Mia Madre

“You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.”

~ C.S. Lewis

Lucia Fanelli Maderer took the early, commuter, flight for her new home tra gli angeli. She stepped onboard, without pain, while sleeping -- undoubtedly dreaming of all her children, grandkiddles, Chuck  -- the love of her life, and, maybe even, that Cape Cod stone cottage she’d always wanted.

Her life was a triumph of perseverance, determination, love and the pursuit of knowledge.

Lucy will be, already is, greatly missed. 

Shelter From The Storm

The scene before high tide and this RILLY doesn't convey the full wildness

So then, meine Freunde, Frankenstorm really is a going concern here. Waddya know?

So many times there’s just such a ton of The Sky Is Falling, The Sky Is Falling from the media, the local news and weather fetishists and it all turns out to be molto rumore per nulla. Well, not this time. We’ve got a bona fide grand scale tempest.

I’m just stunningly happy that I’m home, inside, warm and the power is back on after a relatively short stroll down the street for a bag of chips type outing.

Thing 1 and Thing 2

Jen and Oni (or Thing One and Thing Two as they’re now known) actually went into work which, thank the gods of reason, closed early.

Me, I stayed home to care for and comfort our herd of cat (Coco, Rocco, Gaston, Skitter, Rosie and Thelma...to say nothing of our possum Estelle, Rocky the raccoon and Flower, our skunk) and annoy The Amazing Bob™ with my continual questions and requests (‘when will the power be back on, huh? Huh?,’ ‘Can you make oatmeal butterscotch, spinach cookies when we get power back?,’ ‘where’s my fav yellow flashlight?,’ ‘I think I should go down to the seawall and take pics -- wanna come with?,’ ‘think I shouldn’t go for that trike ride right now?’ OK, that last question was just to get his goat since all my other ones had thoroughly primed him for a good snit. The poor man’s a saint, I’m tellin’ ya!)

Tomorrow, if the Storm Gods decide to take a day or 6 off, I’ll make flight plans for my wonderful niece Helen and I. We’ll fly into Pittsburgh, her from Dallas and me from Boston. We’ll then make the long drive to the small town where my folks, her grandparents, live.

It seems fitting that my mother would move toward making her final curtain call during The Storm of the Century™. Her and Vati always did have a dramatic flare in addition to that giant Love to End All Loves thingie. They’d have made Burton and Taylor weep with envy,

Shelter From The Storm -- Bob Dylan

That's What I Want

The best things in life are free
But you can give them to the birds and bees
I need Buffy (that's what I want)

Apologies, sorta, kinda, not really, to Barrett Strong.

You know what I'd like? That’s right, I’ll tell you what I’d like! A superhero movie or TV show that features female superheroes who don't look like they just stepped out of a JC Penny/Sears/Target catalog.

You know the type, nice enough looking yet bland, ultra thin and not ethnic in any way shape or form (and don't let that red/black dye job fool you). They don't look like me or anybody I've ever known. They're like Cream of Wheat with lipstick and mascara.

Mind you, it truly is tremendous² that there actually are more female superhero characters on TV now but, wouldn’t it be way awesome if more of them looked real?

 Jen, Oni and I just watched an episode of Birds of Prey.

The Batman legend takes an unexpected turn when the Caped Crusader vanishes from the crime-ridden city of New Gotham and his legacy is taken over by a trio of beautiful and relentless heroines - the Birds of Prey. Barbara Gordon started out as Batman's protege, Batgirl, but an attack by The Joker left her confined to a wheelchair. Reinventing herself as Oracle, she takes under her wing Helena Kyle, the secret daughter of Batman and Catwoman, who quickly grows into the fierce and beautiful "Huntress," and Dinah, a teenage runaway who is drawn to the city by meta-human visions. With the help of the only honest cop in New Gotham, Detective Jesse Reese, the Birds of Prey fight their first battle against a mysterious madwoman who is bent on their destruction.

Mega brill premise but ChristAlmightyOnARitzCracker, could we please have some actresses who look more than just vaguely human? Hell, my childhood Barbie dolls looked more genuinely animate!

In my new current, alternate reality Buffy is still on — the show is now all about her and her ever growing band of Slayerettes saving the world. The old show featured female superheroes AND supervillians plus a lot of the actresses actually looked like human beings too. Molto fab!

On Season 7, when Buffy was recruiting baby slayers, all the newbies were attractive but most had quirks — in looks and personality. Amongst the  Slayerettes, Amanda had a horse-ishly long face, Molly and Chao-Ahn were chubby cheeked, not rail thin and just a touch cranky. And, like real teenage girls, they were all socially awkward. Humans!

On the Buffy spin off, Angel, there was the astoundingly gorgeous, drool inspiring Cordelia Chase but there was also Fred — scary scrawny, plain, geeky and just generally a mass of insecurities.
HUMAN!

Until she was transformed into the awesome demon/goddess Ilyria. Oh yeah, with Fred as Ilyria, that show should have gone on and on and on.

Joss Whedon, where are you now!

I’d probably know the answer to that and have a new I’m-just-so-damned-addicted-to-this-show if I had a television. No, no, no this isn’t me being all oh-TV-is-the-death-of-art elitism. Goodness no. Cable costs money. The Amazing Bob and I decided not to spend our dough that way.

Can’t say we really miss it except, possibly, in baseball season.

Frankenstorm!!!

Edgewater Beach -- the calm before the Frankenstorm

We’re due for a ‘Frankenstorm,’ as everyone from Scientific American to Fox News (NO linky for them!) have been calling it.

Yep, another Storm of the Century!!!! (a term once more of less true, now hyperbole) is due our way by Tuesday.

A fabola analogy from Climate guy Dr. Gerald Meehl:

Think of it like this Dr. Meehl said: "Barry Bonds had a certain average level of home run production in his baseball career before he started allegedly taking steroids.  Once he started taking performance enhancers, his home run production increased, and he set the single season record for home runs in 2001. Now he holds the all-time record for the most home runs.  If we watched Bonds hit any one of these home runs, would we be able to say that it was directly caused by his steroid use? “No, that’s impossible. But the odds of him hitting one are much higher; his base state has changed.”

So climate change has caused a similar shift of the odds in the atmosphere that will cause more extreme events to occur than if no such alteration existed.  But all of this isn’t to say  that extreme events occur only because of climate change.  Climate change is increasing the frequency and intensity of extreme events, not their presence in the first place."

So then, every year or three instead of once in a hundred years. This is gonna stress our organic rocket ship, earth, and its hairless monkey passengers (that'd be us, tx) right the fuck out.

Read more at The Green Miles -- he’s got some fine pieces up on this. Of course.

What do we, the citizens of Valhalla by the Sea do during mega storms with the inevitable power outages?

During last year’s winter storm, when many areas lost power for more than a week, we were lucky to only be without for a few days.

I’ve probably already mentioned that Jen and Oni live next door to us -- our houses connected via subterranean passageway (WAY cool, eh!). There was no heat or electricity and no reports or estimations as to when we’d have them back. We all wore layer upon layer  -- sweaters, our Polertec vests, gloves, scarves and even hats as it quickly became chilly inside our humble seaside homes.

Jen and Oni have an electric stove -- Bob and I, gas. Our stovetop worked but not the oven. What we all did each evening for dinner was gather in our kitchen, heat up soup and/or our varied leftovers for a magnificent smörgåsbord.

We played Scrabble by candlelight and then retired to our respective down comforter wrapped, toasty beds. There, mega thanks to Jen and Oni’s otherwise curious camping habit, we had those awesome little headlamps, we were able to read, as is the evening habit for us all.

So, we’re prepared now for this year’s Frankenstorm effects. We have batteries, candles, much soup, there will be reheatable leftovers, I’ve got Sherman Alexie’s latest Blasphemy: New and Selected Stories, as well as Christopher Moore’s, Sacre Bleu.

Yeah sure, it all sounds cozy FOR A DAY. Here’s hoping that our tremendous gov, Deval Patrick’s, words to the utility companies have been well heeded.

Friday Heaven Blogging

This morning's view, on Hough's Neck, as we left for work.

On Wollaston Beach

The post work view -- my Moscow Mule

Talk, Talk, Talk

I’m just ALL about the random horseshit lately. OR, as somebody from King Crimson wrote, lo these 31 years ago (31? ‘the fuck!!!), ‘I repeat myself when I’m distressed, I repeat myself when I’m distressed.’

Talk, talk, it's only talk
Debates, discussions
These are words with a D this time
Dialogue, dualogue, diatribe,
Dissention, declamation
Double talk, double talk

Mia madre's not doing well. She's lookin' to board the VIP fast train to Casa de Los Angeles. I am, to say the very least, verklempt.

So then -- onward with the talk, talk, talk, eh?

The joint near work where Jen and I used to meet, prior to going all Homeward Bound and shit -- The Meat Palace, more commonly known, particularly amongst cooked cow eaters and owners of said Carnivore Emporium, as The Stockyard -- is showing signs of life. Evidence of of reemergence from the closed-for-renovations-but-really-we're-just-hoping-someone’s-POSSIBLY-buying-us and-things’ll-change-but-who-knows-and-we-just-really-RILLY-hope-we-reopen-soon-‘cause-the-waitresses-all-need -to-pay-their-rent-and-tuition and shit.

Funny timing since, in a few short weeks, I won’t be working in this end of town anymore. Yep, I gave notice. That’s another story for another time though.

For now, one of my few thoughts is that The Meat Palace will re-open as Vegan Heaven (that’s the way much of this end of town, HAPPILY, has been moving, thenkew veddy much) and I’ll miss it! There will be portobello fajitas, quinoa vegetable stew, spinach and artichoke dip and...AND, as one can only expect and happily anticipate, cruelty free martinis.

 Of course.

 Here’s the thing, once you cross that bridge, any of ‘em, into South Boston and points farther south, you can kiss readily available vegetarian options bye-bye. Oh suresure, you can get a cheese pizza and, possibly, spaghetti in a tomato NO meat sauce but don’t get your hopes up for more. Hell and damnation, even, under the veggie options on the Chinese restaurant menus down here, vegetarian fried rice comes WITH PORK.

Em....dudes...pigs are mammals. Mammals aren’t generally thought of as vegetables. OK granted, I can sure come up with a few mammals who seem to have the brain power of a stalk of asparagus -- Scott Brown, Mitt Romney -- yeah, you betcha I’m lookin’ at you!

Not to dis asparagus, mind you.

Down my way, if I want a dining experience that’s full blown veggie, no fish, NO pork, it’s gonna be Indian.

My new fav is right in Quincy Center. The Sher-A-Punjab has a fine, low light, awesome atmosphere AND a full bar. It’s now possible to get a post work martini and a tasty snack of vegetable pakoras too! My other Quincy fav is The Punjab Cafe. Ultra YUM.

So then, what I’ll miss about working in Boston? Restaurant options. Mind you, I live 15 miles south of the city AND there’s a T stop just up the street so...so.. yeah, I’ll quit bitching ANY minute now!

I Get the News I Need on the Weather Report

Text Messages from the Damned -- IMs During a Rather Difficult Day in the Pixel Mines

me:  we need to take a vaca from our life

Jen:  starting NOW

me:  Starting right after we got back from Iceland. Bob, Oni and our herd of cat should have come over. We could all live at the Blue Lagoon with occasional trips into Reykjavik for the odd epic novel from Eymundsson's.

Jen:  Ohhhhh, beautiful idea!!!!  Yeh, the occasional trip for books and people watching!

An aside -- having nekked and near nekked folks floating about us in the Lagoon all day isn’t enough? There's just no satisfying some people. Hmmmmph!

me:  they'd have to deliver gourmet wasabi peas out to us in the lagoon along with some pinot noir.

peas and lava

 Jen:  yeh, and we'll smear 'em all over our face and douse our hair with the vino cuz it's all healthy and shit.

 me:  eggzactly!

 Jen:  we, obviously, are made of Perma-Spa People stuff. We are spa professionals!

 me:  pass the pumice stone and seaweed moisturizer plz. oh and don't bogart that joint, bitch.

Jen:  just as soon as I wash off this full body mud rub and pound another mineral water, ho.

me:  and order up anotha round of peas and pinot noir while yur up, twatzilla

Our conversations always devolve/evolve (depends on your perspective, eh) like this.
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The Oldest Established (Permanent Floating Post Work Drinkie In Quincy) (with mega apologies to Frank Loesser)

It's the oldest established permanent floating post work drinkie In Quinzy.
Where's the action? Where's the martini?
Gotta have the grog or we'll die from shame.
It's the oldest established permanent floating Post Work Drinkie In Quinzy

Jen and I like to stop for one on our way home.  We disentangle from the pretzeling of the day, we kvetch, we release our dreary worn out spirits and then we come home, more human, to our much loved cats and menfolk.

What we’ve found, since moving to Quincy, is that, no matter where we go, even if it’s just once or twice, we see many of the same faces. Apparently this habit, this migratory pub custom, as well as our tastes in said adult bev emporiums, is the done thing. I LOVE this! There’s probably a club somewhere (with dues!) and this isn’t all kismet and happy coincidence. It’s Wednesday so this is Imperial Terrace evening. Tuesday is Frog and Peach and Thursday we hit Louis. Of course.

Eh, I’m going with the kismet thing.
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While at the Imperial Terrace the news was playing. Sound off, no closed captioning. Naturally we found the need to narrate.

There was a pic, a series of shots, of a big dog sitting on top of a big two car garage. The dog is just sitting, then standing and focusing seriously on...on what? Probably the lame ass camera crew who are so desperate for a puff piece, they probably put Bowser up there themselves.

So then, there’s no real, honest to Kali news going on? This is a fairly large urban area and we get dog on roof stories?

Maybe this is why I woke at 1 AM with this tune playing on the internal juke box?
The Only Living Boy In New York -- Paul Simon

Take This Waltz

Poetry is spoken dance.

My new ultra fav poet (after Sherman Alexie -- duh!) is Orlando White.
Check out the website -- whoever did his front page, his doorway to the rest of the site, is a total design god/goddess.

You can read some of his work here at From the Fishouse.

Circle Shape,  a favorite of mine, is from Bone Light (Red Hen Press, 2009).

Another one Ars Poetica first appeared in To Topos Poetry International, Fall 2006.

from Orlando White's website:

Orlando White is the author of Bone Light (Red Hen Press, 2009). Originally from Tólikan, Arizona, he is Diné of the Naaneesht’ézhi Tábaahí and born for the Naakai Diné’e.  He holds a BFA from the Institute of American Indian Arts and an MFA from Brown University.

His poems have appeared in The Kenyon Review, Omnidawn Poetry Feature Blog, Salt Hill Journal, Sentence: A Journal of Prose Poetics, American Indian Culture And Research Journal, Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics, and elsewhere. His poetry has been anthologized in Sing: Poetry from the Indigenous Americas and translated into Spanish in In That Round Nation of Blood: An Anthology of Contemporary Indigenous Poetry.

He is a recipient of a Truman Capote Creative Writing Fellowship and a Lannan Foundation Residency. He has taught at The Art Center Design College, Brown University, and the Institute of American Indian Arts. Currently, he teaches at Diné College and lives in Tsaile, Arizona.

I Want To Ride My Tricycle, Tricycle, Tricycle

More beauty

Morning ride beauty

Back in late August I posted the good news, the results from my annual Brain Pit Stop -- instead of refueling and tire changes I get MRIs, audiograms for the deaf (big fun. like taking a calc test when you’re only able to do basic addition) and visits with my brain minders Dr. Plotkin (neurologist) and Dr. McKenna (Neurotologist).

While seeing Dr. Plotkin we talked about the big, hairy need to reduce my robust, zaftig, voluptuous even, stress levels.

As I wrote then, exercise is the key, the big winner. Antidepressants don’t work for me. I’ve tried a wide variety and they all just leave me with sundry levels of enervation. Aerobic activity, a daily drill, getting off my fat arse and moving about brings up my moods/evens them out, clears my nasty ass sinuses and, funny this, gives me MORE energy.

We have a treadmill but, ya know, that’s not exactly fun. It’s like taking a dose of not totally vile but still more brussel sprouty than tiramisu-like, medicine.

Yep, clearly I want everything. Exercise should be fun. Dr. P recommended a recumbent trike. Exercise yes but fun. I was mega psyched and began researching cost and where to buy.

I found the same sad news everywhere I looked -- these wondrous hoopla machines, these implements of stress reduction start, START, in the $800 - $1000 territory and go up into the 5G range. I went by a few local bike shops figuring, if I’m gonna make this kind of major investment, I need to test drive one or three. I got the same answer at every store -- they don’t keep recumbent trikes in stock since they’re so very expensive and not huge sellers to boot. All offered to order me one. All I could do was snort and let them know that, if I can’t test ride, I’m not parting with those big buckos.

I was feeling all sad, blue and bummed when I got the sudden, way brill inspiration (yes, it was like a lightening bolt hitting me) to look for used trikes on Craig’s List and eBay. People are forever buying exercise equipment that they use for a month before it becomes a coat rack or a dirty clothes tree.

I found one, right off, on eBay for $300. I still would have liked to test ride BUT, for $300, I could take the chance. A week later my wheels arrived and, mega sigh, it was a child’s trike.

Much self-berating followed -- ‘of course it was so much less expensive -- it’s a child size! God, I’m an imbecile!’ To be fair to myself (which I do on the stray, odd occasion) the listing was in with a bunch of adult trikes and didn’t say anywhere that it was kid size. Of course, neither did the listing specify ‘adult.’

In any case, Jen calmed me down with this very smart idea -- email the company, see if they make an adult version and will let you exchange. Wow and DUH, TOO easy!

My trike! Clearly I need to fly a pirate flag off this baby.

And it was. I’d never dealt with sellers on eBay before and had just assumed it would be horribly difficult and disappointing. Nope. The folks at Fuhua Sports in Southern Cal were awesome. They responded to my emails quickly, professionally and warmly. My bright orange adult trike was here within two weeks.

Mein Gott, this is a total blast and a half! Except for the fact that my legs are doing a splendid Jello impression after the rides, this doesn’t feel like exercise at all. Seriously, I feel like I’m cheating. Yesterday morning I collapsed on the bed post ride and announced to The Amazing Bob, ‘god, that was MAGNIFICENT!’

Recumbent bikes and trikes are still unusual in these parts so I get loads of grins and waves as I speed down our Hough’s Neck streets. I feel like a one woman happy parade.

Distractions and Diversions

When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me,
 speaking words of wisdom, let it be.


And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me,
 speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
-- Paul McCartney

Well no -- not so much for me anyway. Humor, family (Bob, Jen, Oni, Ann and Helen specifically) painting and literature give me comfort, are the balm for me in times of trouble -- not Mary. We all get it, comfort, where we can.

Mi madre’s in her last days now. What this means is this -- right now I’m writing about/posting about diversions, distractions, flotsam and jetsam.

Everything happens/is experienced in it’s own time. Too bad we can’t schedule sorrow. ‘Oh, sorry, I can’t meet at 4 tomorrow -- I’ve slotted feeling-sad-about-my-mother’s-declining-health/imminent-death into that hour. How’s 5 for you -- possibly 6? Never? Is that good?'

So then, join me in my digressions, bitte sehr!

Loved ice cream and miss it horribly now that dairy and I aren’t, really, on speaking terms anymore. What’s an ice cream lover to do? Well, there’s a new joint near where I work in Brighton, Massachusetts called FoMu (get it? Faux Moo...get it?) I haven’t been in yet but will soon. They have little sandwich boards in front which advertise their specials. On one day last week it showed Pumpkin (AWESOME!), Black Raspberry (mmmmmmm) and Avocado (MUST try!). Lavender too. Em...lavender ice cream?

Dunno about this. The scent’s fine for a sachet -- a satin wrapped smellgood bundle to stick in the underwear drawer -- but as an ice cream flavor? Huh. I’d try it but that’s not saying much -- it’s ice cream for fuck’s sake!

Apart from this. I SO need to stop into this joint.
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Ever since being introduced to it by chums Lydia and Steve in NYC  (at Cafe Minghala?) I LOVE Burmese food. There’s a fabulous place down the street from work too. It’s called YoMa. There’s no liquor license BUT, you can bring in your own bottle of wine (which we did). The food’s lighter than Chinese and tastier than Thai or Vietnamese -- the Chinese, Thai and Vietnamese that I’ve had, that is.

‘Burmese cuisine includes dishes from various regions of the Southeast Asian country of Burma (now officially known as Myanmar). Owing to the geographic location of Myanmar, Burmese cuisine has been influenced by China, India and Thailand. The diversity of Myanmar's cuisine has also been contributed to by the myriad of local ethnic minorities.’

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I don’t have a Twitter account but I like to tune in to various folks account just because the one liners are SO entertaining. Below is some recent fun and horror:

Death Star PR ‏@DeathStarPR

If your 5-point plan doesn’t involve a Clone Army, building a Death Star and taking over the galaxy, you're wasting everyone’s time.
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Tom Hilton ‏@TVHilton

After the 1st debate, unmarried women moved toward Romney. He repaid them by blaming them for gun violence. #debate
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kimmy @aRealLiveGhost

your body is a ghost factory that takes one lifetime to produce a ghost
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Marty Beckerman ‏@martybeckerman

"I can't believe Dinesh D’Souza cheated on his wife — he seemed like such a nice guy when he defended the Crusades and Spanish Inquisition."
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Sherman Alexie ‏@Sherman_Alexie

Conservatives are so scared of everything. Comes from being afraid of their mean-ass daddys

1h  Michael Foy ‏@michaeljfoy

@Sherman_Alexie In that case, Lt. #Worf must have been a conservative. :-!

1h  Gatfish ‏@Gatfishing

@Sherman_Alexie and they idealized their cowed yet faithful mothers, Thereby placing that ideal submissive stance upon all women.
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Mallory Ortberg @mallelis

A RAISIN IS A PRETTY FUCKED UP THING TO DO TO A GRAPE
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Sherman Alexie ‏@Sherman_Alexie

Wine tasting: such an elegant way to be alcoholic.
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bandit @UtilityLimb

i'm not racist, but, *cranes neck to see if anyone's around. keeps craning. head unscrews entirely. out of the hole pour jewels & mysteries*
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And then we have some, non-Tweet wild, interesting yet creepy shit: Monosアーカイブ
These are photographs of images created, directly on skin, using only acrylic paints by Chooo-San, aged 19, a first year student at Musashino Art Universityin Tokyo, Japan.

Sunrise, Sunset

Swiftly flow the days
Seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers
Blossoming even as we gaze



Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly fly the years
One season following another
Laden with happiness and tears


Happy Friday, all!

Food of the Gods

There is nothing better for a man, than that he should eat and drink, and that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labor. This also I saw, that it was from the hand of God.

Ecclesiastes 2:24

When I first traveled on my own, I couldn’t afford to eat out so I went the cheese and bread route. Hell, I often did that while NOT traveling. I mean, bread and cheese -- that's heaven, amiright?

Now, with pounds to lose, hot flashes to duck and muscles to tone, bread and cheese are, basically, just the stuff of dreams and fantasy. Yeah, I’m living MAJORLY huge when I have a small wedge of Iggy’s Dark Rye with a schmear of Fat Toad Farm’s Sundried Tomato and Basil Chevre on top. This is enjoyed, naturally, with a lovely glass of Chianti.

Jesus, I’m drooling at the very idea.

I live in an urban area so, if I’m going to go big with the reveling-in-all-the-glorious-gustatory-pleasures-on-this plane-of-existence thing, boyhowdy I’ve got some awesome choices. Yes I do!

The folks in Junction City, Arkansas or Loco Hills, New Mexico or Hooversville, Pennsylvania? Not so much.

This, THIS is why there’s a surge in mass marketed Artisanal cheeses, Artisan breads and Craft chocolate. Right?

The, seemingly ubiquitous, artisan/artisanal/craft labels are often a vile marketing scam though.

From the article Mass-Market Artisans By Nancy Friedman:

In September, Domino's Pizza — the second-largest pizza chain in the United States, with annual revenue approaching $1.5 billion — introduced "Artisan Pizzas" to its 5,000 stores nationwide. Are you picturing skilled workers up to their elbows in whole-grain flour and locally sourced tomatoes, lovingly patting each pie into a charmingly irregular shape? Well, forget about it. "We're Not Artisans," reads the coy banner on the Domino's home page. "But This Might Just Convince You We Are." The text on the Artisan Pizza box dispels any lingering misconceptions: "We don't wear black berets, cook with wood-fired ovens, or apprentice with the masters in Italy." 

So if no one at Domino is an artisan, what is Artisan Pizza? For that matter, what does "artisan" signify in Artisan Style tortillas (recently introduced by Mission), Tostitos Artisan Recipes chips (from snack giant Frito-Lay), Clarks Artisan (mass-produced shoes for women), Artisan Breakfast Sandwiches (from Starbucks), and Campbell's Artisan (a line of soup stocks for large institutional kitchens)? How to make sense of "artisan fast food," which is what Panera Bread, with 1,500 bakery-cafés in North America, calls its niche?

..................................................

The power of suggestion is also the key ingredient in Domino's Artisan Pizzas. While they may not involve the labor of artisans, they kinda-sorta look as though they could. The new pizzas are irregularly rectangular rather than perfectly round, and they're topped with slightly fancier ingredients than standard Domino's pizza: spinach, roasted vegetables, "Tuscan salami." And each box is signed by the employee responsible for the contents. Call it artisanship or artifice, it's been a crafty move on Domino's part: the company's sales, profits, and stock price all rose in the third quarter, and the CEO recently said he's "certainly optimistic" about the outlook for Artisan Pizzas. 

read the rest of the article -- it’s worth it.
 I'm intensely wary when I see these words -- 'gourmet', 'artisan', 'craft.' At the same time, if the overall quality of food is going up, it’s not completely bad, I suppose.

Meanwhile, back in Reykjavik, Jen and I found what can only be described as inspirational, artisanal wasabi peas. Seriously, for us wasabi pea lovers, this was akin to locating the Holy Grail, it’s filled with Pietrantonj Montepulciano D'Abruzzo (2007, ‘natch) and the waiter brings a plate of Lazy Lady Farm's cheddar and a loaf of When Pigs Fly Baby Spinach, Onion & Garlic Ciabatta too.

droooooooool

Is This The Real Life?

On our way home

The commute kills us in fragments, in larger increments every day. Just one year ago, the 17 mile journey from Hough’s Neck to, near-ish, Brighton Center, took 40 minutes generally. That was bad enough. Now, those very same 17 miles take upwards of an hour -- often more.

Leaving home at low tide dawn

Still Life With Cookie Monste

Luckily I do the commute with Jen and we are fabulously kindred spirits. That and I now have an iPad -- when we’re at yet another standstill, I break it out, fire up the internet and read her posts by the always trenchant and bitingly funny Charles Pierce, TBogg -- the man we all wish was our bold, stiletto witted high school BFF, defending us against the bullying jocks and cheerleader wannabes,  as well as No More Mister Nice Blog, our smartest friend, and John Cole, who we just love madly, of Balloon Juice.

Political junky? What? Who me?

Given all the stress, the pressure Jen and I are under lately -- elderly parents behaving badly, jobs which aren’t always as smooth and fulfilling as we’d like, cats who seem to have all gone on hunger strike -- suddenly no longer caring for the styles and flavors of Fancy Feast they’ve previously been mad for (there are 6 cats between the two houses, which includes 2 feral beasties, yet their behavior is completely in sync. I swear they have union meetings down in the basement every night. OK, I support unions so I guess this isn’t a bad thing but, you’d think anyway, the leaders would have submitted their demands pre-strike!) and then there’s that business of it, all of a sudden, getting dark so early in the evening and light so much later in the AM.

We were not consulted and we are most certainly NOT amused.

Bohemian Rhapsody -- Queen

Fathers

Bob’s father was in his early 70s when he shot his brains out in the basement of their Great American Dream home -- the Fairhaven, Massachusetts house that they'd, Bob's mother and father both, scrimped and saved years for.

Just prior to this, his father, a lifelong, pro level alky, had been in the hospital awaiting artery reaming type surgery. Before the docs could operate they needed to detox him. This turned out to be the larger shock to his system.

At some point, while freshly, shockingly sober, he remarked to Bob, in all seriousness, ‘I’ve been depressed all my life. Who knew?’

When he came home from hospital he began a three day bender. During that drunken, sodden time he went out and bought gun.....while stunningly soused. Some dimwitted, fucktarded, shitheeled, greedheaded, tiny brained, motherfucker sold him a gun while the man was clearly, roilingly, word slurringly drunk!

He came home, went down to the cellar, and coated the walls with his brain-matter.

Bob’s brothers were both home at the time. Kenny, the younger, went down to investigate the loud pop from below -- he never fully emerged.

Dead in a Basement -- Bob Grant

He died in his basement, surrounded by shitkicker tapes and rusted tools. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; if the liquor don’t get you, then the pistol must. His laugh atrophied with disuse, his soul squeezed with abuse by the silence he carried like a black hole which sucked the sound from around him and froze it. His was the silence at the bottom of the bottle; silence which shattered in explosive red splatter. He had never learned to trust. He slammed the final door and I wandered around like a man with a broken flashlight in the heart of disaster.

-- Nov 1985 Boston

Kerouac Night

Poetry and quotes

and maybe they can be the same thing.

From On The Road
Jack Kerouac

They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!" ________________________________________________________________

All of life is a foreign country.

_________________________________________

Bus East

Society has good intentions Bureaucracy is like a friend

5 years ago - other furies other losses -

America's 

trying to control the uncontrollable Forest fires, Vice



The essential smile In the essential sleep Of the children Of the essential mind



I'm 

all thru playing the American 

Now I'm going to live a good quiet life



The

world should be built for foot walkers



Oily 

rivers Of spiney Nevady



I 

am Jake Cake 

Rake 

Write like Blake



The rest at the link. Go. Read. Read!
__________________________________________________________________

Maybe that's what life is... a wink of the eye and winking stars.

Holiday Celebrate

Yeah, I realize it’s early but I’ve been reminded of holiday traditions via Miss Conduct in today’s Boston Globe Magazine section. A guy, presumably a guy -- unfair as that assumption is -- wants to get out of spending Christmas with his new girlfriend’s family. (Unfortunately it’s behind a pay wall so I can’t link to it.)

Mein gott, I fully grok his position! He doesn’t want to offend or hurt his squeeze BUT he doesn’t want to fly during the crazy busy, most expensive travel time of the year AND he doesn’t want to spend a day/weekend/week of his very precious vaca time working. Honestly now, being all nicey, nice, diplomatic super social sweetie for even a day is hard fucking work let alone a full weekend. That's hard with your own family let alone with someone else's.

Luckily, I’ve never had this problem really. My own parents understood that holiday travel was just too hard on their mega claustrophobic, crowd averse second child. Then, my first adult big time serious beau was Jewish. I joined him for a bit of Hanukah celebration at his folks down in Fort Lauderdale (beach in winter -- oh fuck yeah, I’m there!) which, low key as it was, was too much for me.

When The Amazing Bob and I started celebrating holidays together -- well, we were of spectacularly like minds anyway so negotiations were sublimely simple. It was all about planning what WE thought would make a pleasant, special day. For Thanksgiving -- yeah, we make some turkey, a whole mess ‘o’ veggies, mashed sweet potatoes and a zillion pies. That one’s all traditional but we’re home by ourselves and enjoy the quiet. Jen’s family now celebrates over at her sister Erin’s house, just next door. We go over and say a post meal hello to all but that’s the extent of our social responsibilities.

Christmas? I was raised Catholic with too many years of parochial school. Bob wasn’t raised with church going but Christian holidays were observed in his parent’s house. The observance included, in both childhood homes, the biggest pitched battles between our mothers and fathers of the year. Epic fights, they were. It was as though this was their big tradition -- planned for months, possibly rehearsed, in advance of the actual day.

What did our parents choose to war over on Christmas Day? Money (spent and not), the food’s preparation, the appropriateness of a gift for child X or Y, little green men from Alpha Centauri visiting just as we were sitting down to eat. WHO invited them and where will they sit!!!?

Okay, not so much on that last bit but you get the idea.

Bob and I don’t go wild on the gift front. The whole consumer frenzy turns us both off. Having said that though, neither of us will turn down the odd inexpensive bijou. Of course! What else do we do? We, naturally, get a bunch of fun movies to watch and send out for Chinese food. Crab Rangoons,,,mmmmmmm!

We both know and accept that life means change -- nothing stays in one place for long. We’re totally down with our man Hereclitus’ words of wisdom:

'There is nothing permanent except change.' 

'No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.'

The day, however, is about our time -- spent and enjoyed together. That’s our iron clad tradition.

65 William Street and More

Tough guys on the gritty streets of New Bedford

The Amazing Bob and I drove down to New Bedford, Massachusetts today (and no, we did NOT get across the river to Fall River and the Lizzie Borden B&B and Museum. Clearly an oversight to be corrected on next visit?). It's The Green Miles’ new home. He and his fab girlfriend Bethanie live a couple of blocks from an arty area, right downtown. Who knew? New Bedford has tremendous artists AND  some awesome galleries.

The joint that grabbed me most, that made me want to move in and have a nice hot cuppa Lapsong Souchong while interviewing every last one of their artists was Gallery 65 on William.

Just a few of their amazing artists:

Kim Barry of Clay Trout Pottery
Her tiles would make a stunning border pattern in a kitchen, a bath or dining room. Hell, they'd make any room transcendent!

Lori Bradley, Ceramics, Prints and more -- her Floating Forest Prints and Animal Vases put the magical stories of Neil Gaiman in mind.

Pat Warwick’s tiles were a lot of fun too.

Glass artist Paula Williams Kochanek’s pieces emit some kind of a serious tractor beam. I really wanted to touch, hold and discuss weighty issues (like what was Lewis Carroll. REALLY talking about with his Jabberwocky writing...hmmmmm?) with every last one of the beads, bowls, plates and panels. (Hey, Art can SO be all deep on the conversational front and they’re ace listeners too. Except possibly The Execution of Maxmillion but you can understand that...right? Right?!)

The small treasure boxes made by Carol Way Wood of Lucky Bunny Graphics really slayed me. The web image really doesn’t do them justice. Check out her illustrations  to get a better sense of how wondrous these boxes are. Just imagine giving a gift to a loved one -- wrapped up in deep burgundy gloss paper with a gold raw silk ribbon. He/she rips open the package to find the treasure box. After exploring it's surfaces, oohing and ahing over the embedded print the container is opened to reveal the gift within a gift. Beauty within beauty. She also has a line of greeting cards.

We had lunch at Freestones City Grill -- great food (I had the grilled salmon salad and it was def fab!), calming dark wood, high ceilings and real, honest to god art on every wall. For that matter, even the lamps were works of art. GOT to go back!

Like A Rolling Stone

morning

As much as I love to travel it is unsurpassably fabulous to be home.

late blooming sunflowers

early autumn evening

Like A Rolling Stone -- Jimi Hendrix

Beyond The Sea

Lava Fields on the approach to the lagoon

I've all the energy of a squid three weeks off it's levoxyl (little known fact' -- squid are just lethargic, oily masses of flesh when they're off their thyroid meds. True fact!!! No, fer reals and everything!).

Before I head up to the boudoir de paix et réserve, where sleepy cats (possibly that's redundant) lurk and this week's novel, (This Is Your Captain Speaking by Jonathan Methven -- that's seriously his last name, poor bastid), awaits, I want to show you what Jen and I did on the way from Reykjavik to the airport.

More lava -- WILD!!!

a small section of heaven

The Blue Lagoon -- I'd never been to a spa before and, boyhowdy, do I want to go back! Our flight home to Boston didn't leave until 5 P.M. so we had time to stop in for a swim and soak in the huge geothermal pool. Conveniently, it's located between Reykjavik and the airport.

The air temp was about 45 degrees Farenheit, the mineral rich water temp was around 100 and it was HEAVEN! We floated, we did a little sidestroke, a bit of butterfly and dog paddle and then we sat. We became supremely content, happy vegetables. (I was an eggplant and Jen, an asparagus stalk. of course).

They've got a hotel there too. Just imagine -- a weekend away from it all. Massages, restorative, healing water, crazy ragged landscape, sushi and Pinot Noir for 2 solid days.

I'm quite sure my bones would melt but they'd enjoy the process. Must start saving for Bone Melt Weekend now!

Blue Lagoon Live Webcam here (and how cool is that!?)

National Geographic vid on the joint here.

Talk, Talk, Talk

Effective communication doesn’t need to be verbal. This fab Chinese proverb comes to mind:

"Tell me and I'll forget; show me and I may remember; involve me and I'll understand.”

WAY true and I wish I followed that path more back in my training days.

What I’ve got in my shallow brain pan is a whole ‘nother kind of communication. The sort had between BFFs after a long, strenuous day of slogging through 70 mile an hour winds. All while attempting to view and appreciate various bits of Mother Nature's astounding craft work. Like, Gullfloss -- the waterfall who gives Niagara a wee complex, Strokkur -- the geyser Old Faithful has wet dreams of, Kerið -- the crater lake that Bitlis-Nemrut Crater Lake still sends Valentine’s Day cards too. Oh and that tectonic plate dealie -- OOF!

Yeah, we’re seeing some prime grade awesome nature stuff and I’m leaning on Jen like I’m 90 years old and she’s my sturdy caretaker. Remember meine Freunde, I don’t have balance nerves. Those suckers got yanked when Dr. O and friends did their seriously way skillful tumor excavations. Vision is how I stay upright. If I can’t see, I can’t balance. Mega joy joy.

So at the end of the day I was feeling horribly guilty. I was just a big ol’ burden and poor Jen could’ve had so much fun if I wasn’t such a tragic case and.....and....

We were in the tiniest elevator EVAH (OK, the one in Giovanni’s mother’s building in Rome gives it a run for it’s money. These are two person elevators -- three if you’ve all had sex. With each other. And enjoyed it) -- we're headed up to our third floor apartment at the hotel. I’m going through my big time apology. Hell, I’m nearly the Prince of Denmark, I’m that sorry. And then Jen interrupted. She
dramatically turned her back to me (I got a sad at that point), flipped up her coat, bent over (the ‘hell’s she doin’?) and cut a fart SO loud that even I, Deaf Broad 2012, heard it. Yes, this sucker was akin to a sonic boom and was exactly THE MOST effective way to communicate her response to my drama momma shtick.

Once I figured out what happened (‘was that a bomb?’ ‘gunfire?’ ‘Jen, I think something bad just happened to the elevator!’ ahhhhh...no.) we fell into the biggest laugh/giggle/snort fits of all time. We could barely walk. Jen and I managed to, more or less, roll ourselves off the elevator. Unlocking the apartment door while shrieking with laughter was ALMOST beyond us though.

There ya go -- this, THIS is a perfect illustration of effective nonverbal communication.

Aren’t you glad you tuned in for this important lesson?

Deep Thoughts

So, Jen and I were sitting at a small table at Ölstofan, her with the usual Sauvignon Blanc and me with my shot of Jamo. We were pretty much brain dead after our Golden Circle Tour. Both of us idly picking at our radically unhealthy nachos.

An aside – we got the best nachos known to mankind at U Černého Vola (The Black Ox) in Prague, very near the castle. Seriously, they were UNbeatable. Ever since then, we try our luck. We order nachos in every country we go to and YES we have been, unsurprisingly, profoundly disappointed. The nachos at Ölstofan weren’t the worst but they def had some Velveeta-ish cheese action lurking under the veneer of cheddar and mozzarella.

While sitting and sipping, wondering why there aren’t acres of windmills harnessing that fierce, Donna-toppling wind out in the Icelandic countryside by Gullfoss and Þingvellir,  we engaged in our usual people watching (outside of NYC, I’m thinking Reykjavik is the best for us public voyeurs).

There was the tall 30-ish woman in even taller heels. She had Annie Lennox white hair in a ragged windblown pageboy. She was walking hand in hand with her young, presumably, son who sported the same hair color and style.  It was SO damn sweet!

There was the curvaceous yet rail thin young mother helping her toddler up and down the pub steps. I was starting to feel a toothache coming on.

The young man wearing gloriously colorful, intricately patterned knit leggings. Jen stopped me from going over to chat him up. After our tiring day, with her helping me walk in the gale force wind and then picking me up off the ground after my I’m-an-adult-now! independence attempts, she wasn’t up for the ‘terp dance (english to ASL) but I wanted to know where he got them!

All of the film crew out at the Strokkur Geysir were stunning. Even in their Michelin Man coats and heavy boots it was clear they’d all been blessed by Adonis and Aphrodite. Good thing they had that going for them as they were
the most obnoxious and officious bunch. Ares had def touched their little souls too.  Utterly full of themselves, the lot of them.

One of them barked (barked!!!) at Jen for ALMOST entering their shot (nothing was roped off and there were no signs). I wondered aloud, loudly I imagine *sniff*, if the crew understood that they weren’t Errol Morris or Ken Burns and this wasn’t New York. *sniff*

Jen and I had lapsed into a comfortable silence over our adult bevs. And then, and then out of nowhere Jen says to me:

‘You know Obama is our first black president?’
I replied, thinking ‘where the fuck she goin’ here ‘Yes Jen, this is true.’

Jen: So I think it’s time for a black pope.

Me: A black, female pope... pause... a black lesbian pope.

Jen: With one arm

Me: this could only be a positive for the church.

We paid our tab then and stumbled back to the warm, cozy charms of Room With a View, our Reykjavik home.

Schweigt Stille, Plaudert Nicht*

The molto fab bit about staying in an apartment/hotel is that you can have meals in. Like breakfast. Most mornings, all I really want is half a garlic bagel with just a schmear of herb and chive Tofutti or a maybe a nice cookie. Or, possibly, half of one of those mini spinach quiches from Daniel’s Bakery in Brighton Center. Fer instance.

Some morning’s though, I want/need/MUST HAVE MORE. Luckily Jen’s like this too.

On our second Reykjavik morning we decided to try Grái Kötturinn on Hverfisgata 16a. I’d read a few reviews on line and it sounded perfect.

Grái Kötturinn turned out to be a tiny, very cozy place with a warm vibe -- I was psyched. The waitress came over, gave us menus, saying she’d be back in a moment.

That moment stretched into multiples. Jen and I figured ‘eh, we have a different sense of time’ (for us, instant gratification is nowhere near fast enough). So, despite not having hot caffeinated bevs in front of us, we went into ‘chill mode.’ We began inventing stories about the other restaurant patrons.

Across the alcove from us sat a quartet -- an older (mid 60s maybe) man and a woman with two girls, possibly in their early 20s. Jen quickly determined their various relationships.

This was a second marriage for the older couple -- they were def a couple. They looked tremendously happy/cozy/comfortable together. Not sure how Jen came to the assessment of second marriage-ness but, she’s usually right, so...there we go.

The girls -- not sisters. One was the daughter of the man and the other was the daughter’s girlfriend.

She was beginning to lose me there. Why aren’t they sisters? Oh, they’re holding hands and being all new-relationship-affectionate. OK. Jen, as usual, is spot on.

What she couldn’t sort out was why the older couple spoke English with Icelandic accents and the young girls had American accents.

Oh, that’s easy peazy, I says!

You see, Magnús, from Garðabær, Iceland lived in the US for eons, most of his adult life actually. Never lost his accent and never wanted to. He and his first, American, wife Mary from Cleveland, settled in the Carroll Gardens neighborhood of Brooklyn. They’d met cute in the Carroll Gardens Library while reading about Central Park glacier deaths.

Their child, Frida, was a happy and ridiculously healthy child. She began school at P.S. 58 and went on to LaGuardia Arts with the intention of fulfilling her Broadway dreams.

Mother Mary fell disastrously ill, dying quickly from a terminal case of oyster poisoning. (Foul play NOT suspected)

Devastated, Magnús was barely able to function. Luckily his daughter was there to share his pain and lift him out of despair.

Frida was, by this time, studying at NYU and rarely home. She was a young woman with life sitting in front of her like a big, gold foil wrapped present on Christmas morn. New York was her home and theater, her world.

Magnús decided to return to Iceland. He’d get a job at Borgarbókasafn the Reykjavík City Library.

He did. This is where he eventually met his soon to be second wife, Gudlaug. They were, ARE, happy as big ass sunflowers on sunny summer mornings.

Frida and her girlfriend Jean, from Cheboygan, came over to meet Gudlaug and raise toasts to both couple’s happiness.

This being, of course, why the older couple had Icelandic accented English while the younger did not.

of course.

Meanwhile, our waitress hadn’t reappeared. I was now going into caffeine withdrawal (never pretty) so we booked on outta there.

*Schweigt Stille, Plaudert Nicht -- Be still, stop chattering. AKA The Coffee Cantata