Mother and Food Reunion

Friday afternoon after work, while running errands in the blazing hot, gritty streets of Allston a song lodged in my brain, hopped onto the old internal jukebox and went all perma play on me. It was Mother and Child Reunion, off Paul Simon’s first solo album. I loved that tune, loved the whole album.

God knows, I didn’t hear the tune on the radio so why/how did it come to mind? Eh, why does anything creep into my head? There’s some serious random action spinning up there.

In this instance though there was actually a logical progression (hey, it happens on rare occasion!). I’d just visited with my parents last weekend.  Memories of youth ridden insurrection came to mind.

Generally speaking I was a pretty good teen. That is, I kept my big fun activities (you know, the usual -- sex, drugs, drink) fairly quiet, private and definitely out of the house. Like most fifteen year olds, I figured I knew what I was doing (MASSIVE eye roll here) and didn’t want to worry them OR have them curtail/restrict my play time.

My in house rebellion, my huge act of adolescent defiance took the form of refusing food. Nope, I wasn’t anorexic AT ALL -- just trying to avoid Mama Cass comparisons. That and it was the only way to get back at mi madre for real and imagined mother crimes. Cooking and otherwise providing food was her way of showing love. So I refused.

Yeah, we had a painful, difficult relationship.

In any case, here in 2012, Jen and I arrived, last Saturday, at Haus Maderer in time for lunch. Muti was having a simple salmon and pasta dish while I noshed on salad with loads of yummy raw broccoli (MMMMM!).

Mother is 85 now -- mostly blind, completely deaf and in a wheelchair. She’s a slight, gossamery old bird but, boy howdy, she can still push the food. What’s different now is that I’m also pushing her to eat. There we were, signing ‘eat, eat’ back and forth, solicitously asking if the other wouldn’t care for a wee bit more salmon/salad/tomato or ‘how ‘bout a little more pasta or maybe a nice cookie?’

We each managed a few more bites than we would have otherwise -- both of us making an elaborate, grinning show of it to the other. ‘See, look, I’m eating -- see?’ We were lunch table Abbott and Costellos, Burns and Allans, Cheeches and Chongs.

Appropriately enough, the song title Mother and Child Reunion comes from a Chinese/American chicken and egg dish. Off the same album is Paranoia Blues with this lyric:

Once I was down in Chinatown
I was eating some Lin's Chow Fon
I happened to turn around
And when I looked I see
My Chow Fon's gone

Apparently Chinatown was Mr. Simon’s preferred dining destination back in ’72.

Friday Home and Away Blogging

 Home -- pre-work, This is what we see while we leave our patch of Heaven each morning. Why would we ever leave? To pay the mortgage on Heaven, of course.







and the post work view as we prepare to transition from Allston back to Heaven.

Shake It Up Baby, Now

My first apartment here in Boston, or anywhere for that matter, was of the ‘studio’ variety. When I hear, even now, the word ‘studio’ the first things that come to mind are soaring ceilinged lofts, industrial spaces with kazillions of square footage and skylights out the ass. How a 220, at most, square foot closet of a joint ranks as studio is beyond me.

It was what I could afford — barely afford. I came off the carnival road in 1980, with a grand in my money jar and, considering I moved to Boston not Omaha, that wasn’t much.

The ‘kitchen’ was a 2 burner stove top, there was a smaller than dorm sized fridge (which seemed to constantly suffer from arctic levels of perma frost — probably mostly, now that I think of it, because I didn’t know what ‘defrosting’ was. isn’t that when you remove icing from cake?) and a small sink. As most of you know, my idea of cooking is to open a can of wasabi peas and uncork a bottle of Toasted Head. The lack of cooking facilities amused me more than anything. Really, how much space, how many pans do you need to whip up a fine batch of Ramen?

Not only was my apartment on the Lilliputian side of tiny, it was also in Cleveland Circle. A section of Boston populated, near exclusively, by Boston College students. Just one week into living there, I had to wonder if BC kids ever took time off from parties to attend  classes or study. I thought not and started looking for a new crib.

One of my three, count ‘em three, jobs at the time was in the Boston University art department -- I modeled for senior level painting classes. It was there that I met Gary and Stacy, a fab, laid back couple who were looking for a roomie. They had an awesome apartment on the corner of St. Mary’s and Monmouth -- a short 15 minute walk from The Rat and Pooh’s Pub. Yeah, my bedroom would be on the sunporch but IT WAS ALL WINDOWS! Astounding light. I wasn’t yet painting life sized figures and larger so this was just fine and way dandy.

Gary and Stacy were tremendous roommates. They helped me adjust to adulthood (versus adultery) and learn how to live amongst civilized, fun humans. One night I came home after work to Stacy’s big need for me to join her in dance, DANCE, POGO-ING to Twist and Shout and She Loves You (yeah, yeah, yeah). On another occasion she explained to me how drains work and the need to be very careful about what I toss in the sink. She was molto kind and patient.

And then the big morning came, just 3 or 4 months into living all together, when they broke the news to me and my beau Stan (names changed to shield the innocent and guilty and aren’t we all all of the above at varied points in our lives?) that they were splitting up. Stacy was moving back home to NYC, with Gary staying on.

Merde.

And then the uncomfortable bit arrived — they suggested that Stan move in — IN FRONT OF STAN they suggested this. The set up made logistical sense in that Stan needed a place (his summer sublet was ending) and Gary and I needed a roommate. Great apartment — would be a shame to lose it.

And yet, I was a bit horrified. Horrified and torn. After three seasons with a traveling carnival and a childhood of moving every year or three, I RILLY didn’t want to move again. Especially not after finding such a, relatively, posh pad.

Stan and I started as a margarita fueled one night stand. In a rational world, we would have had a few laughs afterward, a pint together on occasion and that would’ve been it. But NO, we were young, faced with perplexing and expensive housing issues and def not experienced enough to understand the mega huge humor in our decision — ‘hey, if it doesn’t work out we can always move. No harm, no foul, right?’

Christ, was I ever that young?

Twist and Shout -- The Beatles

The Dreaded Treadmill of Pain and Boredom

In my never ending quest to lose weight, stay in a reasonable facsimile of ‘shape’ and NOT blow up like just another one of Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin’s airship, I bought an elliptical. I bought it for Jen and I (her concern is fitness and bone health vs weight loss — she of the perma thin, high metabolism bod. bitch.). We quickly found that:

A) it was too damned hard times 12
and
B) BOR-ING!!!

She countered my elliptical move with a treadmill purchase. Very smart. Brighter still — she set up a TV with DVD player in front of it.

This was the genesis of our current routine. We’re morning people so pre-work hours are best for jumping on this very mild instrument of torture. I start at 5 AM — Jen at 5:40.

At 5 AM I was firing up old episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer or the spin off series Angel. A lot of action in these babies and they’re not exactly deep so it was easy to walk, climb, run while watching. After a time though, I wanted something else. Something different.

I found the first season of Sex and the City. Goddamn, I remember loving that show! Of course, that was a precious multitude of years past. I was able to overlook, or maybe it just didn’t phase me, the implausibility of these, theoretically, early 30s chicas and their magnificent careers.

Samantha: owner of a PR firm.
Charlotte: owner of a posh, successful art gallery
Miranda: lawyer on the path to partnerhoodness in a BIG firm
and
Carrie: columnist in a major mag/newspaper

All in Manhattan -- NOT Dubuque, Missoula or even Pittsburgh. They were succeeding, at very young ages, on one of the biggest stages WORLDWIDE. That and they were usually, most often, dating millionaires and/or the latest hottest thing going.

Phfft — sure. Somehow, at the delicate, tender even, age of 40, I was able to make the giant suspension of disbelief.  I remember noticing the ferocious unlikelihood of their lives but it was OK by me. Carrie was a bit homely and wore WAY too much makeup but she was so blasted CUTE! Miranda was a neurotic, yet sweet, bitch. Charlotte was an uptight loon and Samantha was my hero.

We all need fairy tales. Hell, I need my escapes from reality — I sure as hell do! At this point though, I prefer more radical departures.

 Stories of women who can afford to blow their earning on an endless parade of Manolos, nightly dinners out at the newest, poshest, most IN restaurant, the big decision between Danger Boy and Safe Man — eh, doesn’t thrill me.

 Give me Vampires to wrastle. Titania, Queen of the Fairies to envy. Greek Gods in the 21st century — behaving badly. The End of Times meets Terry Pratchett/Neil Gaiman comedy.

Yeah, that’s what I’m into. Fairy stories, vampires, greek gods and the end of the world!

Chicks in high heels, trying to score rich husband while featuring make up that could only read as subtle from the last row at the Blackpool Opera House. Eh, I’m just not so much down with that.

Just can’t dig it anymore — not even while treadmilling at 5 AM.  Hey, get me a glass of True Blood while you're up — K?

Wendy Saves the Day

You know the day’s gonna suck giant, ugly Tyrannosaurus Rex wang when you find, while standing in line at Brueggers, awaiting the much needed garlic bagel with just a light shmear of jalapeño cream cheese, that you’ve put your T shirt on inside out AND backwards. Clearly I’d not mainlined enough espresso before leaving the house.

The first day back to work after a three day weekend (especially one that wasn’t particularly relaxing) is always hard with a side of what-the-fuck-was-I-thinking, but more so when you’ve done the big purse switch without Launch Control’s oversight. What was I thinking?! I remembered my cell, my wallet, my date book but NOT my inhaler (for the dreaded asthma), no pen and where’s that little pack of tissues which no middle aged woman is allowed to leave home without -- hmmmm?

And, tell me now, is a courier bag only called a purse when a woman is toting it?

I’ve been buying bags from CourierWare for years now. They’re practically indestructible, comfortable, waterproof AND they come in some cool colors and patterns. OK, so I’ve not actually had to buy that many seeing as they’re so damned sturdy. I’m thinking that I might just have to pick up the Tapestry 1 style soon you know, the challenge to resist may be too much for me.

In any case, I made it through the day without letting my Cranky Kali mood leak onto innocent, and even the not so innocent, coworkers. Yea me.

To reward my fabulous levels of maturity, Jen and I headed to the Frog and Peach for a Wendy the Magic Bartender crafted Cosmopolitan. She makes the best one around. Some joints, where I no longer order anything but the house Cab or a shot of Jami, make a Cosmo that’ll put me into sugar shock, would spark a diabetic reaction in a razor clam and assuredly use all the sugar cane Brazil harvests in a year. Oh yeah. All that and the drink’s a dark shade of pink -- only seen in the PMS (Pantone Matching System) book as Rhodamine Red or on 1980s vintage disco girls.

No, no, no. The correct pink for a Cosmopolitan is pale, pallid, watercolor-ish, anemic even, in hue. Much more like the 1950s bathroom tile found in a certain cousin’s house (and as blusher on her cheeks too). And that’s just how Wendy makes ‘em.


Today, her nail polish matched the Cosmo she presented to me. It was perfect.

You know, I’ve always despised the color pink.  It’s beyond cliche and well into vapidville. But, BUT Wendy rescues that poor color and gives it a luminosity.

Of course, that could be the Cosmo talking.

Around the World

I miss hearing people’s regional accents. They’re like spice in the stew, jimmies (or sprinkles if you’re not from Boston) on top of the vanilla soft serve or just like jalapeños on my morning bagel.

My cousins Gary and Della grew up in Yonkers. Some of my coworkers are from South Boston. My fabulous niece Helen was born and raised in Texas.  They all have accents, even if slight, and I wish I could hear them. (yeah, I know—whine, snivel. we all want something in this world. ah, but still...!)

My Aunt Mary Ann had a big upstate New York twang despite living in Manhattan most of her adult life. I loved hearing her say the word mad, as in “I was just so mad." The ‘a’ in mad was always flatter than pint of stale Saranac Pale Ale and pulled out so long, the word became two syllables.

Having just returned from Pittsburgh (sorry, I mean Pikksburgh), where the Steelers (oops, I mean Stiwers) play, where my folks’ house is by a creek (crick) and I’m someone’s Ant not Aunt, I’m sorta feeling the loss. Every time Jen and I pass the Giant Eagle grocery store on Route 376 heading East to Indiana, PA, I ask her if she remembers how to pronounce the name of this establishment. Yes, she does and proceeds to recite, with a sigh—I’m sure, Gian Iggle. (no t in Giant and a short i sound on the ea—duh)

While sitting at the hotel bar Saturday night, watching the VPLs parade by, I kept asking Jen ‘do the folks sitting to your left have an accent?’ ‘Does the barkeep have one’? ‘How ‘bout them? What do they sound like?'

Poor Jen. She goes through this on top of my father’s insistence that she speak in a heavy South Shore (South Sho-ah) intonation, despite the fact that she doesn’t have one in real life. Yes, I get my language obsession from the old man. Vati. Mio padre.

One year for vaca, Jen and I met our pals Cindy and Giovanni in Venice. They drove up from their home in Southern Tuscany. After four days of non-stop killah museum hopping, glass factory touring, getting lost and enjoying the gustatory pleasures of that Victorian shrub maze of a city, Cindy and Giovanni headed back home to Sarteano. Jen and I decided take a night off.  We picked up a loaf of crusty bread, wedges of Pecorino and Asiago and, of course, a nice bottle of Chianti (I’m fairly certain that last bit was redundant). Our intention was to read the evening away while enjoying our simple yet fabulous repast.

And then we turned the television on. We watched a ski jump competition which, I was certain, was broadcast by a German station. The tone, the rhythm, the cadence of the announcer’s speech seemed quintessentially German yet he was speaking Italian and it was coming from Milan. We spun the dial in hopes of finding, our idea of, Italians speaking Italian.

Now, beyond a few words and phrases, I don’t speak or understand the language but I so wanted to hear the beautiful, flowing, music of it—what I thought I KNEW Italian sounded like.

Turns out, after clicking and listening through every Northern Italian station we could tune in, we WERE hearing Italian spoken by native speakers. They’re close to the Austrian border so, of course, the language seems relatively clipped compared to Italian spoken by Romans or Neapolitans. I’m not describing this well. It just sounded as though everyone was speaking Italian with German accents.

Wild stuff! I’m just mad about regional pronunciations and argot—foreign and domestic.

The Pittsburgh Odyssey

My intention was to visit my folks, in their small western Pennsylvania town of Indiana (same part of the state as the communities of Idaho and California, of course), just for the day. I’d booked Jen and I on an early flight out of a Logan and a night flight back to Boston. Timing was tight but theoretically doable.

Our first flash of the trials to come happened upon landing in Pittsburgh. I wanted to check in for the evening’s flight right then to make things simpler later. The man at the counter, who’d indulged in too much hair product and seemed to think that a ‘70s era porn actor mustache was just the look he needed, was incredibly, sneeringly rude and condescending when we couldn’t provide our evening’s flight number. Jen, who can be shy but will dish it right back, replied by asking, in the tone of a stern school marm addressing a particularly dimwitted child, ‘you can look it up by our names, can’t you? I feel quite sure you can -- how ‘bout you give that some effort.’ He did and we were all set. As we walked away, I noticed his, definitely not small, cloisonned American flag in the shape of a large cross, lapel pin. Clearly he was a member of the Rush Limbaugh Church of Our Lord and Savior.

The next hurdle was at the Budget Rental Car desk. The large, Eeyore-ish, middle aged clerk, sporting an ill advised strawberry blond Betty Page do, couldn’t find our reservation and kept allowing herself to be interrupted by a line jumping fellow with an obvious I’m-the-center-of-the-known-universe complex. Just so much wrongness there.

Finally we’re in the rental car headed east -- east into spectacularly backed up Pittsburgh traffic.

By the time we reached my parent’s house, our six hour visit time was down to five. We’d no big plans -- just to sit/visit with Muti and Vati and, while they took a nap break, a glass of vino with my older sister at one of Indiana’s fine adult bev emporiums.

Apparently the folks are quite popular -- there were visitors in and out all day. This being a wonderful thing but exhausting for them AND me. Lipreading -- I may have mentioned this a zillion times already -- is hard, hard work.

 In any case, at six PM we jumped back into the car (after warm soft hugs with mi madre and body slamming hugs for the old man. Pop’s a big guy, I figure he can handle a little slammage). One mile outside of Indiana the car started to wobble, wobble, wobble. Yep, we had a flat. AAA came within an hour but now our getting to the airport, dropping off the rental and boarding our flight window was NASA levels of snug. Everything had to move perfectly and we STILL might not make our flight.

Weekend road construction just before the Squirrel Hill tunnel put an end to our hopes. Happily, luckily, the airline folk were kind, understanding  and swayable by a tearful, cute, middle aged broad (yeah, that was me). They put us on a morning flight and waived the penalties. Yea us!

Now to find a nearby hotel. There was a Marriott with an airport shuttle and a room available. We snagged it and arrived to find the after wedding celebrations of a large group.

Most of the younger, close-up ready, inebriated women were clothed in sky high Manolos (which they were seriously teetering on) and neon colored skin tight frocks. They were all, every last one of them, sporting the dreaded, look killing VPLs --  a sure way to assassinate an otherwise awesome presentation.

Their dates? Peahens are sexier and sport greater style. That’s one of the things I remember clearly from the few years I spent in that part of the country. Beauty, style, flash and general come-hitherness can only be reliably found in the female of the species. Sorry dudes but it's true.

Hey, no VPLs on them though. Yeah, I checked.

The next morning, THIS morning, we checked out, boarded our homeward bound flight and just totally thrilled to the sight of Nantasket Beach and then Nahant and Revere Beach as the plane banked in over Eastie.

As we drove up our street, here in our little section of Valhalla (AKA Hough’s Neck), our neighbors waved hello and welcome back (we live in a Rockwell painting, I’m tellin’ ya!). The Amazing Bob™, who’d held down the fort and seen to our herd of cat, hugged and kissed me. Coco greeted me with a warm ankle rub and a demand to be fed.

Ah, it’s good to be home!

Homeward Bound -- Simon and Garfunkel in Monterey 1967

Friday Night HOT blogging

You can totally see the, very obvious to me anyway, relationships, right?!

Hot cocoa and hot Coco -- like, of course!

How Can You Tell?

Easy smeazy ways to know if you and your gal/guy pal are totally BFF*

*Best Friends Forever for those of you living under a linguistic rock and, yes, I checked in with my youthful hip bartender friends, They say the phrase is still in; not yet passe. I trust their knowledge and wisdom on all things hip and not.

1) You have conversations that others, who don’t know and love you bigly, might find astoundingly dull. And you’re not bored.

You have these talks daily. Often it’s the exact same discussion on the joys of quinoa versus brown rice, the obvious superiority of Jamesons over Bushmills, how the quality of Victoria’s Secret’s panties (Jen’s MOST hated word and yes, of course I put that in there just to annoy her) has gone so far downhill that you’d shop for underdrawers from the Land’s End catalogue before walking into Vicky’s again. And what’s the name of that great barkeep -- you know, the young one who looked liked Matthew Broderick in Ferris Bueller? Yeah, I asked her that just last week too.

 Just like the much loved (by me anyway), endless Arlo Guthrie song, Alice’s Restaurant, all topics eventually come ‘back round on the guitar again.’

and nope -- we’re still not snoozing though our dialogue.

2) Included in the daily observation fest must be the continuing commentary on how you slept, the morning’s BM (with points awarded for exceptional size and stench) /hurl fest/crampage and/or bloody mess (that’d be me since she beat me to the finish line in the menopause olympics. bitch).

Yes, yes, yezzzzzz -- these are crude, unseemly, even barnyard-esque topics. But when you’re BFFs, that dainty/persnickety feature is low functioning -- possibly it's been disconnected entirely.

3) You become, seemingly, clairvoyant Or so it seems. As Jen puts it ‘My mind to your mind... my thoughts to your thoughts...’  Yeah, there’s a fair chance we’ve watched too much Star Trek but...even so!!!!

One example -- Jen and I were sitting at the Frog and Peach, having our post work adult fruity bev. I asked her if she had a book to read for our upcoming flight to visit my folks. She began signing back to me the name of the novel but suffered a fingerspelling killing hand cramp after the first letter, a C. Before she tried again I said ‘Oh, The Night Circus -- great book!’

It was a reasonable guess as I’d given the book to her a while back. OK, this isn’t so magical and mystical but sharing a brain is still a good indication of BFF-dom.  Plus, it cuts down on our carbon footprint.

or something.

4) You put up with each others social peccadilloes and oddities. OK, to be all fair and accurate, she puts up with mine. Now that I’m a big ol’ deafie, I’m a tad slow to start up conversations with strangers. So I ask Jen to do it for me -- OK, I tell not ask. If it’s a social thing versus asking for directions or the like, she usually says ‘NO I’m not gonna ask him/her that!’ I’m all ‘c’MON, don’t ya wanna know where he’s from/where she got that cool tat/who they think is the hottest band at The Middle East this year and why.’

This generally earns me the single raised eyebrow stare. So I address the strangers. I start the talk rolling and then she has to ‘terp their response. Shyness be damned! She’s dragged into the maybe-not-so-Algonquin-Round-Table-esque banter anyway. I’m all evil like that, you know.

Heh. She puts up with me -- lucky me!

Heat Wave Fashion

MaDon'na, it’s brain cell boilingly hot today! It was 97 bleedin’ degrees in Boston today -- IN Boston -- and the AC at work is non compos mentis. OK, it worked a teensy bit until about two PM. If we can’t simulate winter in Yakutsk, Russia what the hell good is all this technology -- I ASK YOU!

Em, yeah -- heat makes me cranky.

I’m working in the very young and happening  Allston/Brighton section of the city now. A section of town where punk rockers live/hang/swarm. Do they still get called punkers? That’s was the appellation back in the day when my hair was purple (to match my lavender Doc Martins of course), my jeans were ALWAYS black and my leather jacket was, of course, never lighter than an inky shade of charcoal.

In any case, I’m sadly reminded that while Punks are often stunningly, grittily chic in late Autumn and all through the long New England winter, they’re not so much when it’s 90 degrees out.

Mostly the look swings to tired, sweaty, pale to the point of translucence (and not in a Byronesque hip way -- more in a you’ve-been-at-the-Monkey-Water-too-long style) and massively uncomfortable. Even the black cotton skull T with the sleeves cut off, (strategic rip over the abs), looks sad and wilted. Then there’s the poor schmuck wearing his leathers, hair egg yoked up, scuffed leather Docs.

I just want to pull them all aside and delicately whisper in their ears, ‘Dearies, leather is NOT a summer fabric unless you’re in Yellowknife.’

Me? What I want to wear in summer are those gorgeous, flowing, paisley cotton frocks with the halter tops. Nope, ain’t gonna work. My day would be one long series of wardrobe malfunctions.

Summer fashion is for the svelte and small breasted. Being blond might be a plus too as they look better in pastels. Me, I’m rockin’ the scraggly, baggy, Grateful Dead/Phish look this summer. Why? It’s my cloaking devise style -- I feature this when I’ve got pounds to drop.

Enough kvetching and whining from me though. Here, have a poem. The Amazing Bob gave me this when we were first courting. It’s by Jacques Prevert.

Alicante

Une orange sur la table
Ta robe sur le tapis
Et toi dans mon lit
Doux présent du présent
Fraîcheur de la nuit
Chaleur de ma vie

An orange on the table
Your dress on the rug
And you in my bed
Sweet gift of the present
Freshness of the night
Warmth of my life

The Take Away

What’s the take away (and NO I’m not talkin’ ‘bout dinner from your local chip shop) from Sunday’s  scary post? What did I learn? How did I evolve? What wisdom, thankfully gotten without the highest price paid, do I want to impart to my astoundingly awesome niece, her daughter (who is now, gasp, setting out on her own) and mia amica?

I guess the first thing I learned was that I should go with my instincts. Those babies are often right -- at least about the big stuff.

I’m wrong plenty of times on the small beer -- like the remake of Dark Shadows. Oh man, I LOVED the Dark Shadows soap of the ‘60s! A remake could only be fabulous. Right? WRONG. And, christ almighty -- when did the price for a matinee reach $13? Yeah, I know -- I gotta get out more. Oh and pay phones? If you can find one, they aren’t a dime anymore. Huh.

*Ahem*, back to lessons learned.

 If a person can’t deal with you saying ‘no, I’m gonna take the T/a cab/walk home but thanks anyway,’ if they take big offense to that -- RED FLAG!

Look for the red flags. Even if that new, easily offended person isn’t a predator, they’re assuredly, ultimately more trouble then they’re worth. An ego that fragile = energy vampire. Draining you dry is what they do. Not intentionally -- it’s just how they’re programmed. Walk away. Fast. We can’t save/help/act as a balm for everyone on the planet. Save it for those you care about already.

Love yourself and know that YES, your concerns, your fears, your uneasiness and your needs are valid. Pay attention to them. Respect them. Respect yourself.

No, I’m not advocating that we all crawl into safe, fleece lined pods and only speak to one another in valiumed tones about fluffy bunnies, sunsets and Disneyified princesses. Fuck no! I sure as hell didn’t do that after either of my way too damn close to awful deathsville experiences. There’s a Grand Canyon size chasm between paying attention/minding that skeevy vibe you’ve got about someone and being afraid to leave the house, talk to strangers or live, baby, live. 

The world is one giant grey area. There is precious little that’s black or white. Close to nada that is pure evil or pure good.
The person who attacked me was male -- the person who comforted me, held me while I cried and said ‘oh hell yeah, leave the lights on all night. Leave ‘em on until you’re ready to turn them off. So what you’re 23 -- break out the stuffed animals! And I’ll stay with you until you want to be alone.’ Male.

I’ve had female attackers and female best buds, male attackers and male best buds. This is about predators not gender assignment.

OK, kittens are pure good -- but, DUH, you knew that.

Weights and Knives

Back a zillion years ago when pterodactyls ruled the air, water was the wild new drink and I was in college, I was into weightlifting. I knew, knew, totally knew that I should do loads of reps with lighter weights -- build strength and gain definition versus bulking up, but I just couldn’t say no to the siren call of competition. It gave me such a charge to sit down on the bench after some fella finished and move the peg down to load on 40 more pounds. We were using those old Universal set ups.

After moving to Boston I wanted to get back into lifting but was really put off by the gyms  I’d seen. They were all racquet clubs, aerobic studios and posh upscale pools -- well out of my price range AND a bit foofy for me. I wanted something more down to earth. Yes, I could have/should have joined the Y but a friend from work told me all about this great gym he went to. It was all free weights -- full of  folks who lifted competitively. NO, I wasn’t into that but I thought it would be an absolutely interesting place.

It proved to be exactly that. The joint was down behind Fenway Park (back when that area was gritty), the men were big and beefy, the two women body builders were stand-offish, the atmosphere was grunty and sweaty.

A few months after I joined, the friend I’d been going with moved on to a different gym. He’d been my spotter and now, in this room full of pro lifters, I felt too ungodly intimidated to partner up with anyone. I’d not made friends.

I was dressed in my big ass grey sweat pants and a tatty old Tshirt -- not exactly the gym bunny look -- when one of the pro lifters came over to say he’d spot me if I did the same for him. It was a sparse night in gym-land -- why else would one of the pros ask me to spot him. That was my thinking anyway.

After a good work out I was all set to hop the T (MBTA -- public transportation) out to Allston (the section of Boston where my roomie Cindy and I lived). The T-Rex said he’d drive me home. I was intimidated, had a vague unsettled MAYBE-this-isn’t-a-good-idea vibe going on but did I listen to me? NO! He insisted and I caved rather than potentially offend a potential new friend and work out buddy.

When I got into his car, he announced that we’d go back to his place because he had to ‘pick something up’ plus, he wanted to show me all the renovations he’d been doing on his house. He lived in East Cambridge -- a section of town which, in 1983, was still pretty local and blue collar. It was also a part of town that I was wholly unfamiliar with. 

I said, ‘oh, my roommate’s expecting me home at 8 -- I can’t be late or she’ll freak and call the cops.’ You can see where my head was at -- that skeevy feeling I had about him had floated clear to the top. And YET I was still trying not to give offense.

When we got to his house, I went inside. I went INside. My need to avoid potential insult, by implying that I didn’t trust him, was way too damned strong! He showed me around, pointing out the renovation projects he was proud of. I attempted appreciation despite the fact that my Oh-My-God meter was ticking way north of Life-Is-Groovy-And-We’re-All-Just-Fine. And then, and then, we got to a small room -- empty of all furniture except a bare single mattress on the floor. I tried to back out but he blocked me.

I said, still acting as though nothing was amiss -- ‘gotta go, man. Cindy’s waiting for me.’ It was then that he put his beefy arm, thicker than a fat Elvis’ thigh, tightly around my shoulders, held a huge, gleaming Chef’s knife up so that I could get a godawful gander and asked ‘are you going to be good?’

I immediately began shaking, rocking and convulsing like an epileptic in mid full on grand mal seizure. I began chanting ‘oh no, oh no, oh no.’  On purpose? NO of course not. Faced with a violent, protracted, painful death (and I was sure of that death bit), I just totally lost my shit (astoundingly, not literally). All I could think was ‘my parents deserve a more honorable death from me.’ Yep, that’s honestly just what I thought. So near a horrid, awful, totally fucked up experience, probably ending in my death and my thought was of how painful this would be for my folks. Odd, odd with a mountain of strange mixed in.

T-Rex dropped the knife from my neck, where he’d been holding it, down to his side. He said, ‘calm down, calm down. I got two girls for roommates, I can get it anytime I want. I’ll take you home now.’

What? Que? ‘scuse me?

He put the knife away and we left. I didn’t want to get into the car, I wanted to run like mad but A) I hadn’t a clue where I was and B) I was in shock. Not shocky enough, as he drove me over to Allston, to have him drop me off at home. Instead I pronounced ‘home now’ and got out in front of a friend’s building.

Hillel wasn’t in but his roommate Paul was. Paul, my hero, my knight in soft, shining armor, comforted me, spoke soothing words and held me while I cried. He turned on all the lights when we got back to my place and stayed until the absolute need to be alone possessed me.

The next day all I could do was call the gym to tell them what happened and say that I would not be returning. I wanted them to know who they had in their fold. Why didn’t I call the cops? It would’ve been my word against his. He hadn’t so much as nicked me -- just scared and threatened me enough for a lifetime or three.

The comedian Robert Klein used to have a bit about the best, most sure fire way to avoid being mugged. He said ‘act crazy’ -- he spoke/joked of doing exactly what I did, that it would freak the assailant right out.

Not planned, not thought of but yes, it did the trick.

Painfully Boring

Choral music that is.  Never liked the stuff. Just could NOT abide sitting through choral concerts/presentations in school. It's not that I hated it—loathe is a more accurate adjective. On the whole the stuff is dull, spiritless and an immensely effective soporific. I'd respect it more if it was wretched enough to inspire flights of hatred -- like flights of fancy only, instead of being inspired to spout purple poetry, I'm roused to declaim obscenity rich rants.

So yeah, deaf now and hadn’t felt an absence.

Funnily though, with being aural free and all, I’m often told about/invited to/encouraged to attend choral concerts. Why? The Boston Gay Men’s Chorus  and Voices Rising, (the women’s equivalent) performances are ASL interpreted in their entirety.

You know, that’s tremendously beautiful and thoughtful to the nth degree, but I’m not paying a big ticket price to watch poetry ‘terped—take away the music and that’s what lyrics are. Right?

And, ya know, if I’m going to pay to see poetry, I want the poets who I’m wild about and balladry that totally trips my trigger. Like anything by Sherman Alexie, Prevert and Ginsberg to name just a few.
I’m no sonnet whore,  I want to select my own poets and poetry.

And I’m not a sign language beggar neither. Deafness doesn’t dictate my a&e choices. OK it really does to an extent. I won’t be experiencing Fela! and I won’t be taking in a Kronos Quartet concert (unless they’re doing something radically percussive) or the like. That’s a bit painful.

 Still though, if I can arsed to stay up late enough, I can take in shows at The Middle East. I can totally appreciate and enjoy the Kodo Drummers of Japan. And, boy howdy, deaf can dance! Check out the Chinese Deaf Dance Team-Thousand Hands of Buddah Performance.

There are exceptions to nearly every one of my dramatic pronouncements of course.

The formal, classical choral music that I totally dig:

Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana -- I never would have heard and fallen in love with this if not for John Boorman’s flick Excalibur.

Handel’s Messiah. Duh. Of course!

Friday Wonderment Blogging

 Sitting outside on this Friday early evening of a tremendously difficult week -- I looked up to see this glory of color and life. I was instantly filled with peace. All my muscles, my nerve endings too, began to relax and breathe easier.

And to the right -- this was the view as we left home/heaven to labor in the pixel and ink mines all day.

A shade ominous, no?

Rocco -- Coco's distant cousin

Bukowski Blogging

Not all of his work grabs me -- jumps out at me from unexpected corners, wrestles me to the ground and hog ties me in order to speak grand' abbondanzas of wondrous, hilarious beauty -- but when it does, I'm left breathless and lookin' for a smoke.

tough company

poems like gunslinger
sit around and
shoot holes in my windows

chew on my toilet paper

read the race results
take the phone off the
hook.

poems like gunslingers

ask me
what the hell my game is,

and
would I like to
shoot it out?

take it easy, I say,

the race is not to

the swift.

the poem sitting at the

south end of the couch

draws

says

balls off for that

one!

more of this here.

The Arborist Avengers!

Jen, Oni and I have a fantasy, a mas brill vision really; we aim to become stealth tree planters. We’ll sweep in, in the tiny, dark morning hours, plant some red oak here, a few sugar maple there, half a dozen paper birch in that empty patch at the corner of Sea Street and Quincy Shore Drive maybe. Citizens will wake to find shade, beauty and birds everywhere.

We’re figuring this is super hero work so we’ll need some awesome, fancy shmancy costumes and masks (and prolly some super powers wouldn't hurt either). You know -- we'll be tricked out kind of like The Green Lantern only more in a mossy shade (plus, I think I'll need to shed 5 pounds before I don that baby.) We’ll call ourselves The Arborist Avengers (imagine the sound of rolling thunder when you hear that name. Of course James Earl Jones will need to be our spokesman)!

Got a yard? Plant some feckin’ trees man! Don’t got a yard, you can still plant some feckin’ trees!

Back when we were city dwellers, I’d buy the live Christmas tree and then, after the holiday of course, we'd give it to friends with yards.

When a friend and his wife dropped sprogs we bought trees in Israel for them. His oldest is going off to college this coming fall so there’s an 18 year old tree that we helped bring to life somewhere in Eshtaol Forest.

We’ve also planted trees when loved ones have died. There’s a red maple in our postage stamp front yard for Oni’s mother. There will be a dogwood at the side of the house for my Aunt Mary Ann. Nobody else better pass though -- we’re running out of yard. It’s all about the yard, see -- no more of this bucket kicking. K?

On that note here are a bunch of linkies to groups who do good work. Who, for a small donation, will do all the hard work for you and you don’t even need a yard.
The Nature Conservancy -- Plant a Billion Trees
Plant a Tree In Israel
A Tree Instead
Need more reasons to plant besides 'trees are all purty?' (phffft -- that's not enough for you?!) Here's 29 more, courtesy of TreeLink (go to the link -- read more. c'mon, get outta the boat and go read!):

1.
Alleviating the "Greenhouse Effect," trees act as carbon "sinks."
- 1 acre of new forest will sequester about 2.5 tons of carbon annually. Trees can absorb CO2 at the rate of 13 pounds/tree/year. Trees reach their most productive stage of carbon storage at about 10 years.

- In its "Reforesting the Earth" paper, the Worldwatch Institute estimated that our planet needs at least 321 million acres planted to trees just to restore and maintain the productivity of soil and water resources, meet industrial and fuel-wood needs in the third world, and annually remove from the atmosphere roughly 780 million tons of carbon as the trees grow. This 780 million tons represents the removal of about 25 percent of the 2.9 billion tons of carbon currently going into the earth's atmosphere.


- Planting 100 million trees could reduce the amount of carbon by an estimated 18 million tons per year and at the same time, save American consumers $4 billion each year on utility bills.

- For every ton of new wood that grows, about 1.5 tons of CO2 are removed from the air and 1.07 tons of life-giving oxygen are produced. During a 50-year life span, one tree will generate $30,000 in oxygen, recycle $35,000 worth of water, and clean up $60,000 worth of air pollution or $125,000 total per tree without including any other values!
2.
Prevents or reduces soil erosion and water pollution.
3.
Helps recharge ground water and sustains streamflow.
4.
Properly placed screens of trees and shrubs significantly decrease noise pollution along busy thoroughfares and intersections.
5.
Screen unsightly views.
6.
Soften harsh outlines of buildings.
7.
Provide fuelwood for stoves and fireplaces by establishing energy plantations of hybrid poplars and other fast-growing species and managed on a sustained yield basis for a continuous supply of fuelwood.
8.
Properly managed forests provide lumber, plywood and other wood products on a sustained yield basis.

9.
Depending on location, species, size, and condition, shade from trees can reduce utility bills for air conditioning in residential and commercial buildings by 15-50 percent. Trees, through their shade and transpiration, provide natural "low-tech" cooling that means less need to build additional dams, power plants, and nuclear generators.
10.
Windbreaks around homes can be shields against wind and snow and heating costs can be reduced by as much as 30 percent.
11.
Shade from trees cools hot streets and parking lots. Cities are "heat islands" that are 5-9 degrees hotter than surrounding areas. And cities spread each year.

 12.
Trees and shrubs properly placed and cared for on a residential or commercial lot can significantly increase property values.
13.
Numerous research studies conducted in the Great Plains States have found that properly placed and cared-for field windbreaks will significantly increase crop yields compared to fields with no windbreaks, even after taking into account the space occupied by the trees.
14.
Farmstead windbreaks have many values including reduction of utility bills for cooling and heating, snow entrapment, wind reduction, aesthetics, and wildlife habitat.
15.
Trees also provide nutmeats (walnuts, pecans, hickory), fruit (plum, peaches, apples, pears), berries for jams and jellies (chokecherry and buffaloberry) and maple syrup.
16.
Tree shelters for livestock effectively reduce weight losses during cold winter months and provide shade for moderating summer heat.
17.
Living snowfences, strategically placed, hold snow away from roads, thus effectively reducing road maintenance costs and keeping roads open.
18.
Trees add beauty and grace to any community setting. They make life more enjoyable, peaceful, relaxing, and offer a rich inheritance for future generations.
19.
Tropical forests, in addition to their value for winter range for migratory birds, wood products, etc., are extremely value for healing purposes. One of every four pharmaceutical products used in the U.S. comes from a plant found in a tropical forest.
20.
Likewise, substances found in native trees in the U.S. are used both for pharmaceutical and other medical purposes.
21.
Trees give people a multitude of recreational opportunities and provide habitat for wildlife.
22.
Trees along rivers, streams, and lakes reduce water temperatures by their shade, prevent or reduce bank erosion and silt, and provide hiding places for improving fisheries habitat.
23.
They provide brilliant colors to landscapes in the fall. After the leaves drop to the ground and are raked, they provide excellent mulch for flowerbeds and gardens as well as exercise for people.
24.
Research indicates that trees help reduce stress in the workplace and speed recovery of hospital patients.
25.
Police officers believe that trees and landscaping can instill community pride and help cool tempers that sometimes erupt during "long, hot summers."
26.
Trees help us experience connections with our natural heritage and with our most deeply held spiritual and cultural values.
27.
Trees are valuable as commemoratives of deceased loved ones and for passing on something of value to future generations.
28.
A tribe of South American Indians believes that the trees of the forest hold up the sky. According to the legend, the fall of trees will precipitate the downfall of the Earth.
29.
Finally, many people enjoy planting and caring for trees simply because they like to see them grow.

Magic Man

I was in my doctor’s office earlier today, getting a best-left-unmentioned-painful-but-not-life-threatening lady bit issue seen to. The waiting room, like most, was filled with magazines I’d never read in a zillion years—not even if it was the last rag on earth would I even begin to page through Golf Digest or Ladies’ Home Journal. Docs make big bucks, right?  Can’t they spare a shekel for an office subscription to Bitch, Esquire or Mother Jones? Ah but wait, buried under one the towering piles of ESPN I spied a Rolling Stone. Huzzah!!!

I’ve been deaf for seven or eight (I forget how long) years but I love this mag still. There’s fab, insightful political writing, gossipy crapola (about folks I’ve actually heard of versus in People. Kim Kardashian...who!?), book and of course, music reviews.

The wait today was on the long side so I tucked into an article about John Mayer. When he came out, he was THE hottest, new, next big thing. Everyone young and not so youth endowed raved about him. I know I heard a tune or two but it made absolutely zilcho impression on me. None. Cero. I can bring loads of tunes into my head even now but, meh, his didn’t stick.

Apparently there was some big foofaraw over his ‘dating’ habits. Seems he bed a zillion and one half starlets. Phffft—big deal. But MORE was expected of him ‘because he’s so sensitive!’  Again—phffft. He’s a big star just doing what big stars can.

In the Rolling Stone piece he lays claim to having ‘Weapons Grade Charm.’ Em dude, I only mention it but making that statement makes you not so damned charming. Or was that the plan? There’s always a plan.

Molto slick-dick boys always skeeved me right out. Even before my carny years their shtick always stuck me as just that—a con, a game, a scam. All to get girls to drop trou and, possibly, fall adoringly in luuurrrrv. And then follow said slick-dicker around like a love slave.

Hurl.

I’ve always been way more into the direct approach. The huge charade seemed silly, a tad insulting and postponed the main event—a space and time where charm never hurts. Unless you want it to.

And then I met a breathtakingly gorgeous guy who I’d totally pegged as smoothie. He was too. I figured ‘joke’s on him. I’m just looking for some fun and he’s cute. He’s wasting some prime grade horseshit on me.’

Then, and THEN, I got to know him—we became friends. I found, honest to Kali, depth under that titanium clad sweet talk. Yeah, some of that surface was him playing the Casanova but, just as much, was him expressing his core deep romanticism.

No clue what he saw in me—a challenge perhaps or a time out from the Enchantment Olympics? Or maybe he just enjoyed my company? Hmmmm, I guess that could maybe happen.

In any case, of course we didn’t last. The Charm Wizard moved out to San Francisco and I met The Amazing Bob. 

My world immediately proceeded to rotate 50,000 degrees and I fell harder than King Kong.  
Magic Man—Heart

...You Will Fall Over

If your breasts are too large you will fall over..unless you wear a rucksack.
Important advice from the late great Scots poet Ivor Culter

Back in the days before dirt was invented, yeah, back when I was 15, I had a beau on the gymnastics team. He wasn’t Olympic material, not even close, but he was studly and talented nonetheless.

He wanted me to try out for the team. Silly boy. Though I was trim and fit, I was not what anyone would ever call athletic. Or coordinated. Spazoid, sure. Klutz Queen -- oh yeah absolutely. My silly beau talked me into it though.

There were formal assessments made of the gymnast wannabe’s abilities. I was, astoundingly, doing OK until...until the hand stand test. Just couldn’t do it -- toppled over every single time even when we were permitted to attempt one against a wall versus in the middle of the floor. 

The coach pulled me aside and told me that I’d never, EVER be able to excel in gymnastics because of my physical imbalance -- ‘your breasts are too large.’ First off, I’ve always had sufficient junk in my trunk to serve as ballast for those headlights. Secondly, jesus, I was 15 years old! Thirdly, he was a teacher and coach of us kids and he’s telling me my rack’s too big?

He wasn’t the only teacher to comment on my babylons back then. One day in orchestra practice I blew my solo. I don’t recall the piece now. Nor do I remember the fucktarded orchestra teacher’s name,  crotchety old bastard. In front of the entire orchestra, he berated me and my blunder, saying that it was due to my tits being so big.

 Oh....rilly?!

I was horrendously embarrassed, angry and imagined myself utterly helpless. All I could do was blush nine shades of scarlet and dissolve into a demoralized puddle of confusion.

My folks had long been ignoring and/or fluffing off my complaints about bullies and nasty teachers so I didn’t even consider bringing either incident to their attention. Successful sexual harassment lawsuits were years in the future. And meeting my best buddy Kevin (R.I.P) was still 4 years off. He taught me that, yes I could, should, MUST fight back. He also taught me how. As it turns out, I have a talent for the withering, ridiculing, tart retort.

Not all of my teachers or coaches were pathetic, midget dicked, emotionally stunted, predatory failmasters. I had a few tremendous, inspirational instructors back then. Funnily enough, not in music or art (both of which I went on to study in college and beyond).

Mr. Malacarne (whose name always cracked me right up. do the translation, you’ll snicker too), my geography teacher was one of my inspirations for travel. Miss Hutton, for English -- science fiction, specifically --  opened my brain up to new, different levels of creative expression.

What brings this to mind now? That post about shoes. Tall shoes and my good balance all those years ago. My leaps on the balance beam would cause gazelles to weep in envy.

NO, honest and for reals!

If Your Breasts Are Too Large You Will Fall Over by Ivor Cutler

Friday Low Tide Blogging

 

Gratuitous Cat (Skitter) Pic

Yes Dear and Mouse Assassinations

Oh please. of COURSE those are related!

Now, on the Yes Dear front — The Amazing Bob and I are totally old school. If one of us says something outlandish and/or off the rails the other will say ‘yes my love, yes dear, of course.’ Bob, being the god that he is, of course, will add in ‘does my hunny need a a cupcake?’  The man’s got serious style. If he’d been a pool player he’d have been one scary ass shark. Keith McCready woulda had nothin' on him!

In any case, the kids, Jen and Oni, also engage in Yes Dear-dom but they’ve brought something new to it — a stealth function of sorts. In fact, when Oni does it, Jen doesn’t even know how it happens, just that it does. When Jen does it, it’s more about the eye roll than the words. She says ‘OK’  rolls her eyes and walks off.

Coco in hre Meatloaf Kata

Bottom line, we all understand what this means — we’re being humored/tolerated and that’s JUST what we need, at the moment, and we know it. Serious conversations about whatev’s crawled up our respective asses can happen later. At the time we just need to blow off steam and still be loved. The well placed, stylishly executed Yes Dear—the key to every successful relationship.

Now — on to the mouse assassinations. I came downstairs this morning at four (god yes, I’m one of those vile morning persons) to a scene which is not the norm. Usually Coco, if she doesn’t come up to nag me into sentience, is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She’s all ‘you’re gonna feed me now right? and not that stuff I don’t like since 3 AM but the other stuff that I’m TOTALLY keen on since 3:15 AM. I’m not sure which can it is but we can just open ‘em until we get to the one I like now....right?’ And then we need to play hide and seek and chase the kitten. I get a full workout before I get onto that wretched treadmill — yes I do.

In any case, this morning she was NOT at the foot of the steps. I began to wonder and had stepped up toward worry when I rounded the corner. There she was, in full Meatloaf Kata intently focused on a wee, baby grey mousie. The mouse (named Jermaine — of course.) was not moving. He was playing dead in hopes that my little killer, terrorist kitten would get bored and move on. Nope, no such luck. She was in small varmint obliterating trance mode and having none of that faux death shit.

 TAB’s always told me that I’m to praise and congratulate our cats when they’re in death dealer mode so I do — of course. TAB’s wise about all this cat stuff. This is where the Human to Cat Yes Dear function comes into play.

As I worked through my morning rituals, (calisthenics, preparing my lunch, checking my email and playing on line Scrabble) Coco continued to follow poor Jermaine around — taking the occasional swipe, tossing him into the air, putting her paw, proprietorially, on his midsection. All this time, I was telling her she was a very good jungle warrior beast and her kill was most impressive. The cat Yes Dear.

Finally, I walked over and said ‘He’s dead Jim.... I mean, Coco’ and disposed of the tiny tragic mousie evidence. Poor thing.  I should have given it a wee Viking funeral.

He's Dead, Jim