin beneath your fingers, you’ll know what I’m talking about and you’ll know why I’m going to miss that machine. Those keys hugged my fingertips. And as I spend a fair amount of time writing, a keyboard that gently hugs my fingertips makes work seem less like work and more like pleasure.
Today when I made my way to the service counter at Tekserve, the kid who waited on me was really nice although I’m sure he was thinking, “Who is this whacko? I bet she still has a landline.” And I give him a lot of credit for not trying to push a new computer on me. I said, “I’m going to miss this computer so much I could cry.” Little does he know that last night I did cry. Tears were shed when I realized The Wallstreet was pretty much dead and data recovery would be our last act together. sniff.
And I do have a landline...
Monday, April 5, 2010
Get out of the whey.
I think I've found my new obsession: home made cheese.
In a former long term committed relationship I was engaged to a vegatarian who was a really good cook. She must have watched a cooking show because one night she served up saag paneer and she'd made the paneer. After that a conversation regarding dinner might have gone something along these lines:
wifey (the wife): What do you want for dinner?
wubby (that was me): Um. saag paneer with home made paneer?
wifey: Okay. Now scram.
I'd retire to the living room where I'd watch ESPN and the wifey would be in the kitchen cooking. I hid in the living room because I wasn't welcome in the kitchen. I'd get dirty looks and her claws would come out if I got anywhere near her when she was cooking. She could be very intense like that.
An hour or so later she'd be all smiles and place a plate of saag paneer in front of me, which I happily lapped up. Then it was my turn in the kitchen for KP.
Lately I find that something interesting is happening to me. In addition to having a zero tolerance level for bullshit I'm becoming the sort of person who doesn't want company while I'm in the kitchen cooking. Seriously. Don't get too close or you will get burned.
I've got everything organized just so and I want to hit my zen. People underfoot make it hard to get in the zone. (This pertains to living and cooking.)
Yesterday, hot off the success of my homemade mozzerella I decided to give the saag paneer a shot.
And jeepers, it was as easy as falling off a log.
Paneer has two ingredients: whole milk and whole yogurt.
Which begs the question: where's the rennet? (Which leads me to want to explore veggie rennet.)
The thrifty Scot made an appearance here. (See photos.) That clean, very worn out undershirt has been waiting to be put to a new use. Today, that new purpose was discovered: cheese strainer.
The paneer is made like so:
into a pot boil (while stirring constantly) 6 cups of milk. Then add 1.5 cups of whole yogurt. Turn off heat. Stir and watch the curds form. Strain the curds through an old white t-shirt. Twist t-shirt to squeeze out whey. Hang over a bowl, using an elastic band, from kitchen cabinet hook. After 30 minutes twist the t-shirt some strain out remaining whey.
Fix yourself up a batch of saag, add paneer. Voila!
Homemade chevre is on deck but I won't be able to get to it until I find a supplier of organic goat milk. Stay tuned.
In a former long term committed relationship I was engaged to a vegatarian who was a really good cook. She must have watched a cooking show because one night she served up saag paneer and she'd made the paneer. After that a conversation regarding dinner might have gone something along these lines:
wifey (the wife): What do you want for dinner?
wubby (that was me): Um. saag paneer with home made paneer?
wifey: Okay. Now scram.
I'd retire to the living room where I'd watch ESPN and the wifey would be in the kitchen cooking. I hid in the living room because I wasn't welcome in the kitchen. I'd get dirty looks and her claws would come out if I got anywhere near her when she was cooking. She could be very intense like that.
An hour or so later she'd be all smiles and place a plate of saag paneer in front of me, which I happily lapped up. Then it was my turn in the kitchen for KP.
Lately I find that something interesting is happening to me. In addition to having a zero tolerance level for bullshit I'm becoming the sort of person who doesn't want company while I'm in the kitchen cooking. Seriously. Don't get too close or you will get burned.
I've got everything organized just so and I want to hit my zen. People underfoot make it hard to get in the zone. (This pertains to living and cooking.)
Yesterday, hot off the success of my homemade mozzerella I decided to give the saag paneer a shot.
And jeepers, it was as easy as falling off a log.
Paneer has two ingredients: whole milk and whole yogurt.
Which begs the question: where's the rennet? (Which leads me to want to explore veggie rennet.)
The thrifty Scot made an appearance here. (See photos.) That clean, very worn out undershirt has been waiting to be put to a new use. Today, that new purpose was discovered: cheese strainer.
The paneer is made like so:
into a pot boil (while stirring constantly) 6 cups of milk. Then add 1.5 cups of whole yogurt. Turn off heat. Stir and watch the curds form. Strain the curds through an old white t-shirt. Twist t-shirt to squeeze out whey. Hang over a bowl, using an elastic band, from kitchen cabinet hook. After 30 minutes twist the t-shirt some strain out remaining whey.
Fix yourself up a batch of saag, add paneer. Voila!
Homemade chevre is on deck but I won't be able to get to it until I find a supplier of organic goat milk. Stay tuned.
Country living continues
Sometimes I'm disturbed by the way my brain works. I find myself living my life, minding my own business (more or less) and then suddenly I'll be taken hold of by an idea. And when I say taken hold of I mean, "Held in a firm grasp, unable to escape." So when we discovered over an acre of Asiatic Bittersweet on the land I had "that feeling." I couldn't sleep at night knowing there was an invasive species threatening to "take over" and there was something I could do to change that and instead I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.
A pair of Felco #7 pruners changed all that.
Now I spend my days removing the bittersweet by hand. And I spend my nights wishing it were the day so I could remove the bittersweet. If you're picking up on an obsessive quality, you've hit that nail square on the head.
After.
An hour and a half later. Fresh mozzerella cheese.
A little bit disturbing that 1 gallon of milk produced such a small amount of cheese.
Kind of put th
ings into perspective.
A little bit disturbing that 1 gallon of milk produced such a small amount of cheese.
Kind of put th
ings into perspective.
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