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Archive for the ‘Thursday’ Category

(I have been away from wordpress for long enough that there are some changes that I strongly dislike. I can’t, for instance, figure out how to get rid of the “bullets” on the following list so that I can customize my post. I hate the way these look and you know I’m particular about aesthetics. CRAP on the interwebs and wordpress. Bastards.)

  • a glut of coats in the mudroom
  • a frenzy of pajama-buying ensued
  • a strange numbness crept across her loins
  • the arugula waited flavorlessly in the produce drawer of the stainless steel, 3-door fridge, its California Fresh! package beckoning to the unsuspecting Frances Marie Mince-Morrison-McMurphy
  • a tinkly toy piano
  • “someone is always on someone else’s shit list around here,” said mother
  • an unresolved fight followed them around the house for weeks, hiding in kitchen cupboards and creeping into bedroom corners; vague, threatening, powerful

*

My dad used to steam the stamps off of envelopes. I have the feeling that I have written about this here before.

I have a vague memory of a bathroom with a sink near the bottom of a flight of basement steps. If the stamps did not have a proper postmark and were thus reusable, my dad would bring the envelopes down and steam off the stamps so they could be used again. Back then it cost about 5¢ for a first-class letter to be sent in the mails (as they say in Britain). Until now, as I write this, it was one of my surest memories, embedded. I remember the stamps, my father, the idea of the steam. But now I think I am filling in the blanks about the details. Maybe it is a neighbor’s basement with a tinkly toy piano and mounds of games and toys we never had. Toys piled high on a ping-pong table.

I never had one of those little tinkly pianos. I never had an Easy-Bake Oven. We did not have the game Yatzee or Operation. We did not have a ping-pong table. My brother never had GI Joes.

I perceived these toys as so foreign and mysterious that I was afraid of them. Alternately, I coveted some of them, like the Easy Bake Oven. Other families knew things I was not privy to. I was deprived of small bits of the commercial American culture of my day. I attribute this to my parents being from Europe and for valuing toys that were more creative or educational or simply made of wood. Their sense of frugality. No gluts in our house, not much extra—only what was needed. I did not grow up with deprivation, but sometimes I experienced my lack of “normal” American toys as if I was deprived. 

I hated GI Joes. They had scratchy beards. Their limbs would twist and turn in ways Barbie’s thankfully never did.

My father had blond hair and never had a beard. Not like GI Joe who was bearded, uniformed, and war-like. Eww. So maybe Freud was right: all men, including GI Joes, were gauged against my image of my father. 

look, this guy is doing yoga, naked to boot, which probably gets one extra good-karma points:

*

Judge other humans ye who enter my blog…judge away if they be pricks and douches….

  • one can’t pull off use of the word oevre in speech without sounding like a douche. Maybe you can get away with it in writing and admittedly, I use this word on occasion in speech; but I’m no douche, so maybe one can pull it off. I heard an interview with an overly-intellectual man on NPR and he used the word oevre and he sounded like an over-educated prick.

Perhaps we’ll meet again, ye who enter here.

Happy New Year! Ring it in, bring it on, get up in this hizzy!!!

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fact or fiction

1. The postman was good-looking: graying hair, chiseled features, blue-gray eyes. But he was no less an asshole than if he had been as ugly as a toad.

2. Professor Brentwood strode into the steel-gray hallway that connected each of the studios in the industrial-arts building. Her golden curls cascaded down the front of her shoulders; her white smock, which protected an ankle-length black dress, was covered in layers of clay and glaze. When Annalee saw her, she knew. This was the woman who had stolen the heart of her husband; this was her sworn enemy.

3. Dogs bounded in the fenced park. For the most part, the wrestling and barks were of the friendly variety until Stan let Middlebrooks off his leash to join the rollicking herd.

4. The bed, the clock, the curtains.

The metal bed.

The low humming buzz of the clock.

The flimsy curtains that let in too much light for anyone to get any rest.

The army hospital where no one visited and no one left alive.

5. Only Jim could see the truth, only he knew the wool was being pulled over their eyes. Though he was not a scheduled speaker, when there was a pause between the candidates, he rushed onto the stage, stood behind the podium, cleared his throat, and spoke loudly into the microphone. “All is not lost,” he said.

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1. bras for bikes

You have seen them and so have I: bras for bikes. No, not bike bras.

As if it’s not enough to have an abundance of breast cancer and pink ribbons, we in the West are so affluent that we must protect our expensive bikes from bugs and such with bras. I’m not saying one should not protect an investment that costs hundreds or thousands of dollars, but I do think it’s a sign of us all going to hell in a hand basket. Not only that, but there’s something disturbing about the way the bike bra looks, like bondage gear for a bike; or is it just me?

2. I did not realize until recently that the word pub derives from public house. DUH! I do know, however, from whence the word pube derives even if spellcheck says it’s not a word.

3. I had a client who told me the key to to getting what you want in marriage is to make your husband think he came up with all of the good ideas. I still don’t know how she did it; maybe I never really applied myself to see if it would work.

4. Another thing I learned late in life: that the suffix ham in a place name is short for hamlet.

5. How is it possible that it takes my teenage daughter 20 minutes to get ready to go to Home Depot with us, her uncool parents? HOME DEPOT for chrissake. It’s not like any cool boys are hanging out there, only single, lonely, middle-aged men (trust me on this).

6. Why was I raised to be polite to all men, even fucking perverts? Why aren’t men taught not to be fucking perverts to women and girls of all ages and stripes in the first place?

Today a man at the grocery store held up a HUGE carrot. I mean HUGE—8-9 inches long and 3 inches in diameter—and asked me to take a bite of it. I can’t remember what he said exactly, something completely stupid and simple like would you take a bite of this? WHAT THE FUCK, dude? Do you not understand being creepy or was that the point? I simply said no and politely chatted about the local carrots this time of year being very small because it’s so early in the season and that this must not have been a local carrot. I walked away and the fucker kept talking to me.

What is wrong with me that I didn’t tell him to fuck off in no uncertain terms, like by saying FUCK OFF YOU PERVERT. I could even have eliminated all doubt about what went on and avoid the swear by saying: YOU ARE BEING CREEPY AND PERVERTED, STAY AWAY FROM ME.

But I only think of these things in hindsight. I’m almost FIFTY for chrissakes. Will I please get this together by my birthday?

Red White Blue

Generally I am not a fan of the color red. Red is a hard color. Hard to use in decorating, hard to wear.

I did eat some amazing local strawberries today, from the same store where the CreepAss was, and they were a beautiful red color.

I did not go to fireworks, but I usually like to. I don’t feel like I’m missing out.

These are my kid’s nails. She can really rock the red, white, and blue.

IMG_1493

Me? I’m too jaded to feel patriotic and I look like shit in that shade of American red.

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This morning, I dozed back to a restless sleep after my kids left for school. Semi-insomniac that I am, I had a couple of bad nights this week; paired with my lingering health problems, I have been needing more sleep than usual. Some day, I hope to return to productivity and my old “morning person” persona. When did I get this way?

As I slumbered (ha ha, don’t you just love that?), I had a dream with spiders. Huge spiders whose bodies mimicked the fruit of the sweetgum tree, aka, monkey balls (I don’t think that as children we thought they referred to a monkey’s testicles even though every kid knew what balls were).

There was a musician playing a guitar. Another man, too, but I don’t remember who. And Paul was there, I think to save me from the spiders. The spiders were key. There were many, sort of hanging around off the wall and they were huge and some of the spiders had babies. I thought the spiders should not be squashed and that if they were, they would make a bloody mess; bloody both in the British sense of the word as well as the bodily fluid.

I know why the spiders looked like they did in my dream. Yesterday, I had an appointment with my acupuncturist. There are 4 treatment rooms in her clinic and I was in the Herb Room. One wall is made of built-in shelves and on the shelves are glass jars comprising a Chinese pharmacopoeia. One of the jars has something that looks like the monkey balls of which I speak. I am guessing they are the very same, but since I don’t know the Linnaean name nor can I make sense of the Chinese words, I have no way of knowing. I suppose I can check next time I’m in the Herb Room, but I will have forgotten by then.

I think this photo is so lovely. It makes me think warm and happy feelings, like spring. Can you think a feeling or are thoughts and feelings distinct? Certainly, humans have the unique ability to summon feelings. Feelings, as well as thoughts, are simply neuro-chemical impulses after all.

Some time late in my college years, I made a beautiful mobile out of natural objects. A crab claw, a feather, perhaps some sweetgum fruits strung on thread. I can’t really remember. These things perish because they are not rocks or bones or sand. Maybe feathers, like hair, last a long time. Crab claws, they break. We see so many of them on the beach, their shells, too; they are thin and brittle. Maybe they become sand.

The long and short of it is that when I did get out of bed, there was a small, jet-black spider on the wall. It’s not the usual spider we get in the house, but I’ve seen them before. I meant to go back and grab it up into a tissue and put it outside. But I forgot. It dipped down pretty cold today, a freezing wind and no sun so it would have died. I try not to kill them in the house. This creates a dilemma in the winter. Sometimes I do suck them up when I am vacuuming.

Is it better to be squashed to death if you are a spider or to be put outside to freeze? Sometimes, I need my space to be free from spiders, but more often in the winter, I just leave them alone. In warmer weather there is no dilemma.

Are your dreams ever prescient or do you not cotton to that kind of phenomenon? No matter; I believe in the inexplicable and it’s often good enough for me. Science has its charms but I don’t think it can measure everything.

How many spiders live in winter? how many billions of neurons are in your brain? how many stars are in the universe?

Estimated guesses, my doves. You can leave the rest to the poets and dreamers.

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There is so much to draw our attention.

Living in the Valley, you will never lack for a chamber concert, a book signing, an art opening, a gallery talk, a gallery walk, a lecture, a reading, a play, a musical, a light opera, an a cappella performance, a ballet, a modern dance concert. Culture abounds.

Tomorrow night, Chris Smither will be playing at the Iron Horse.

I’ve written about seeing him in concert before. He is local, living in Cambridge, Mass; he’s around. However, a lot of folks have never heard of him. He’s been around a long time, has paid his dues, can sing the blues, is one-of-a-kind, an overlooked talent.

Why do I tell you he is playing around here tomorrow night? Why do I post videos and songs? Because YOU SHOULD GO TO HEAR/SEE HIM!

This is also why I prefaced my post as I did. Maybe I will see you there.

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Not to dissuade you from my earlier Thanksgiving post, but I was just reminded of this fabulous video due to a Facebook thread….

It seems to me that I used to post sometimes twice in a day. I’d be so eager to share things. Especially back when I did regular Music Mondays and Thankful Thursdays. The obligatory would inspire the spontaneous.

Have I posted this before? I sure hope so. If you have never watched this, here’s your chance.

Alan Cumming exudes sexy like a turkey in the oven at Thanksgiving (fill-in-the-blank).

From an Alexander Technique perspective, he has got it going on. The beautiful poise of his head, neck, back relationship, his amazing presence throughout the entire song. I could watch this all day.

Yes, his voice is shot, but who cares? He is a thing of beauty to behold. Sexy motherfucker.

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This was spotted in the parking lot at the Mutton and Mead Festival which we attended in June (Hubby affectionately refers to it as the Bosom and Midriff Festival).

Although the pull-along camper is one of the most interesting things I saw at the festival, I also saw this:

We saw a FULL JOUST with guys splitting their lances (sexy!) and a woman riding a large steed sidesaddle. She had the kind of aforementioned bosom popping out of her burgundy velvet with gold-brocade frock. Look, I know you don’t believe me, so here:

It was at least 90 degrees (with full sun, as you can see) that day. Can you say sweaty peasants?

Hey, folks. I have no working TV reception so I am totally missing out on the Olympics. FUCK.

I have lots to share, as usual, but mostly it’s photos, just like in today’s post. I will have to bring you up-to-date on our recent 2 Wilco shows in one week. I do have a new favorite Wilco song and all of a sudden, my T key is sticking. FUCK again, but at least FUCK is not spelled with a t.

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