Gryphons, Angels and Rocco

Oh my!

Saw these, on my morning trike-about. They were propped up against the fence of a house undergoing big renovations.

Cool stuff, eh?

Reminds me that I've long intended to get over to Old Bostonian, an architectural salvage joint in Dorchester.

I believe our wee cottage needs a coupla outdoor gryphons keeping watch, guarding us from marauding dragons, you know, just like at the Scala cathdral in in Campania, Italy.

We're all set for indoor gryphons.

our indoor gryphon, Clyde

gratuitous Rocco pic

Being There

On the first day of January 2010 The Amazing Bob was having, what he thought was, painful indigestion. We both knew it could be his heart as he’d had an attack (along with an angioplasty and stent installation) a few years earlier.

Calmly (no, for reals!) I suggested we head into Mass General to check things out. ‘No, no. It’s just gas,’ my dear TAB says to me. I gave him the I’m-humoring-you Look. 

When Jen rocks this attitude, this mien, she has one eyebrow arched so high it should submit flight plans to Logan Airport. When I do it, well, my eyebrows aren’t as talented so I quirk one side of my mouth up instead. More or less.

I gave The Amazing Bob my ultra stern I’m-trusting-you-not-to-be-a-tough-guy speech and popped next door to Jen and Oni’s for a bit. Upon my return, TAB allowed that, 'yeah, we should head into Mass General.'

Eek! Things had to be molto serious if TAB’s saying ‘yes, let’s go to the hospital’ without me having to nag and guilt trip him, more than I already had, into it.

In a fogged and profoundly fearful state, I knocked on the kids’ door to tell them what up and ask them to move their car so I could drive TAB to the hospital. Level headed Jen says ‘I’ll call 911. We’ll get an ambulance. You go sit with Bob.’

Damn, she’s fabulously awesome under pressure!

Within three (!!!) minutes we had a houseful of firemen, trained for just this sort of thing. At the five minute mark TAB was on oxygen. Eight minutes after Jen made the call, EMTs showed up and took over.

Before I knew it we were in the Mass General Emergency Room with a team of docs and nurses buzzing around -- all fast, efficient, cheerful and stunningly gorgeous. Really. It was pretty wild and a little funny. TAB was being worked on by four exotically attractive female docs along with a fleet of very pretty nurses. It was like being on a TV hospital show only all the actors were Miss Universe level beautiful.

Def not the stiff and grim scene I’d anticipated. It was like watching a whole cast of Gelsey Kirklands performing The Nutcracker.

In scrubs. Sort of.

That night flew past as I sat on the sidelines, watching the marvelous pros save The Love of My Life™.  Jen and Oni appeared a few hours later, after looking for us at the ERs of Quincy Medical Center, South Shore Hospital and Milton Hospital. Why? Em, I forgot to tell them where we were headed and the ambulance was traveling at light speed.

Could they have texted my cell? Sure and they did! The phone was at home with Coco.

By the time they’d come to the end of their Find TAB and Donna Scavenger Hunt, Bob was out of immediate danger. The docs advised me to go home, get some rest and come back the next day.

Bob wouldn’t be coming home anytime soon.

Our Louche Coco

Krigelking Confections After Dinner Mint Cat

Coco the Goth fashion plate

Ice Nine

Jen zooming around on the iced tide

Jen and I took a miniature dawn walk on Nantasket Beach this past Sunday.

It was, at most, six degrees Fahrenheit and I’m not even gonna think about the wind chill factor. Boyhowdy, the wind was screaming in off the water at light speed.

The wee waves were freezing solid as they lapped the shore -- poor dears.

Why did we subject ourselves to the searing arctic blasts which threatened to peel our skin clean off?

Em, I wanted to get pics of the sun rise with ice. Perhaps another scarf and an additional pair of gloves next time.

What is Ice Nine? Cat's Cradle -- Kurt Vonnegut Get some!

Why? Warum? Neden?

So why, seeing as we were mated for life like so many angel fish and black vultures, did The Amazing Bob and I finally go all legal on our most awesome union.

Health Insurance.

These were the pre-Obamacare days -- pre-Romneycare too. Our Slick Dick ex-gov, Mitt, just loved to brag long and loud about how he single handedly made health care affordable and available to all us fine residents of the great Commonwealth of Massachusetts. This was his signature achievement -- the big, swaggering cincher to clearly show that he should be crowned King of America.

As soon as his Tea Party/Koch Bros./Insurance Industry overlords clued him in on affordable health care being as desirable to them as an air biscuit in a Smart Car, he denied having anything to do with it. Of course. To be fair to the old fraud, he had fuck-all to do with it beyond watering it down.

But I digress...and shit. 

TAB needed health insurance and I had it. Made sense to get hitched so he could be on my health plan, eh? This was the marriage inducement enzyme for a lot of my pals. Yeah, we all would have done the deed eventually anyway but this was the catalyst, the fire under our respective asses. And our mothers were grateful.

Still, I was freaked out. Perchè? kodėl? pourquoi?

I was petrified that I'd become my mother again. I was scared poopless of losing myself inside this 

epitome of mainstream normalcy. I'd start wearing gingham aprons, matching socks and sensible shoes. I'd be baking meatloaves not a certain sort of brownie. I'd only paint people with clothes on or *gasp* still lifes! I'd natter on endlessly about home renovations and play dates for the cats. I'd forget that Mission of Burma was one of the best damned bands of all time.  

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK -- the end is nigh!!!
And then I went out for a pint with my very dear and spectacular married buds Cynthia and Giovanni. I confessed my fears and asked for advice.  

Cynthia got right to the heart of the matter, 'What are you -- insane? This will be your marriage not anyone else's. Why should it be anything other than what you and Bob want it to be? And why would anything change from how things are now? It's just a piece of paper -- your love and commitment to each other is already set in your very DNA.'

Oh. OK! My fear fever broke and TAB and I started having fun with it all. Should either of us change our last name? Naturally this led to a long ass discussion on patrilineal naming conventions. He was perfectly willing to change his name from Grant to Maderer but then he'd have the exact same name as my grandfather and that felt kind of oogie. Plus, it seemed to me, we were a new ship on the ocean of life (godDAMN, I'm deep) so we should have a last name that's new to us both. 

We finally came up with the perfect last name. We'd be Bob and Donna Snark! Yup, took a good six days before we could stop laughing on that one. It had to be ixnayed since, clearly, Bob and Donna Snark sound like the sort of folk who live out by Arlee, Montana where they run a little Sinclair filling station just off 93 South.

We kept our original names because we just didn't feel up to moving out of New England.

The Big 27

Today is the anniversary of when The Amazing Bob and I finally tied the knot, did the deed, took on the shackles of  matrimony, stopped getting the milk for free. We'd been shakin' the sheets, living together (or right next door) for 15 years before the gigantic, life altering ceremony.

Why did we wait so long?

Bob's bairn, The Green Miles, told his dorm mates, with a snort, 'they wanted to be sure.' You know, not make an impulsive, hasty choice and all.

Eh, we always knew we were mated for life, like swans, gibbons or, possibly, black vultures. What did we need with some official scrap of paper that just said what we already knew?

I was 27 and TAB 44 when we first hooked up. It wasn't until the following year that I put him though the Meet My Crazy Parents hoop (nota bene, when you're in your teens and 20s, parents are nuts. They become wise and sane about the time we hit 30).

My parents picked us up and, as we settled into the back seat of their Queen Mary-ish, ten year old, Bondo covered blue Chevy, Daddy sternly asked TAB 'what are your intentions with my daughter?' I would have died on the spot had that been an option.

I knew there'd be some uncomfortableness -- TAB's just six years younger than my father. The Old Man was afraid that this big adult would take advantage of his baby girl. Heh, poor TAB was in more danger of that than Daddy's Little Girl.

How did my beloved Honey Pie respond?

He went full metal Eddie Haskell on my father. He replied 'Gee, golly Mister Maderer -- my intentions are strictly dishonorable, sir!' There was a moment of stunned silence and then Pop broke out in great gusts of appreciative laughter.

Over lunch at an awesome little Kenmore Square dive, TAB put Daddy completely at ease. How? By asking him if he was a Red Sox fan. Yes indeedy! They were a conversational house on fire as they went through all their fave players starting with the 1946 line up.

Mother and I made with the chit chat while my Knight In Hipster Armor and The Not-As-Old-As-He-Was-An-Hour-Ago Man  replayed some of the Greatest Games EVAH from before I was born.

Yeah, I felt a teensy bit oogie.

Suiting Up: Now with Update!

Christ almighty, what a gorgeous morning! The streets are still snow covered so, pansy that I am, I’ll have to wait for the sun to melt them clean-ish before I go for my trike ride. I'll give the sun 15 more minutes. Impatient? Me?

I’m gonna be smart today (heh, that’ll be unique) and wear two pairs of gloves. And maybe I can find some sort of forehead warmer that would fit under my helmet.

You know, I can rock the Johnny Depp pirate look. Nah, too much eyeliner. Maybe I could go all biker chic-y instead.  Oh yeah, that's totally me!

 Seen on yesterday's ride -- at left, Quincy Bay is almost completely frozen over now. At right, ice on the marsh.

UPDATE: Know what I clearly, desperately need? One of those seat warmers that seem to be standard in all cars (even my 10 year old Bug has one) for the trike.

Who knew? Butts can go numb -- even one with significant padding such as *ahem* mine!

The Amazing Bob, obviously driven wild by my tremendously sexy biking ensemble, snapped a pic as I walked in after my ride.

Freeze Dried Trike

The boid was taunting me -- 'c'mon -- don't be such a weenie. Ride, ride!' Clearly, I had no choice.

When I went out for my trike ride yesterday it was five degrees Fahrenheit with the wind chill making it feel like 12 below. Yes, I do believe I’ve now gone stark, raving fish crackers.

It was bound to happen. I believe I’m genetically disposed to that sort of thing.

The state of fish crackerdom that is.

27 whole degrees is predicted for today -- we’re at eight now. I believe the trike won’t mind if I wait ‘till there’s a few more molecules out there doing the Ultimate Lindy Hop.

Different Trains

People take different roads seeking fulfillment and happiness. Just because they’re not on your road doesn’t mean they’ve gotten lost. 
Dalai Lama XIV

I’ve never really understood the folks who plan their life’s trajectory down to the minute. You know, the ‘I’ll have my ideal job at 25, marry the love of my life (not yet met) at 28, first kid at 30, second and final at 33, we’ll have a house in Weston and vacation on Nantucket by the time we’re 35.’ types.

I’ve spent a lot of years scoffing at these sorts. The big, grandiose timeline regarding love and marriage seemed like a great way to shoot yourself in the ass. After all, who can know what opportunities, what happy chances, challenges or tragedies will walk around that next corner.

Maybe that scoffing had a slender root in feeling a smackerel of envy of these Big Planners’ self confidence. Perhaps there was a touch of jealousy of their ability to just know their lives would/could follow their chosen lovely path.

Being diagnosed with Neurofibromatosis Type II at the age of 23 definitely threw a wee spanner into my works. ‘Why get my hopes up for a great career or a brill match -- I’ll be deaf any time now and who’ll want me then?’ OOOF, what self indulgent, depressing twaddle!

Sadly, my much loved, older cousin Carmel (who also had NF II) planted these seeds -- watered and fed them anyway. She’d advised me NOT to tell Stan (the young man I was shacked up with) or any possible future suitor lest they bolt.

My response? ‘Why would I want to be involved with someone that shallow, selfish and dimbulbed? Please! If they clock out because of the NF II, I’ll know they weren’t worth having.’ Yup, disease as canary in the coal mines of love.

I can’t honestly pin all of my lack of firm planning, my meandering path toward happiness and fulfillment on my little schwannoma buddies.

Some of the non-planning was based in an unrelated lack of hope and self-confidence. A piece of it was that I just didn’t think to do it or even know how. Thank Kali for personal growth and evolution!

More often than otherwise, I’ve lived in the NOW (at most in the next week or three) and that’s worked out OK.

If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.
Woody Allen

Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.
John Lennon,

מאן טראַוך, גאָט לאַוך.

Different Trains -- Steve Reich - Quartetto Prometeo 2013

Happy the Clown and Captain Jack

It was the summer of 1964, just a bit before my sixth birthday. We, my parents, my older sister and I were in New Haven visiting my mother’s brothers and their families. I believe we stayed in a small suite of rooms at the old Taft Hotel.

My mother had fixed up a real treat for Carol and I -- we’d get to be in the audience for a taping of The Happy the Clown show. I think it was Happy the Clown anyway. Maybe it was The Flippy the Clown Show. I know it was a guy in a big floppy, brightly colored costume and sorority sister levels of pancake makeup though.

Man oh man I was twelve kinds of psyched!

What I figured on was a giddily funny guy who spent a lot of time making us laugh, feel important and would let us sit as close we wanted to the GIANT TV screen. We'd gobble sticky, sweet confections, ones forbidden at home, while watching Heckyl and Jeckyl and Bugs.

Here’s what I didn’t expect -- reality. This was a television show and we kids were nothing more than props. We had to practice cheering and were admonished for not squealing enthusiastically enough. Apart from that we were ignored.

The grouch in the big, bright floppy suit had a total lack of interest in us except for the one segment where he was filmed sitting cozy with a few ‘lucky’ souls. When the cameras were off he had all the charm of Krusty and none of the cool.

Yeah, I was one primo bummed five year old. I figured 'at least we'll get to watch cartoons -- it'll be like in a movie theater too.'
Ah no. The screen was miniscule and waaaaay down the other end of the bleachers from where I was sitting. I clearly recall thinking 'This blows, I can see better at home!' OK, possibly, that's not exactly what went through my little mind but it's really bloody close.

I don't recall whether there was a snack now but I know for sure that we didn't get the cupcakes and cannolis of my dreams.

We got back to the hotel to find my father thoroughly engrossed in what was on the small black and white television. He was watching the news. I stood by him, hoping to get a chance to tell him about our adventure.

What was more important than our time on the The Happy the Clown Show? The Gulf of Tonkin Incident.

Sheesh. What’s next? No Santa? No Easter Bunny? Daddy’s the one who slips the nickel under my pillow when I lose a tooth?!!!!!

Thanks but I think I’d like to go back to my fairy tale land of happy clowns, all the cartoons I want, frosted cupcake snacks and no war.

What brings this to mind? A friend who grew up in Miami was, in one of our usual deep, existential tète-à-tètes, relating the story of the times he and his sister had gone on the Banjo Billy Show and met, the recently quit of this good green earth, Captain Jack. I don't think his experience was quite as jolting or maybe he was a five year old with fewer illusions than I.

Steam Vent

Pressure, pushing down on me
Pressing down on you, no man ask for
Under pressure, that burns a building down

We’re all under pressure. I can’t think of a soul who’s not.

While not so much the paragon of Zen calm in handling stressful work environments, I did manage to learn a few things over the years (thank dog for personal evolution!).

Having a major crab fest about your boss, the one who just gave you 12 more orders to process despite the fact that you’re already totally under water, or about that mega annoying co-worker, is all well and fine. Needed even. Steam must be blown off lest we explode, taking out half of downtown Boston with us.

Do it outside of work and only with your peers though.

Why?

Outside of work because, boyhowdy, wouldn’t it just blow major chunks if your boss overheard you slagging him as an out of touch, brain dead, old goat -- n'cest pas?

Why only with folks on your same/similar level within the organization? It’s about morale and it’s about not undermining the confidence your employees might have in you.

When a manager goes on a whine-a-thon to one of his/her subordinates about his own responsibilities, bosses and/or fellow employees, a chain reaction occurs. Confidence in that manager/supervisor’s abilities wane, faith in the company as a whole drops, élan takes wing, morale starts looking for the back door AND this spreads. It goes viral. Employees chat. They notice things. Gossip may be the very soul of humanity.

Plus, your employees are, basically, a captive audience. It’s an abuse of position to derive your workplace emotional support from the folks whose employment depends on you.

As for the worker bee -- you’re having a bad day and need a whinge-a-thon? Snag a friend and head to The Diesel Cafe for a cuppa and billiards. Hit the Washington Square Tavern for a veggie burger and a shot of Lagavulin (neat, thanks).

This is way different from registering complaints.

You’ve a nit to pick, a grouse, something you want/need changed so that you can perform your tasks more smoothly/with less annoyance? By all means, talk to your supervisor or boss!

 I had one co-worker and, later, manager who was the absolute apex of smart grace under pressure.  On one occasion, when an external customer was giving her an especially hard time/was being thoroughly unreasonable and excessive in their demands, I expected to hear a grumble, a carp, a knock, possibly a slight quibble or polite protest. Nope. Ever the Professional Warrior Business Queen, Lily gave a slim sigh and, in response to my ‘wow, these folks are nuts!’ pronounced ‘No they’re not. They’re just putting us through our paces.’

She rocked this calm, magnanimous tone with internal customers as well. When she was the Human Resources Manager, and I was the Training Empress, she’d get daily calls from one of the department managers. He phoned to complain, whine even, about this employee or that, this client or another, to beef about new policies and old. He was blowing off steam mostly -- not so much hunting for solutions.

Sure, it was annoying but she would calmly listen, make suggestions, listen some more and then ask directed questions which helped the manager expand his thinking on the squawk du jour. And she never complained to us about him.

Lily's superpowers clearly included compassion, clarity and focus. I want to be her when I grow up.

I inherited that manager's calls after she moved on and tried to follow in her footsteps. While I never attained her level of Kung Fu HR Therapist, I think I did OK.

релаксация

Rocco, at right, and Gaston, left, seem to have achieved a smackeral of détente.

This seems to be based on Gaston having a new, more complete understanding of the fact that Rocco is the main man, the Feral Porch King, the Cat with No Name ('cept to us).

There were a couple of times, over the past two weeks, when the two of them appeared for meals at the same time. They'd previously been ducking each other (though possibly it was just Gaston avoiding Rocco).

The Amazing Bob tells me that Gaston has a battle cry, a yowl to wake the long departed. So much so that Bob was afraid for our scar ridden warrior. After all, our boy had been, prior to this past summer's mauling, the most peaceful of felines, a push over even.  On one occasion TAB fetched me from my very serious reading (Gods Behaving Badly by Marie Phillips -- I totally recommend it!) 'come quick, I think they may be about to fight!' As Porch Matriarch Supreme (AKA Princess Cat Doormat), I was called in to break it up.

They listen to me. Sure they do. (*snort*)

What did I find? Gaston was puffed up three times his already large Maine Coon Cat size and clearly yelling out harsh epithets (I read his lips. oh yes, I did!). At the same time though, there was definite fear in his eyes.

Conversely, our Rocco was employing his tactical nuke -- the silent, steadfast, promise-of-certain-doom glare. Like Blondie, he can reduce an opponent to quivering puddles of custard with a mere look. Of course, he now rocks a scarred up Robert Mitchum Cape Fear mien so, possibly, he's just letting his blitzkrieg badges 'speak' for him.

How did I get them to stop their threats of war? By bringing out the catnip and Fancy Feast of course. Who can concentrate on hostility when there's weed and grilled tuna feast in gravy?

Not I.

Cardinal Rules

By all means, marry. If you get a good wife, you'll become happy; if you get a bad one, you'll become a philosopher.
-- Socrates

Earlier in the week, when it was snowing and then ‘slushing’ out, we had a young couple visiting us. Clearly the missus was less than thrilled with her husband’s choice of   luncheonette (our back porch) or possibly, maybe she’s reminding him that if they’d gone to Miami, as SHE’D suggested, they wouldn’t be suffering in this dreadful weather.

Or not.

Here is our lonely, stalwart philosopher cardinal husband, at left, contemplating life, the universe and everything.

He was a dreamer, a thinker, a speculative philosopher... or, as his wife would have it, an idiot.
-- Douglas Adams

Galveston, Oh Galveston

It was January of 1979, off season for the show/the carnival. I was hitching around south Texas with a fun, yet dodgy fellow carnie (there’s possibly some redundancy in that statement). We were in Galveston with plans to sleep on the beach and lay about in the sun. Drenching rains and decidedly untropical temperatures threw a huge-ass spanner into our glorious half-baked scheme.

Being cold and wet makes me cranky. Being overheated and all dessicated-like makes me cranky. Hell, I may quite possibly be an all over cranky babe.

In an effort to thwart my infernal crankitude, Doug scored us an invitation to stay with folks (who we’d just met), at their apartment in the historic quarter. He had the gift of likeability and humor -- within moments of meeting, he could make anyone laugh and smile. Plus, it was the ‘70s. It just simply happened that you randomly met people on street corners, shared a jay, cheer and then invited them home/got invited home to continue the chilled out time, the grins.

Was that this planet? Was it even this star system?

It was pretty cool but, after a few days, I was itchy to move on -- things were getting weird. Doug had begun selling his blood in order to buy booze. Me? I bought food.

I wanted to be a pleasant, fun memory for these very gracious people who were letting us crash on their sofa NOT a ‘remember those total skanks we invited home? You know, the ones who would NOT leave?’ kind of a thing.

 Doug suggested we head for New Orleans -- before joining the show, he'd been a street musician there. On the way to the highway where we’d start hitching, we came upon a bunch of pecan trees. Mein Gott this was awesome! Pecans were/are my favorite and here they were FREE and plentiful. We stuffed our pockets and continued on.

Doug’s plan, once we got to New Orleans was to go to some mission or other. We could stay there until he could score us other digs. To my, undoubtedly, horrified look he said ‘oh it’s not bad. They’ll probably want to give you a de-licing shower, we’ll have to sit through some ‘come to jesus’ sermons’ and you’ll be sleeping in a room with the other women and me with the men -- but we’ll get food and a bed there.’

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT no -- not an appealing adventure in any way, shape or form. This was not the walk on the wild side that I wanted to take.  On top of the ick factor was this -- I wasn't a down and out person in need of help and I didn't want to play that role. Not only would it feel like I was tempting fate, it'd be cheating/scamming for a prize I did not want -- de-licing, sermons and a cold, thin cot. Nope.

We got as far as Spring, Texas (just north of Houston) and I bailed. I’d hidden away, in a clever little pocket within my duffle, enough cheddar for a Greyhound back north. I’d learned the ‘always have escape bucks stashed and available’ lesson during my first crazy carnival season.

Missions, detention homes, orphanages, places where you’re at the mercy of folks who are underpaid, ill or untrained OR are holy rollers -- smug and superior in their limited view of the universe... //SHUDDER// The often bitter and resentful staff see you as a number, an inconvenience, a beggar, a leach on the system and treat you accordingly.

Having said that, I know there are good shelters in Boston, here in Quincy too, with tremendous caring, nurturing staff. I’m sure New Orleans has them too.

If you need the help, get it!
The Pine Street Inn
Rosie’s Place
Father Bill’s Place
Bridge Over Troubled Waters

Individual Saunas

The sky's having a hot flash

I may have murmured, possibly whispered, the odd, gentle complaint about hot flashes before.

Yes I suppose I have.

What’s this shit all about anyway? Mia Madre never went through this (or so she said -- Mother was never comfortable talking about bodily functions. I learned about menstruation from the nuns. sigh). So, no clues from her. My Aunt Mary Ann is gone and I didn’t think to ask her 'what up' before she took that express train to Swarga Loka.

Luckily I am strong with the Google.

From WebMD:

   While it may be impossible to completely avoid hot flashes during menopause, there are certain triggers that may bring them on more frequently or cause them to be more severe. To prevent hot flashes, avoid these triggers:

 * Stress
(Jen’s noticed this. In fact, just yesterday, while quality checking a print order that was urgently needed but had been done wrong, she was zapped by a doozy. Luckily she knows to dress in layers AND there’s a shower where she works.)
* Caffeine
 (Merde)
* Alcohol
(My beloved Martinis and Jamison’s do more of a number on my system than the Chianti and Pinot Noir. Sigh. I hate being moderate.)
* Spicy foods
(What? There’s another kind of food?)
 * Tight clothing
(No prob -- my days of jeans that I need to lay down to zip up are long gone.)
    * Heat
(duh)
    * Cigarette smoke

Other things you can do to keep hot flashes at bay include:
* Stay cool. Keep your bedroom cool at night. Use fans during the day. Wear light layers of clothes with natural fibers such as cotton.
* Try deep, slow abdominal breathing (six to eight breaths per minute). Practice deep breathing for 15 minutes in the morning, 15 minutes in the evening and at the onset of hot flashes.
* Exercise daily. Walking, swimming, dancing, and bicycling are all good choices.

(This is where my awesome trike comes in. My daily ride, on average, is about an hour to an hour and 15 now.)
* Chill pillows; cooler pillows to lay head on at night might be helpful.

The Amazing Bob is surely going to wonder why I’ve replaced all his freezer dwelling Klondikes with my pillow.

Eh, maybe not. Just yesterday he commented:
‘you’re getting more eccentric with age.’

Yeah, be afraid. Very afraid. How long before the house is painted in lavender paisley stripes and I’m demanding carrot/spinach/garlic pancakes for breakfast? Em...wait. Never mind. Too late. Poor man.

From BreastCancer.org:

Hot flashes...can also be quite difficult after a chemotherapy-induced medical menopause. If you haven't been warned about hot flashes, a sudden severe episode can be frightening; you might even confuse the flash with a heart attack.

Joy.

Poor Jen’s done the Chemo Krump so, despite being scads younger than me, she too is going through menopause. I appreciate the company. I surely do.

Here’s what I really wanna know -- we’ve the tech to put a man on the Moon, computers on Mars, Blue Cheese inside Martini olives -- how come no one’s sorted out how to harness the heat given off by menopausal women? Alternative energy source, mon ami! Jen and I alone could melt an igloo on Ellesmere Island in February. PRE global warming too!

What We Talk About When We Talk About Teams

What do you mean when you use the word team (in the context of your daily working world)?

From the dictionary.com

1. a number of persons associated in some joint action: a team of advisers.
2. two or more horses, oxen, or other animals harnessed together to draw a vehicle, plow, or the like.
one or more draft animals together with the harness and vehicle drawn.

From Merriam Webster

1. crew, gang
2. a coordinated ensemble

From the BusinessDictionery.com

A group of people with a full set of complementary skills required to complete a task, job, or project.

From About.com

Functional or departmental teams: Groups of people from the same work area or department who meet on a regular basis to analyze customer needs, solve problems, provide members with support, promote continuous improvement, and share information.

Belonging to a successfully functioning team is fab on so many levels -- for both worker bees and management (AKA Les Grand Fromages). Happy, involved, motivated artisans mean greater, more efficient production levels. Members of a successfully functioning team get, amongst other things, the sense that they’re part of something bigger than themselves. They’re not just numbers, punching a clock -- they’re involved and invested in the company’s, the organization’s success. That's always made me feel good.

What do the Les Grand Fromages get? Higher, more fruitful production levels (more profit!) and fewer daily headaches.

So, you’re a manager, a COO, a company owner or some other sort of LGF and you want that whole team thing going on (not just the smell of it ). Why? Ask yourself what your specific hope/idea/plan is.

Then, and be honest with yourself, do you sincerely want to hear and act on the recommendations of your employees, your team? Is your company really up for/able to make change vs minor shifts? Is a certain amount of risk taking understood and cool? Do you value innovative thinking, new ideas and ways of doing things?

Don’t throw the word 'team' around like so many Mardi Gras beads and doubloons unless you actually mean it. Toss 'team' around promiscuously and you’re seen as a buzz word spouting, out of touch manager AND you run the full on risk of blowing up all future efforts as well. For rillz and shit.

To form a successful, happening team there’s got to be buy in from BOTH worker bees and management.

What’s this buy in look like?

From the management side:

* Did you, Mr. or Ms. LGF, hire the most appropriate person for each role, the jobs you need done? That is, do you have a goal driven, upbeat Type A sort with more than a soupçon of Type B mixed in as your Customer Service Manager/Team Leader or is that person more of a Type C (programmer/accountant) or D (Line Worker)?

If you didn't hire that A/B Type for this role, you need to get all self reflecting on your good self. Why are you shooting yourself in the ass here?

* Are you, as LGF, constant in your support of the team  -- what they need whether it's equipment, people or time?

* Does this team you’re hiring/forming understand what they can and cannot do? That is -- what are the boundaries, financial and otherwise? How far, how high can they go to keep the customer satisfied?

* Are the results of the team’s efforts seeable/knowable? They should be. Everyone wants to see the results of their efforts.

* Do you give kudos to the team as a group and individually when hurdles are cleared and goals are reached? Remember, live and in person ‘attaboys’ are much more meaningful/come off as way more sincere.

* Get feedback, both negative and positive. Interview your supervisors, department leads and producers openly. How do they think it’s going. What do they think of their team’s efforts? What do they think of your support? Get the good and the bad BOTH.

As for the team members:

* Do they want to play an active team type role or just clock in, do their assigned tasks and clock out?Are they psyched or reluctant?
* Does everyone understand what their roles entail? Do they know what’s expected of them -- actions, quantity, quality, time frames and the like?
* Does the team have the aggregate knowledge, skills and ability to tackle their goals and are all the members aware of this?
* Is there smooth cooperation between teams/departments? If not, why not? Fix it NOW if you want success.
* Is everyone down with the established priorities and goals? Did the players on the field have a hand/a say in crafting those babies?
* Do they see their contributions as valuable both to the company AND to their own career hope and dreams?
* Do employees fear a slap in the face with a three day dead carp if they say the wrong thing/step outta the box/fail to blow enough smoke up management’s pant-leg/skirt? If so, there's not going to be buy in OR creative problem solving brainstorming going down.

* Within any one department and inter-departmentally, is open communication and idea sharing actively encouraged?

There are many different layers to every company/organization. Success isn’t all due to one CEOs grand biz sense. Goodness, no! Accomplishment, achievement, the mondo spondoolicks are always a group effort. Even for genius’ like Steve Jobs.

Art Omnivores

om·niv·o·rous, adjective
1. eating both animal and plant foods.
2. taking in everything, as with the mind: an omnivorous reader.

While most of us have artists, musicians, crafters, authors and cuppycake bakers whose work is assuredly the top, the Tower of Pisa, the smile on the Mona Lisa in the compendiums of our respective minds, there are so many others we’re just mad about.

Beloved painters for me? The German and Austrian Expressionists -- Max Beckmann, Egon Schiele, Oskar Kokoschka, Klimt and more.

The apples of Jen’s art eyes? Cy Twombly and Philip Guston to name just two.

You’d think that, with the Atlantic size gulf between our art idols, we’d never be able to enjoy going to galleries and museums together.

Think again little red hens.

Jen and I both stood in varying amounts of awe at the Diebenkorn and the Frankenthaler, the Kline and the  Motherwell, the Marsden Hartley as well as the decorative works.

Our next major trip will be to look at even more artwork that we agree on -- the architectural wonders of Antoni Gaudi.

What kind of art do you like to look at? Who are your faves?

Bosch, Bruegel and Byzantininess

Miguel Ximenez

Tower of Babel

Never thought I’d dig any sort of religious art -- just not my bag. After seeing an entire museum’s worth of Byzantine work while in Vienna (natürlich I can’t remember the name of the joint and Google’s not helping me today) I was def turned on. Dunno what it was -- the angular primitiveness? the resemblance to Mexican folk art? the gold leaf maybe?

In any case, The Yale Art Gallery has a few pieces that were similarly awe inspiring.

I was utterly blown to bits, by Pieter Bruegel (Brueghel) the Elder when I first saw Tower of Babel live, in the flesh, at the Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna. I knew there were mother Brueghels, sons and grandsons who also wielded a hot, nasty paint brush but I’d never seen any of it.

And then we rounded the corner at The Yale Art Gallery. There it was -- (at left)  The Temptation of Saint Anthony by Jan Brueghel the Elder, Pieter’s boy. The demons off to the side just totally slay me. Though he was painting nearly 100 years after Miguel Ximenez, it looks like they might have been buds or at least had similar nightmares.

Close by was An Allegory of Intemperance by Hieronymus Bosch. Incredibly, I’ve never seen even one of his pieces before. MUST see more!

Also too -- I’ll have some of what these fellas were tokin’ please.

Since Gallery Exhaustion was settling in we decided to take a snack break. Across the street from the museum is the Atticus Bookstore Cafe. Wow. Fab food (Jen and I split the Grilled Mushroom & Stilton Cheese sandwich -- mega yum!), great atmosphere, cool art and photos on the walls and BOOKS. Naturally, I didn’t get out the door without a small bag of ‘em Including Tim Kreider's book of essays and cartoons, We Learn Nothing. I totally recommend it. Totally.

Yet one more ultra cool thing about The Yale Art Gallery -- it’s free. Very different from the big

museums I’m used to. From The Art Newspaper:

The debate over museum entry fees was reignited following the news that both the Museum of Fine Arts (MFA) Boston and the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York—already the country’s most expensive museums to visit—were both raising their general entry fees, from $20 to $22 at the MFA and $25 at MoMA. Earlier this year, the Metro­politan Museum of Art announced a hike in its suggested admission, also from $20 to $25.

Read the whole article -- it’s fascinating.

Entrance to the Arthur M. Sackler Museum at Harvard  is currently $5 while the Fogg and Busch-Reisinger museums are closed for renovation. Normally entrance for all three Harvard museums is $9.

I’ve been to all three plus the, dusty yet cool, Glass Flowers Gallery in the Natural History Museum (entrance fee $12). I’m partial to the Busch-Reisinger.

In my considerable, peasant-y opinion, Yale’s collection is best. Def worth the trip.

The Romantics

The Yale Art Gallery  has every style and form imaginable, more or less, under it’s awesome old ‘sock drawer,’ by way of neo-Florentine Gothic and Ruskinian Gothic roofs.

Jen and I could’ve wandered there forever. OK -- no. After a couple of hours serious gallery exhaustion hits. There’s only so much ‘holy fuckin’ wow’ I can experience in one day. This is the best, most comprehensive yet small-ish, museum I’ve ever been to. Ever! Check out the New York Times article. Go to the Yale Art Gallery site. Then go visit the joint. It’s mind bending.

My art likes cover a lot of ground. The romantics (not necessarily to be confused with The Romantics and What I Like About You. I guess) are appealing in the same way as Pierre Marcolini chocolates, 2010 Melville Pinot Noir and Raw Silk Kurta Pajamas. You know -- luxurious, a wee bit decadent and their beauty inspires fits of weeping.

I first saw Lawrence Alma-Tadema's work at, can ya believe it, the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. they have a piece of his in their permanent collection but, eons ago, they had a huge special exhibit.

Alma-Tadema was big with the pre-raphaelites, like Dante Gabriel Rossetti.  Later in life they saw the rise of the Postimpressionists, the Fauves and Cubism. The DFH's of their time.

Alma-Tadema was distinctly unthrilled.

Of course. He was of the establishment, the Academy that all these hot new painter dudes were rebelling against. All that romanticism was anathema to the Rousseaus, Matisses and Gaugins of the day

He was declared "the worst painter of the 19th century" by John Ruskin, and one critic even remarked that his paintings were "about worthy enough to adorn bourbon boxes."

and now he’s loved again.  To paraphrase the great Arlo Guthrie,  if you wait, everything’ll come around again and this time with four part harmony and feeling.

Related in romanticism is The Hudson River School and boyhowdy, Yale has some sweet ones!

The Hudson River School was America's first true artistic fraternity. Its name was coined to identify a group of New York City-based landscape painters that emerged about 1850 under the influence of the English émigré Thomas Cole (1801–1848) and flourished until about the time of the Centennial.

The Yale Art Gallery has works by Bierstadt, Frederic Church, Edmund Coates, Thomas Cole and Sanford Robinson Gifford.

Utterly and stunningly breathtaking. Pass the Pierre Marcolini please.

Styles change, fashion shifts, the world grows and evolves. The Bonnards, Degas’ and Hoppers of the day move in with their own tremendous visions.

Saturday In Transit Blogging

Jen and I are down visiting our fabola pals Steve and Maria in Stratford, Connecticut -- near New Haven, birthplace of your faithful, trike riding scribe. Yesterday we visited the Yale Art Gallery -- home of the most monster awesome collection I've ever seen.

I think my brain's fried from all the astounding works we took in yesterday. Clearly more visits are needed!

January 10, 1942

A day which lives in righteousness and wonder. Oh, you betcha that’s The Amazing Bob's, MY Honey Pie’s birthday all right!

That's him (duh), counterclockwise from top right, with The Infant Green Miles, Bob the high school graduate, with our semi-evil first cat/overlord Rotten Ralph, with our sweet kitten Coco, with MOI as a young terror, in his Bill Lee for president Tshirt and, at center, with the now adult/out in the working world Green Miles.

How did we celebrate? Calmly, peacefully, happilly and with much CAKE. (CAKE is always in caps and, often, seen in boldface. Why? C'mon mes amis -- it's CAKE -- this is serious shit!) We did the totally necessary one stop worship shop at Saint Fratelli’s where TAB picked out a lovely gold cake with Vanilla frosting sprinkled with some sort of brightly colored confetti confection. Jen, Oni, Bob and I actually managed to eat our spectacular dinner of Bistro Chi Chinese food before diving into CAKE Heaven. Yea us!



The festivities continue on Saturday when The Green Miles along with his Lovely and Talented Paramour, Bethanie motor up from New Bedford for dinner and, natürlich, more CAKE!

Oni, Jen, TAB, Miles and me

And, just for context and shit, here are some other awesome folk born in the same year as my Liebling:
 
Muhammad Ali
Elvin Bishop
Paul Butterfield
Aretha Franklin
Norman Greenbaum
Carole King
John McLaughlin
Jean-Luc Ponty
Andy Summers
And there's Paul Simon who's a few months older but in the ballpark.

Yep, that was a fine ass year for humans!