Jonas Vidar

Sometimes, most times maybe, absolute beauty sneaks up on me, bashes me over the head with a lead lined brickbat and makes me wonder where it's been all my life. One day, while Jen and I were in Reykjavik, we ended up on a rather dissapointing gallery crawl.

Disappointing mostly because the majority of galleries are closed Sundays. In the US the galleries and museums are closed Mondays.

Heh. Guess what, chica — you're not  in Boston anymore!

We did happen on one gallery opening and, boyhowdy, it was some prime grade  awful shit, lemme just tell you right now. The entire show was comprised of bland 36"x36" color pics of a pressroom and the artist's studio with circles and squares randomly, it seemed, drawn over top.

The big take for Jen and I? Wondering if that press was a Hamada, if the folder was an MBO and if the cutter was a Polar. Yep, print industry geeks go on vaca and see 'art' centered on press machinery. Joy. 

We were all set to give up on the art crawl and head to the bar when I saw a sign for another gallery. The sign had an arrow that pointed down an alleyway. We followed. 

JonasVidar's astounding work is what we found. My mind was blown. Still is. I'm nearly wordless and you know that's a rare occurrence! The colors, the texture, the dreams and stories they inspire -- mindbendingly gorgeous.

His work speaks for itself. Go look. Seriously. Click on the linky and check him out now!

What To Do? What To Do?!

This is home, not away. I am still iPad challenged re: pic-land. 

Decisions, decisions! Do we book the tour that goes just to the Laugarvatn Fontana Steam Baths or one which does the Golden Circle as well. There's one that does both.

Normally I'm NOT a tour person but we're here for such a short time and it seems like a good, easy way to make the most of our time and energies.

The glacier hike looked to be the most exciting but I'm trying to be realistic. OK, Jen was being realistic for me since, well, I'm notoriously reality challenged when it comes to hiking. A 4 hour hike, on ice, for someone (me, thenkew much) with no balance nerves and not in GI Jane shape anyway? Em, I suppose it's smart for me to listen to Jen -- clearly the smarter one of us.

Jen, AKA The Smart One, being all humble and shy about keeping me from doing something braindeadedly stupid (for me anyway).

Airpork

I am not here BTW. Still trying to sort out uploading pics on the iPad

That's what my sweetie baby niece, Helen used to call the airport. You know, back when she was short. And wore diapers. And didn't yet know that gorgonzola and Malbec are foods of the gods. She does now, of course.

In any case, the airport is where Jen and I are now. In Terminal E.  Which has all beauty and conveniences of a bus station in Bucksnort, Arkansas. Honest and true -- there's really a town by that name AND Terminal E at Logan Airport in Boston rivals their transportation hub for charm, cuisine and general ambience.

oh yeah.

Rocket Woman

She packed my bags last night pre-flight
Zero hour nine a.m.
And I'm gonna be high as a kite by then

OK, some edits:
I packed my bag and it was bag not bags, pre-flight and zero hour is nine p.m. not a.m. I will however, undoubtedly be high as a kite by the time I board that flight. Airport bar and Sapphire gin martinis -- godsends to the claustrophobic and flying impaired.

Uh yeah, that'd be me thenkewveddymuch.

Jen and I leave tomorrow evening, after work, for a real long weekend in Reykjavik, Iceland. So, tonight is packing night. I’m always so totally focused on packing light that I often miss a thing or 5. Mind you, if I forget a pair of under-drawers I can buy ‘em. If I need tissues, I can go to the local apothecary. Thicker socks -- well, boy-howdy, I DO believe socks are obtainable in Iceland, Scotland, Poland and a whole mess 'o' other places.

The Must-Pack-Lighter-Than-Butterflies thinking is what’s led me to pack, for a January week in Eastern Europe, a very early spring week in Tuscany and an early winter week in Northern Scotland, no more than a slight backpack worth of, em, essentials.

Yes, that pack, at your right --18 inches in height, is what I've toted on those trips and, INDEED, it's smaller than what a Boston Latin Student needs for daily classes.

You see, I HATE toting all this damned, glorious impedimenta. I just don’t want to be weighed down by STUFF. So then, when I have to fly to my destination, I pare down to the absolute MOST basic minimum. This means I’m rinsing socks and undies in available sinks (wut? TMI?) but, hellfiredamnation, that’s better than lugging crap through airports or on my endless journeys from foreign airport to B&B/hostel/apartment/comfy looking meadow.

Traveling anywhere by car is a supreme luxury. This means I can bring crap for all emergencies and possibilities. Yeah, it’s August but we’re goin’ to Vermont -- surely a light coat wouldn’t be wholly unwise, eh? I’m headed to P-town -- I MAY just need those 6 inch platform wedgies! Takin’ the train to New York? I totally do NOT need more than a small purse. If you can’t get what you need in NYC it ain’t worth having. (snark...sorta, kinda)

Point of the story -- if I’m driving to my destination, I don’t think. I just load up the car. If I’m flying? Every item is scrutinized. Each inclusion is the result of research, deep thought, extreme pragmatism and, what the hell, geometry and a wee bit of string theory or something.

Hi, my name is Donna and I’m a packing extremist. I swear there's a 12 step program for me somewhere. Or a religious cult. One or the other.

Now, s’cuse me while I go obsess over my rucksack.

Rocket Man -- Elton John

My First

Scary movie. OF COURSE!

The very first horror movie I recall seeing was The War of the Worlds. The 1953 version that is. I was eight years old when it was broadcast on television. We were living in Townsend, Massachusetts, my all time MOST favorite place of the many locales we lived in back when I was young (dinosaurs roamed the planet then. yes, they did).

In any case, the movie, in all it’s black and white splendor freaked me right the fuck out...majorly. I was so scared that I went into hiding behind my very calm father’s legs -- poking an eye out every two minutes because...em...because.

That same year, I’d occasionally sneak downstairs while the parental units watched Twilight Zone or the far more chilling Outer Limits.

"There is nothing wrong with your television set. Do not attempt to adjust the picture. We are controlling transmission. If we wish to make it louder, we will bring up the volume. If we wish to make it softer, we will tune it to a whisper. We will control the horizontal. We will control the vertical. We can roll the image, make it flutter. We can change the focus to a soft blur or sharpen it to crystal clarity. For the next hour, sit quietly and we will control all that you see and hear. We repeat: there is nothing wrong with your television set. You are about to participate in a great adventure."

 Yup, they totally inspired suspension of disbelief. Easy enough to do with a child, I suppose. I took all these shows way seriously. This COULD REALLY happen.

Years later, my first job was as candy girl at the local movie theater. It was the year The Exorcist came out. Because of the way this old timey theater was set up (originally a Vaudeville house), I heard and viewed most of the film nightly. And, boy-howdy, that flick played in our very small town, for three straight months. Yup, I said three.

I was still an easily frightened girl but, ya know, you see a 12 year old child spin her head 360, while spewing lime green vomitus, every night for three months -- eh, it gets old. I gained perspective I guess.

One night, funnily enough, a bat got in and was zooming around the house. FABOLA! The movie was turned off, the cinema evacuated and the bat was eventually shooed out. Sigh. This was big fun and a MAJOR sign from Above for all the god botherers who picketed our establishment nightly. What a bunch of bedwetting nincompoops.

A few years later, when Dead Kevin (to distinguish him from all my still living friends with that name. duh.) and I were inseparable college art students, we went to see Looking For Mr. Goodbar. This, of course, on the heels of seeing Annie Hall and totally falling in love with Diane Keaton.

Mein Gott, after seeing LFMG, we were both freaked right the fuck out. I suppose I mark this as my entrée into the world of insane adulthood. THIS was my first real horror movie.

We swore we’d only go see Disney movies and comedies ever after. Yup, that lasted until Alien came out. Clearly a big fat sci fi scary story but still, it tensed me right up. What do I do when I’m just that wicked wigged? Sit ups. No, seriously. I stepped out into the aisle of movie theater and started doing sit ups. To his credit, Kevin did NOT disown me right there and then.

Hey, you deal with stress your way and I’ll do mine!

I asked Jen -- what was your first horror movie. Her answer? Friendly Fire. It was when she realized death was real and horrifying. She was nine when she saw it.

I asked Oni. The Sound of Music. Yep, I think he MAY have been snarking me. Possibly.

The Amazing Bob? Really scary -- The Thing. Funny but supposed to be scary -- The Blob. Yeah, I can dig it.

What about you?

Tuesday in Zombie Land

Gratuitous Image -- shells and trash on the beach at sunrise

Happy Sky

It’s Tuesday. And I'm a zombie (HEY, it SO TOO could happen!). Tuesday is the craziest day of my work week and I am so damn tired that my very brain is wicked, sehr bored with me. It said, in point of fact, ‘screw you honey, I’m hitting The Middle East for the 'Zuesday! Queer Dance Party.' And off it went.

You know you're fucked when even your brain tells you it'd like more time to itself. BUT, being the more adult of us, I wished it a lovely, happy feet evening and allowed that I'd totally be there in spirit. I swear it cringed. My brain cringed. Douchenozzle that it is.

What’s that you say? You can’t get to The Middle East to dance your ta tas off tonight with my renegade brain (for shame)?

See yuz tomorrah.

The Moosewood* Commute

The return of Jen the Pirate Blogger and yes, we rilly, rilly do eat like this.  You may commence with the major league sympathy for Bob and Oni any time you're ready.

* Moosewood -- one of the great cookbooks or so I'm told by vegetarians who actually cook. 
________________________________________________________
Jen's facing away from the camera, of course, so we don't see her giggling madly over us having world destroying cases of the vapors.

The Wounded Warrior

Rocco, our formally chicken hearted, feral, porch visiting tuxedo Tom is def healing after his run in with death. Thank Bast!

On the morning of August 8th he looked as though the left side of his face had been ripped clean out by some Freddy Kruger-ish monster. The damage done possibly/probably by one of the big asshole dogs who live across the street. They’re never on a leash and, I’ve heard from neighbors, that they go after the local felines like drunken frat boys after freshman coeds.

Yeah, the owner’s been spoken to repeatedly.

Rocco -- The Wounded Warrior

At this point, a month and a half after the fact, our Rocco’s appetite is as big as ever. He’s here faithfully for breakfast, lunch and, on occasion, dinner. Apart from the obvious injury he looks and seems fine -- healthy as all get out. He’s even letting The AB (The Amazing Bob™) and I get so close we could maybe even attempt patting his poor abused head.

But we don’t. Why? Eh, this level of trust took a long ass time to build. It’s only recently, since the attack, that he doesn’t run off the minute we set foot out the door (and then return for his meal after we vanish inside again). Gaining his trust has been a teeny tiny baby-steps kind of a deal. Plus, to kidnap him off to the vets would surely end in the animal shelter cages. I don't see any of that concluding happily. Rocco's not the gregarious 'pick me, PICK ME' type.

We don’t really know what would be best at this point -- what we can or should do for Rocco. His wound is healing but he seems to be reopening it when he bathes. That’s what we surmise anyway.

It’s clear that the people who, theoretically, owned him have moved, turned him away or maybe he's the one who ended the relationship. Dunno. If he did have a home with people, he’d be wearing a cone and not permitted out of doors.

B.O.P. -- King of the Neighborhood

Coco -- Princess and Mouse Assassin

Our last regular visitor beastie, B.O.P. (Big Orange Pumpkin) was way into people.  He moved in but HAD to have his daily outdoor time. The nastier the weather, the better. He reveled in a good ole nor'easter. Seriously. I swear, apart from the whole timeline issue, he was Jack London's inspiration.

It was easy enough to tote B.O.P. into the vet when he got into fights. NOT simple AT ALL was the part about keeping him indoors and in the cone for a month. I only mention it but cats do NOT listen to calm reason when they want to go out at 1, 2 and 3 AM.

I learned my lesson with B.O.P. which is why Coco’s an indoor baby. I take her for walks and we sit in the yard together but that’s it. NO unsupervised outdoor time. Yeah, I feel guilty. Cats gotta roam, explore and conquer their universes. I just don’t think I could lose another furry friend to the local foxes and dogs though.

Any suggestions on what we can do to keep Rocco from reopening his wound?

Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere

Billions of years ago, when the earth was still cooling, Donna Summer was queen and I was on the road with the carnival, there was absolutely fuck all to do, after the show shut for the night, in Hoxie, Kansas, Liberal (a complete misnomer, mind you), Kansas, Lovington, New Mexico or the myriad other tiny hamlets we played.

In these towns we were the big night out fun entertainment. Yup, we were it. Poor sods. OK, there was more...barely. Usually it was a dusty, decaying bar with a pool table and too many rednecks. That is, these joints existed as long as we weren’t playing a dry county.

Dry Kansas counties are red, wet are blue and mixed are yellow

"A dry county is a county in the United States whose government forbids the sale of alcoholic beverages. Some prohibit off-premises sale, some prohibit on-premises sale, and some prohibit both. Hundreds of dry counties exist across the United States, a majority of them in the South."

Barbaric. I know.

Now, at 19, my idea of a fun time was, unsurprisingly, planets and light years away from what farmers, cowboys and feed and grain clerks found interesting or exciting. PLUS, a back country farm town of 9,000 souls isn’t going to attract or support a weekend folk singer. Not even a monster truck rally, a 'psychic' or, god forbid, a dance club.

I wasn’t expecting Studio 54, O’Banions or The Rat. Astoundingly, I was smart enough to fathom that nothing like that would be on the menu. I hadn't anticipated the full on monastic environment though.

Even in the small, rural, western Pennsylvania town where I went to college there was always, on nearly any given evening, a boy or girl in a corner of the bar plunking the guitar while singing Rickie Lee Jones, Loggins and Messina or Neil Young covers. A university town, even a tiny one, will always have more nightlife, ANY nightlife. I grok that. Truly I do.

This is the where I grew up -- a dozen different college towns across the Northeast and Midwest. It's what I knew. It's what, silly me, I expected. To me, this was civilization.

Hello and welcome to the big wide world of Culture Shock.

Understandably, not being into Cow Tipping or Goat Roping, I got my punk/folk/rock/classical music loving ass off the road while the getting was good.
Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere -- Neil Young

Sky & Skunk Blogging

The sky is the daily bread of the eyes. 
 ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson 

And when the day arrives I'll become the sky and I'll become the sea and the sea will come to kiss me for I am going home. Nothing can stop me now. 
~ Trent Reznor 

Men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives.
~ Shakepeare 

Women hold up half the sky. 
~ Mao Tse-Tung 

You are the sky. Everything else – it’s just the weather.
~ Pema Chödrön

Excuse me while I kiss the sky. 
~ Jimi Hendrix

 

The name skunk is an adaptation of the Abenaki Indian (Algonquin) name, "segankw" or "segongw." 

Skunks have excellent hearing and an excellent sense of smell; however, they have poor vision.

Green horned owls are the main predators of skunks. Owls like most birds have a poor sense of smell.

Skunks will stamp their feet, raise their tails and lurch their backs when the feel threatened. If you are faced with this situation it is wise to quietly retreat.

This is Flower. – our very sweet morning porch visitor.

Two Things

They're even related too. Seriously.

My little sister posted a bit on Facebook referencing her age the other day — that she’s middle aged. God DAMN that made me think. Sad thinking? Eh, not so much. BUT if my baby sister is middle aged, and she is, what does that make me?

An exchange from one of my fav movies, Postcards From The Edge, comes to mind. The character Suzanne is the 40-ish actress, daughter of Hollywood Royalty. Doris? She’s the Royalty. This bit is from the midst of a post rehab (Suzanne’s) argument they were having (and yeah, this is biographical type stuff written by Carrie Fisher — one of my favs).

Suzanne: Ma, I'm middle-aged.
Doris: Dear, *I'm* middle-aged.
Suzanne: Really. And how many one hundred and twenty year old women do *you* know?

I don’t know any 110 year old women so....em....I guess I’m late middle aged now. Yep, I’m OK with that. I do wonder how I got all the way from Hot Child in the City to Grandma’ Hands though.

Second up:

Just so you know, the 7th floor cafeteria at Mass Eye and Ear Infirmary is NOT actually on the 7th floor.

Mind you, if you board the small, crowded, claustrophobic fit inducing elevators and press seven, that’s where you’ll end up. If you take the stairs though, the 7th floor is actually the 9th.
How’s that work? The real 7th and 8th are OR/surgical, floors. Why is that set up like that? No fuckin’ clue. I couldn’t catch an up box with few enough souls on it (me alone would have been acceptable. Anyone in excess of moi....eh, too tight) so I took the stairs.

OOF!  At the real, not fake, 7th floor I sat down for a wee break. Serious, it would have been a teeny tiny one. Really!

No sooner had I parked my keester on the landing, a white robed babe steps into the stairwell and starts quizzing me. She’s asking me what I’m doing there and am I OK/am I sick..

I told her "deaf here, speak slowly and I’ll try to lipread you. BTW, I’m just taking a wee upward climb break."

She starts in on this big ass harangue about how I shouldn’t take the stairs — I could get hurt ('I'm deaf NOT an invalid and I am NOT old and feeble. bitch.' was what I was thinking) and, she continued, no one would know or find me for a long time (should something bad happen) AND she’d ride the elevator up with me (this in response to my telling her "no can do on the upwardly mobile sardine can").

The hell? This was a serious drama mama. She seemed not to get two real basic dealios:

1) SHE found me and I’d not been sitting more than 30 seconds.
2) If SHE, a total stranger — a stressing angry one at that — rode up in the crowded box with me...well, boy howdy, I think that claustrophobic fit would be a total lock.

Chick was NOT into that whole listening thing. Clearly a devotee of Fran Leibowitz.

“The opposite of talking is not listening. The opposite of talking is waiting.” 

Em, much as I love Ms. Leibowitz...WRONG!

In any case, I nodded (but did not smile), got up from my all too temporary resting place and said thanks but no. She was still talking as I walked off but, hey, I’m deaf -- if I don’t look at her , I don’t know she’s speaking. So, not rude then. Awesome!

OK, I did add in, as I ascended the stairs with her staring after me "look, I'm EVEN holding onto the stairrail. I think I'll be just fine. Cheers then." Snark, it's what's on tap.

Up to the ninth floor cafeteria then, where I got a lovely Vietnamese Veggie Roll Up with a nice glass of pomegranate juice. YUM!

Fibonacci and Farts

Because it’s International Book Week AND because I’m dog tired (why not ‘cat tired?’ don’t they sleep just as much, if not more?) I give you poems by two of my favs. Yup, Sherman Alexie and Charles Bukowski.

Cheers!

Unkissed is a fibonacci sequence poem by Sherman Alexie.

What's this fibonacci stuff?

'Fibonacci poetry is a literary form based on the Fibonacci number sequence. The sequence begins like this: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21. In order to find the next number in the sequence, you add the two preceding numbers. The sum of these two is the next number, which then is added to the one before it to get to the next number, and so on. This is how it works:

1 + 0 = 1
1 + 1 = 2
2 + 1 = 3
3 + 2 = 5
5 + 3 = 8
8 + 5 = 13
13 + 8 = 21
etc.

The Fibonacci sequence appears often in nature as the underlying form of growing patterns. For example, conch shells and sunflowers follow the pattern as they grow in a spiral formation that increases as it moves outward.'

Unkissed

A Fibonacci Sequence Poem

by Sherman Alexie

1.

Who
Knew
The man
Would jackknife,
Leave his lovely wife,
And abandon his preschool kids?
He told me once, "I hate my life." So who knew? I did.

more poem  and more about fibonnaci at the linkies.

This one, Gas by Charles Bukowski is hilarious, fun and more.

my grandmother had a serious gas
problem.
we only saw her on Sunday.
she'd sit down to dinner
and she'd have gas.
she was very heavy,
80 years old.
wore this large glass brooch,
that's what you noticed most
in addition to the gas.

Go to the link for the whole poem -- it's WAY worth it.

Sick Days and Lime Tarts

Incredibly, to me anyway, I’m home sick today. Sheesh, I wouldn’t even need all the fingers on Marge Simpson’s left hand to tally up the number of sick days I’ve taken in the last 5 years.

Dunno if this is me finally getting a little smarter, (i.e., if I stay abed resting for a day I’ll feel all better faster. Damn, what a concept!) or it’s a fluke and we shouldn’t think too much more on it. I’m kinda leaning toward that second bit.

In any case, I saw my Primary Care Physician yesterday, got all kinds of lovely new asthma meds, a flu shot AND the happy news that I’m finally dropping some weight. Naturally I wanted to celebrate this fab-ola occurrence with some of Saint Fratelli’s cake -- you know, with giant frosting roses. Or maybe I was thinking of their Chocolate Nightmare. Possibly the lime tarts with that splendid dollop of real whipped cream. Mmmmmmmmmmmm, tarts.

Nope, I passed on all that, came home and had a brown rice cake.

God, I’m so mature I’m practically breaking out in mold...you know, like a fine Camembert. Mmmmmmmmmmmm, cheese.

In any case, in other happy health news. I stopped into the Mass Eye and Ear Infirmary hearing aid department. They ran a bunch 'o' tests on my tiny mechanical ear and it checked out AOK. It seems I got a nasty batch of batteries so I tossed the entire pack. Yea!

Meanwhile back at my sick day -- incredibly, I seem to be incapable of sleeping the entire day away. Long procrastinated research was done on where Jen and I will stay during our visit to Reykjavik. We fly out next Friday. While we're wandering, gallivanting and otherwise getting ourselves up to no good, the menfolk will be home tending our herd of cat (or, possibly, vice versa).

The goal for this vaca is to see some cool, inspiring art, hike around wild landscapes (MUST remember to pack/wear my hiking booties), visit the penis museum (OF COURSE!) and just chill. We’ll breathe deep, relax and gain a better perspective on all things life like.

We’ll be staying in a small apartment in the city center. After our visit to my cousin Della in Berlin, where we stayed in an apartment/hotel, I’m utterly sold on the concept. There’s something fab about being able to stock up a fridge with fruit, veggies, tea and real coffee -- about NOT having to take every last meal or cuppa out.

That and Jen and I occasionally enjoy being utterly anonymous. There’s something calming about traveling in our own little thought bubble -- not having to put social faces on if we’re not in the mood.

You may be thinking, "but Donna, you’re always such a social butterfly." All I can say to that is this...yup. I’m wired funny.

Mouse Totentanz – Bob's Story

Neither of them looks remorseful in the least, eh?

It’s only fair for me to present The Amazing Bob’s side of the Mouse Badminton story. He tells it in rhyme.

Donna in her T-shirt
   and I in mine own
Had just settled our brains
   for dreams of desserts
When all at once
   we felt the soft concussion
We knew what it was
   without much discussion
I turned on a lamp
   and we gazed at the quilt
As Coco, our cat, danced with a mouse
   (lacking all guilt)
The mouse was a cute one
   we had to admit
A Disney-like rodent
   who did not give a shit
If he gnawed on who gnawed on our cheese
   leaving behind some unpleasant disease
And so Coco continued her agile pursuit

When it headed for Donna, she let out a hoot —

When the cat had it cornered under a chair
We turned off the lamp
   and slept with no further care

But then in the morning

Jen's illustration of the events. It's like she was RIGHT there!

   I woke to Donna without visible cheer
Cleaning up chunks of rodent flesh
   left by our Coco as our souvenir.

You’ll note, he leaves out the stanza telling of the mousie badminton game in which they'd gleefully engaged.

Hmmm, funny that.

The second morning following this big fun, as I descended our stairs in search of coffee, coffee, coffee, I felt a squish and squelch under my heel. Oof, our girl’s been busy. You know, neither Bob nor I ever see mice or any evidence of them. My thought is that Coco, after we’ve gone to bed, gets all bored and begins dialing up Mouse Outcall services.

Note to self: MUST cancel Coco’s subscriptions to The Phoenix and Village Voice.

Mouse Totentanz

 Late Thursday night, just after The Amazing Bob and I slipped off to Dream Land, our fierce and adorable young tuxedo cat leaped onto my thighs, announcing her presence with authority.

When she does this she normally settles down, after a vigorous round of bathing, for a nap on my tummy. Not this night though. She was jumping, tumbling and jeté-ing as though she was trying out for the Bolshoi’s next production of The Firebird.

Rising out of my dream haze I began to wonder what was happening, what was up. And then I felt a much lighter weight, a significantly smaller set of paws land on me.

‘Bloody hell on toast points, Hunny,’ I says to the now awake TAB, ‘she’s got a mouse.’  TAB turned on the light and yep, sure enough, our little hit cat was doing an athletic pas de deux with Stuart Little.

They both stopped the show, briefly, when the lights came up but then plunged back into their Tom and Jerry-esque rondeau. Coco had Stuart cornered in the folds of our quilt right over my knees. In an attempt to flush him out, Bob fluffed and flounced the quilt. Yes, this drove our little grey friend out of hiding BUT he made a northward run for it -- toward my face.

It was at this point that I squealed like a 1950’s cartoon cliche housewife and clumsily sprung out of bed. Oh yeah, I am just SO proud of myself.

I now watched from the sidelines while Bob and our furry exterminator played...wait for it...BADMINTON with Stuart. Coco would catch and hurl him into the air towards Bob. Bob would hit him back. Possibly, probably, Bob was trying to get the little rodent away from himself though he DID have a very interesting smile on his mug all the while. Bob did -- not Stuart. Stuart wasn't amused in the least.

Finally, one of these jokers batted Stuart off the bed where he took refuge in one of my sneakers. Sigh. I figured he was taking a fear induced wiz right in my nice new cornflower blue New Balance.

Eventually our heroic champion nailed her quarry underneath my corner reading chair where she, given the following morning’s evidence, went all traditional and bit the tiny head off and chewed on tiny feet.

Somehow we’ve got to teach our fierce little princess warrior that she should avoid waging battles in our bed -- particularly when we’re trying to sleep.

Mornings in Valhalla

Top of three different mornings here at home.

Stray Crap Strut

That traffic circle by Mass General Hospital, you know the one I mean. It’s where Longfellow Bridge, Storrow Drive and Cambridge Street traffic meets and melds with commuters headed for Route 93, folks exiting Mass General and Mass Eye and Ear, as well as all the MBTA Riders going to and from the Charles Street Red Line stop. Yep, the traffic circle SO awful, they couldn’t even give it a name. Serious, I’ve googled it eight ways to Sunday and come up with nada.

It’s the only place in town I’ve ever been in a fender bender. Given my driving, that’s kind of amazing BUT this business was totally not even my fault. Astoundingly. Jerky Boy was in the right hand lane when he got the brill idea to take a left hand turn right in front of left hand lane dwelling me. Yup, he attempted to zip around me and ALMOST made it too. By the time I saw him attempting this dimwitted, death wish-esque feat, it was too late. I’d slammed on my brakes but, goddamn, I was driving an elderly Volvo Tank and there was only so much stoppage I could accomplish. I took a giant chunk out of his late model, bright, white, shiny and clean Sebring rear end. Oopsie!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Off the rails a bit BUT did you know there’s a car named the Dodge Nitro???? ‘the fuck?

Who’s their target audience? Daredevils? Those poor, heart attack prone sods who’ve always got to carry nitro with them so, what the hell, let’s get a car whose name will always remind them to tote those mini meds? The deeply uninformed who just don’t know what that word means or implies?

And what qualifications must you have to get on the Car Naming Team at Dodge? Lowest IQ in your class — any class at any time in your life? World class sick, twisted sense of humor? Carnival con man looking for a laugh at the expense of the rubes?

Maybe this just hits me different since The Amazing Bob carries nitro ever since his heart attack-a-thon a couple of years back. Did I tell y’all about that one already? Mebbe. The coolest thing is this — we’re a matched set now. Him with his 6 inch long chest scar (from quadruple bypass) and me with the equally long railroad track down my back from when Moby was set free.

OK, this one's kinda cool

You know it’s doom for any relationship to get matching scars. Oh wait, I mean tats. That’s it. And

while we’re on topic, never get your beau of the moment’s name indelibly stamped on your hide. Ever. Duh.

Oh, back on topic though — the reason I brought up the MGH traffic circle from the seventh ring of Dante’s Inferno  (maybe it’s the fifth  — can’t decide) is this.

I was headed for a few appointments (including one with my fabulous Beach Boy Neurotologist, Dr. McKenna) this past Tuesday. Traffic was crawling, thankfully. No really. I was sliding slowly through a crosswalk when I narrowly avoided bumping a pedestrian. I saw him in time to slam on the brakes and immediately started signing ‘sorry!’ At times like this, I forget that not everyone, incredibly, signs.

The dude stopped, had a funny look of surprise on his face and then smiled. Then he signed back something to me (I missed most of it) but finished with ‘have a nice day.’

Hah, what a sunny bit of Kismet! The crap day, scary traffic deal turns into a surprise, happy connection.

Antelope Blogging

Jen, Pirate Blogger, back in action -- right here, right NOW! I've taken control of the ship and we're headed for Valhalla, dammit, to watch...da, da, dunnnnn...BBQ Master Oni Flash!

I think we're gonna need a bigger grill...

Give Peace a Chance

Today everyone is writing and talking about THAT day, about 9/11/2001. It’s very much on my mind as well though I feel mixed emotions about saying/posting anything. The day has been fetishised and used as a cudgel against the ‘other’ -- other being liberal, Muslim, conservative, whatever.

I DO want to observe this day so I do it with memories told.

On this day, all those years ago, I was home sick -- Jen, Oni, Bob and I lived in Cambridge then. I wasn’t sick but home nonetheless, with what I thought was a strained back muscle. The docs said I had sciatica and this would pass, I'd be better, all on my own/no treatment needed, by winter. Eventually, after months of battle against the health care industry juggernaut, I was finally permitted to see the Mass General neurologists. They were the smart ones who found the leviathan, (we call him Moby -- just FYI), who was wrapped around my spinal cord from the first thoracic vertabra to the fourth.

In any case, I was sleeping away the pain in Bob’s big easy chair when he dashed out of his study to wake me. He turned on the TV news and we watched the madness. In silence. A quiet interrupted only by ‘this can’t be real.’ ‘oh, oh no,’ ‘this can’t be real.’

I kept trying to call my friend (like a cousin really -- our families have been tight since I was 3 and Lydia was 5) who worked near there. Eventually I reached her sister in Minneapolis who’d been able to make contact -- Lydia and husband Steve were OK.

Jen was at work this day. Astoundingly, the print shop didn’t shut immediately. Jen, Oni and I all worked in Boston proper -- directly across from the Prudential Center. The CEO had all supervisors stay in order to call every last customer to announce that we’d be shutting early. ‘the hell? I mean, ‘seriously dude -- WHAT were you thinking?!’ Jen remembers that one customer was actually majorly pissed. He had a conference that we were printing materials for. Em.....’dude, I think yur little show isn’t gonna play -- at least not today.’

We lived a half block behind the Middlesex Jail and Courthouse in East Cambridge back then. When Jen rounded the corner of Spring Street she saw a stream of happy prisoners (seriously -- it was like an unexpected school picnic day for them, she said)  being evacuated from the tall federal building. She remembers seeing a sea of cops all wielding huge ‘equalizers.’

Scary, scary-ass shit.

When she and Oni came home we all huddled, more or less speechless, around the TV, watching the same footage, over and over again, of the Towers falling.

Jen’s best bud from high school, Jana, was scheduled to fly to California for some big work conference that morning. She was meeting a co-worker at the airport -- they’d fly together. Celeste called Jana that morning to say she’d arrived Logan ahead of schedule and would be catching an earlier flight -- she’d see her in LA. That was the flight that went down in Pennsylvania.

Celeste could see what was happening -- that death wasn’t far off. She was able to call her mother from the air to say goodbye.

NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR, NO WAR!

Hyacinths and Biscuits

Poetry is what gets lost in translation. -- Robert Frost

The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese. -- Golbert K. Chesterton

I was reading the dictionary. I thought it was a poem about everything. -- Steven Wright

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance. -- Carl Sandburg

Joe Heller  

-- Kurt Vonnegut

True story, Word of Honor:

Joseph Heller, an important and funny writer

now dead,

and I were at a party given by a billionaire

on Shelter island.

the rest here

Summer of Black Widows

-- Sherman Alexie

The Summer of Black Widows

The spiders appeared suddenly
after that summer rainstorm.

Some people still insist the spiders fell with the rain


while others believe the spiders grew from the damp soil like weeds


with eight thin roots.

The elders knew the spiders


carried stories in their stomachs.

more here

Pass The Mic

My practically new (OK, 2 year old) hearing aid seems to be in the early stages of crap-out-itude. Double plus merde! I have, in case I haven’t told y’all this a thousand times before, the tiniest, wee smidgen of hearing on my right side (not a drop on the left).  

With the aid in I can experience sound in a general, very basic kind of a way.

Specifically, I can understand/grasp/process some very simple noises like an ambulance siren (handy as hell when I’m driving), loud motorcycles (sigh) and astoundingly, if it’s a real quiet day and the surf’s all tall and proud,  I can actually hear the beautiful music of the waves hitting the beach. Awesome, I’m tellin’ ya!

No music, no conversation (without lip reading) -- you could be yelling at me (and please don’t. that’s just rude AND you just look like a bully and an igit), Eddie Vedder could be two feet away from me, screaming Rockin’ In The Free World with Neil going all Crazy Horse on guitar -- all I’ll hear is thumps, thuds and metallic clattering.

The complex sounds of tune-age and speech are too much for my neurologically damaged brain to process. Yeah, way sucks BUT, with the hearing aid, I get enough noise to make lip-reading less onerous. This wee bit of sound, while I watch your mouth move, helps me to make better guesses and estimations, as to what you’re trying to communicate.

Seeing as how I’m like the polar opposite of the loner type, this has been a mega huge boon for me. I’ve come to really rely on this lovely bit of tech.

Need/MUST Have/WANT

Here’s the prob -- they’re expensive as all hell AND they have fairly short life-spans. I hear tell, (smirk), that there are some health plans which actually cover some if not all of the giant price tag.

what I'll end up with

Which brings us to Nummer zwei Problem -- I work for a small, independently owned printing company. My employer covers half the monthly bill for my insurance but the plan is a meager one at best. The health insurance industry only sells in bulk. That is, the fewer employees the higher the price tag. Small biz gets the royal shaft. Big corporations get all the breaks.

So, I’m stuck with the full freight for a new aid (if this one is unfixable) which’ll run, for the least expensive models, a minimum of $1300. Big joy.

I only mention it, warning to the Freunde and all, don’t go defending those bloodsucking, bone marrow snacking, zombiebrained (not to dis zombies, mind you), roundworm moralled, golf playing, maggot-hearted health insurance suits to me! You know, it might start me up on a rant or something.

And then I’d need a nap.

Beastie Boys -- Pass the Mic
Paul Simon -- Sound of Silence

I Often Dream of Trains

It was eleven years ago, on that sad, bleak, horrific day when America began bombing Iraq based on manipulated and otherwise faulty ‘intelligence’ that Jen and I landed in Amsterdam. Not only did neither of us vote for Bush the Buffoon and Cheney I’ve-never-met-a-man-I-wouldn’t-shoot-in-the-face we most def did NOT support the invasion.

At first I was all nervous. Would we, as Americans, be blamed, would we be castigated, held responsible for the aggression and insanity?

Happily, relievedly, no. Everyone we met was stunningly open and polite. Those who asked us how we felt about the invasion were inevitably subjected to my usual full metal anti-war, anti-oil industry, anti-Bush/Cheney Co. rant. I can be a little intense when I’m on a tear but our conversation buds didn't seem put off. Granted, they agreed with me.

In any case, this was a holiday for us so we did what all girls on the go do — hung out at The Alto Jazz Cafe, The Van Gogh Museum, took a stroll through the red light district and took part in a massive anti-war demonstration.

After a few days we got that itchy feet urge to move on — off to Centraal Station to see where to next.

PRAGUE! We’d take an overnight train and be there by morning. Fab! Getting plain seats would’ve been the least expensive way to go but I just could NOT feature trying to sleep sitting up all night. We booked the next option up — couchettes. Sleeper cars are the ideal but beyond our budget range.

A couchette car (from Wikipedia):

 is configured in daytime with a bench seat along each long side of the compartment. At an appropriate time in the journey, the attendant who travels in the car (or by agreement the passengers booked in the compartment) converts the compartment into its night-time configuration with two (1st class) or three (2nd class) bunks on each long side of the compartment, creating a total of four bunks in first class and six in second class.

Naturally, we were in second class — splurging here, NOT breaking the bank.

All our bunkmates were German — 3 college students and one 60ish gent. My first thought “yea, I can practice/attempt/build on my German conversation skills!” That was also the students’ thought. They won the toss so we jibber jabbered in English. Later I struggled through a brief chat, in German, with the older dude, who spoke no English. I’m always a little embarrassed about my weak ass language abilities. With good reason.

At the agreed upon hour, (how civilized — we discussed and decided as a group!), the train guy came in to convert the compartment into a bunk house. It was surprisingly comfortable and easy (a blast even) to share tight quarters with 4 strangers. Mind you, they were all very nice strangers.

The only other couchette/sleeper I’ve taken was out of Krakow, when my new Peace Corp pals poured my drunken soul onto the midnight train for Berlin. This was an ‘antique,’ a ‘vintage’ (yup, the scare quotes are needed here), coach with just me and one other person. She didn’t attempt chat, didn’t even say hello. Frankly, I wasn’t in any kind of shape to converse in English let alone German. Plus, after a week in Poland, the only Polish I knew was thank you (dziekuje) and yes (tak). Hey, that's doing good for me!

Current dream train trip — Berlin to Istanbul. I just HAVE to find a way to make that happen! Maybe I should begin by learning a little of the language, eh?

Robyn Hitchcock — I Often Dream of Trains

Friday Night Cloud Blogging

Brattleboro

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Clouds observed.

First Marsh, Hough's Neck