One of the best CD boxed sets ever designed. Love the hat box.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Go Left at Walgreens
Women give directions differently than men. This is not a news flash. But it constantly amazes me at how much easier it is for I, as a woman. to follow directions given to me by another women.
Females are associational and, to my mind, more helpful men when it comes to telling you how to get from A to B. "Turn left on Main, go two blocks. At Pierce there's a Bank of America, turn left. At the third stop sign, turn left on Center Street and then turn right, at the McDonalds, onto Walker.
Men will say "Go northeast on Main. Stay on Main for 2.3 miles and turn south onto Pierce."
Really? Northwest? South? Let me get my compass and sextant. Who the fuck am I, Magellan? Don't make me base my trip on the position of sun. Give me directions I can follow.
Women give directions differently than men. This is not a news flash. But it constantly amazes me at how much easier it is for I, as a woman. to follow directions given to me by another women.
Females are associational and, to my mind, more helpful men when it comes to telling you how to get from A to B. "Turn left on Main, go two blocks. At Pierce there's a Bank of America, turn left. At the third stop sign, turn left on Center Street and then turn right, at the McDonalds, onto Walker.
Men will say "Go northeast on Main. Stay on Main for 2.3 miles and turn south onto Pierce."
Really? Northwest? South? Let me get my compass and sextant. Who the fuck am I, Magellan? Don't make me base my trip on the position of sun. Give me directions I can follow.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Scenes from Silver Creek: Watson
Watson was a fat orange tabby owned by our next-door neighbors when I was growing up. One of the four redheaded Orr kids did the old “he followed me home” bits and Watson moved into their house and our street.
Watson e thought any yard with a sunbeam was fair game, any door open to the summertime heat an invitation, and any lap his rightful domain. He would follow anybody down the street, indignantly meowing at a lack of pets. During the morning parade of kids walking to school in the morning he would sit in front of the Orr house and we would all dutifully pat his head as we walked by. Once the first child made his appearance on the sidewalk Watson would pad over, plunk his plump butt down, and wait for the pilgrimage. Every kid on the street, even the ones who didn’t like cats, would bend down to stroke his head or scratch his twitchy ears. Then, the ritual completed to his satisfaction, he would head off to start his day. It was a busy life with butterflies to chase, birds to chirp at, squirrels to scold and other cats to intimidate.
Of the five or six cats on our block at any one time, Watson was definitely the ringleader. He was the one who always held his ground when another would dare to invade his turf. He was the one that cruised the lady cats who always seemed sadly unimpressed with his strutting bluster. Although fixed, he never seemed aware of the fact and his attempts to play Romeo were numerous and legendary. A conscientious would-be suitor, his best effort involved bringing the corpse of Rudy Gardoff’s hamster, Dutch (recently and too shallowly buried in the Gardoff’s rose garden) to the Arthur’s brown tabby, Mona. Mona, at that time enamored of a black monster of unknown parentage and ownership seemed pleased at the offering but still preferred to keep company with someone else.
In spite of his masculine bravado, Watson was endlessly patient with any bored child who wanted to play dress-up or war. One of my favorite childhood photos shows me holding him, overfilling my chubby child’s arms, as he looked with surly acceptance at the camera in a tiny sailor hat. When my Barbie married Melissa Garth’s Ken, Wilson was both flower girl and minister. And when the Orr kids reenacted by Battle of the Bulge, Watson was (for some reason historically incongruous reason) George Washington.
Watson lived to the ripe old age of 16 and when he died the whole street turned out for his funeral. Mr.Orr played “Amazing Grace” and “The Alley Cat Song” on the harmonica and Mrs. Baciagaloupi made a mouse-shaped wreath from the flowers in the back garden. (Although she had to explain it was a mouse because we all thought it was Idaho.) He was buried under their oak tree, in a spot where he would while away the hot summer afternoons in the shade. And for many years there was a small wooden cross on which was painted “Watson Orr. A fine cat.’
Watson was a fat orange tabby owned by our next-door neighbors when I was growing up. One of the four redheaded Orr kids did the old “he followed me home” bits and Watson moved into their house and our street.
Watson e thought any yard with a sunbeam was fair game, any door open to the summertime heat an invitation, and any lap his rightful domain. He would follow anybody down the street, indignantly meowing at a lack of pets. During the morning parade of kids walking to school in the morning he would sit in front of the Orr house and we would all dutifully pat his head as we walked by. Once the first child made his appearance on the sidewalk Watson would pad over, plunk his plump butt down, and wait for the pilgrimage. Every kid on the street, even the ones who didn’t like cats, would bend down to stroke his head or scratch his twitchy ears. Then, the ritual completed to his satisfaction, he would head off to start his day. It was a busy life with butterflies to chase, birds to chirp at, squirrels to scold and other cats to intimidate.
Of the five or six cats on our block at any one time, Watson was definitely the ringleader. He was the one who always held his ground when another would dare to invade his turf. He was the one that cruised the lady cats who always seemed sadly unimpressed with his strutting bluster. Although fixed, he never seemed aware of the fact and his attempts to play Romeo were numerous and legendary. A conscientious would-be suitor, his best effort involved bringing the corpse of Rudy Gardoff’s hamster, Dutch (recently and too shallowly buried in the Gardoff’s rose garden) to the Arthur’s brown tabby, Mona. Mona, at that time enamored of a black monster of unknown parentage and ownership seemed pleased at the offering but still preferred to keep company with someone else.
In spite of his masculine bravado, Watson was endlessly patient with any bored child who wanted to play dress-up or war. One of my favorite childhood photos shows me holding him, overfilling my chubby child’s arms, as he looked with surly acceptance at the camera in a tiny sailor hat. When my Barbie married Melissa Garth’s Ken, Wilson was both flower girl and minister. And when the Orr kids reenacted by Battle of the Bulge, Watson was (for some reason historically incongruous reason) George Washington.
Watson lived to the ripe old age of 16 and when he died the whole street turned out for his funeral. Mr.Orr played “Amazing Grace” and “The Alley Cat Song” on the harmonica and Mrs. Baciagaloupi made a mouse-shaped wreath from the flowers in the back garden. (Although she had to explain it was a mouse because we all thought it was Idaho.) He was buried under their oak tree, in a spot where he would while away the hot summer afternoons in the shade. And for many years there was a small wooden cross on which was painted “Watson Orr. A fine cat.’
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Photo of the day: A Door You Don't Want to Go Through
At least not if you're a lost cat or abandoned dog. This is the door next to the night depositories for when people have animals to bring in after hours. I suppose it's not too scary. You'll have a nice vet tech look you over and will be given a warm, safe, comfy place to sleep. Plus food. And when people show up in the morning they'll talk to you nice and pet you and make sure you're OK. But it's still not the best way to arrive. It's also how volunteers arrive when the shelter is closed on a holiday. So on Labor Day I aligned myself with whatever critter was making noise in one of the drop cages and had to wait for someone to come collect us.
At least not if you're a lost cat or abandoned dog. This is the door next to the night depositories for when people have animals to bring in after hours. I suppose it's not too scary. You'll have a nice vet tech look you over and will be given a warm, safe, comfy place to sleep. Plus food. And when people show up in the morning they'll talk to you nice and pet you and make sure you're OK. But it's still not the best way to arrive. It's also how volunteers arrive when the shelter is closed on a holiday. So on Labor Day I aligned myself with whatever critter was making noise in one of the drop cages and had to wait for someone to come collect us.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Beware of Hot, Naked Space Vampire Chicks
In a fit of lazy lunacy the other day, Husband and I spent the entire day in bed. We watched two good movies (Ghostbusters, and Still of the Night), 20-minutes of a crappy movie (The Mist), and about an hour of a truly memorable extra-crappy movie Lifeforce.
We didn't make it through the whole thing, but here's the plot: spaceship finds three naked aliens in Halley's Comet. One female, two male. Group of astronauts spends moments ogling the hot naked female alien in her glass coffin. They don't even seem to notice the guys. Naked aliens brought on ship. Again, camera shows us hot naked female alien (hereafter known as HNFA). Spaceship doesn't come home so rescue ship goes up. Inside of ship crispy. Inside and outside of crew, crispy. Naked aliens in glass coffins fine thank you. Everyone comes home to England where the two naked guys are ignored but HNFA is, of course, put in a separate room. Horny guard comes in for a closer ogle, HNFA wakes up and sucks the life out of him. Unnamed scientist sees this on the security cam and runs through 17 doors to do his own tonsil dance with HNFA. Luckily she just tires him out, doesn't do the life suck thing. HNFA wanders through headquarters where more security guards try to offer her a sammich. Not interested in a midnight snack, she does a little zap-dance and leaves. Still naked.
Frank Finlay says something scientific. Peter Firth does his best James Bond as some weird secret service guy with bad hair and a "don't fuck with me, I've done Shakespeare" attitude.. Steve Railsback, who I've never heard of and who looks like the love child of Charles Manson and Eleanor Roosevelt, walks around with a perpetual expression of pissed confusion. He was captain of the original spaceship and has this hot Vulcan mind-mend thing with NHAC. He even has a dream about her coming to his bed and inviting him to do a little hot naked alien Charleston and is such a wuss that he wakes up screaming. As he was under video observation by everyone on the planet, I suppose it's probably best he didn't get a woody. But really? HNAC wants to do you baby and that's a nightmare?
Meanwhile they finally remember the naked male aliens, who look like gay love twins. They last all of about 15 seconds until they start to do the vampire zombie come-hither dance at which point the SAS plug them with 321 bullets. (I counted.) So much for the naked male aliens who weren't that hot and not much naked either.
The rest of the movie involves hot chick picking up bloated old guy in a beat-up Volvo, Patrick Stewart (!) practically mincing as the head of an insane asylum where a gigantic male nurse will pump anyone full of sodium pentathol provided anyone in the world who outranks him tells him to. We find out the Peter Firth character is a natural voyeur and that if some reincarnated guard un-dies again in the exact way Frank Finlay predicted that Frank's sympathetic response is basically "I told you so." We get Captain Steve slapping some hapless nurse and getting damned close to kissing Patrick Stewart because HNFA is inside Patrick and old Steve has this love/hate thing going on with her. Oh and we learn the valuable lesson that if you lurk in parks hoping to see some girl-on-girl action that you're liable to find a sucked-out body.
I think we lost interest after the "are you Captain Picard or are you HNAC?" pseudo-kiss so I have no clue, nor any interest, in how it ends. But I have to wonder how they got so many good actors (plus music by Henry Mancini) to participate in such a huge cinematic pile of doo-doo/
In a fit of lazy lunacy the other day, Husband and I spent the entire day in bed. We watched two good movies (Ghostbusters, and Still of the Night), 20-minutes of a crappy movie (The Mist), and about an hour of a truly memorable extra-crappy movie Lifeforce.
We didn't make it through the whole thing, but here's the plot: spaceship finds three naked aliens in Halley's Comet. One female, two male. Group of astronauts spends moments ogling the hot naked female alien in her glass coffin. They don't even seem to notice the guys. Naked aliens brought on ship. Again, camera shows us hot naked female alien (hereafter known as HNFA). Spaceship doesn't come home so rescue ship goes up. Inside of ship crispy. Inside and outside of crew, crispy. Naked aliens in glass coffins fine thank you. Everyone comes home to England where the two naked guys are ignored but HNFA is, of course, put in a separate room. Horny guard comes in for a closer ogle, HNFA wakes up and sucks the life out of him. Unnamed scientist sees this on the security cam and runs through 17 doors to do his own tonsil dance with HNFA. Luckily she just tires him out, doesn't do the life suck thing. HNFA wanders through headquarters where more security guards try to offer her a sammich. Not interested in a midnight snack, she does a little zap-dance and leaves. Still naked.
Frank Finlay says something scientific. Peter Firth does his best James Bond as some weird secret service guy with bad hair and a "don't fuck with me, I've done Shakespeare" attitude.. Steve Railsback, who I've never heard of and who looks like the love child of Charles Manson and Eleanor Roosevelt, walks around with a perpetual expression of pissed confusion. He was captain of the original spaceship and has this hot Vulcan mind-mend thing with NHAC. He even has a dream about her coming to his bed and inviting him to do a little hot naked alien Charleston and is such a wuss that he wakes up screaming. As he was under video observation by everyone on the planet, I suppose it's probably best he didn't get a woody. But really? HNAC wants to do you baby and that's a nightmare?
Meanwhile they finally remember the naked male aliens, who look like gay love twins. They last all of about 15 seconds until they start to do the vampire zombie come-hither dance at which point the SAS plug them with 321 bullets. (I counted.) So much for the naked male aliens who weren't that hot and not much naked either.
The rest of the movie involves hot chick picking up bloated old guy in a beat-up Volvo, Patrick Stewart (!) practically mincing as the head of an insane asylum where a gigantic male nurse will pump anyone full of sodium pentathol provided anyone in the world who outranks him tells him to. We find out the Peter Firth character is a natural voyeur and that if some reincarnated guard un-dies again in the exact way Frank Finlay predicted that Frank's sympathetic response is basically "I told you so." We get Captain Steve slapping some hapless nurse and getting damned close to kissing Patrick Stewart because HNFA is inside Patrick and old Steve has this love/hate thing going on with her. Oh and we learn the valuable lesson that if you lurk in parks hoping to see some girl-on-girl action that you're liable to find a sucked-out body.
I think we lost interest after the "are you Captain Picard or are you HNAC?" pseudo-kiss so I have no clue, nor any interest, in how it ends. But I have to wonder how they got so many good actors (plus music by Henry Mancini) to participate in such a huge cinematic pile of doo-doo/
Monday, September 07, 2009
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Friday, September 04, 2009
Photo of the day: Go Ahead...Pounce
This little guy in the kitten nursery hasn't gotten the knack of pouncing. He's great at getting down low. So low you can't see his body. But then he'd just stay there, for minutes. It wasn't like he was curling up to nap because he had that "big eyes following all the action" head swivel going on. His siblings were chasing a pipe cleaner and this one was fascinated by it. But he never attacked....just sat there looking as menacing as possible (meaning not at all). So cute.
This little guy in the kitten nursery hasn't gotten the knack of pouncing. He's great at getting down low. So low you can't see his body. But then he'd just stay there, for minutes. It wasn't like he was curling up to nap because he had that "big eyes following all the action" head swivel going on. His siblings were chasing a pipe cleaner and this one was fascinated by it. But he never attacked....just sat there looking as menacing as possible (meaning not at all). So cute.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
My Shameful Secrets
I saw an ad on TV the other night for a bra that had as its big selling point "special privacy panels." What they meant was "extra fabric over the nipples."
Here's the deal. I have nipples. Phew, so glad I got that out. I also sweat (because if I don't, I explode). And yet there are all these companies that want me to spend money hiding such natural things. Everybody in the world has nipples. Big shock. Why should I pay extra for a bra to hide them? I mean it's not like I walk around with erect nipples all the time. And sure, I don't want to smell like a locker room. But when it's hot (like today) I sweat. Yes, I wear deodorant. But there's an ad that shows these women embarrassed to raise their arms because of sweat under their arms. Oh, how shameful! OK, who is that fussy?
People are weird. They get all freaked out by whatever Madison Avenue tells them to get freaked out about. Obviously I don't want to offend anyone with my BO, but I'm not going to stop picking up cats because someone might see that my shirt is damp (it was close to 90 today for goodness sake!). Sorry, but I just can't get upset because I have a body.
I saw an ad on TV the other night for a bra that had as its big selling point "special privacy panels." What they meant was "extra fabric over the nipples."
Here's the deal. I have nipples. Phew, so glad I got that out. I also sweat (because if I don't, I explode). And yet there are all these companies that want me to spend money hiding such natural things. Everybody in the world has nipples. Big shock. Why should I pay extra for a bra to hide them? I mean it's not like I walk around with erect nipples all the time. And sure, I don't want to smell like a locker room. But when it's hot (like today) I sweat. Yes, I wear deodorant. But there's an ad that shows these women embarrassed to raise their arms because of sweat under their arms. Oh, how shameful! OK, who is that fussy?
People are weird. They get all freaked out by whatever Madison Avenue tells them to get freaked out about. Obviously I don't want to offend anyone with my BO, but I'm not going to stop picking up cats because someone might see that my shirt is damp (it was close to 90 today for goodness sake!). Sorry, but I just can't get upset because I have a body.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
It's Official
I'm a freak. I'm a crazy cat lady. I don't have 11 cats at home. I don't have cutesy cat towels or wall hangings. But I am a freak.
Today Husband and I went to the pet store to pick up food for Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) and I also bought three containers of cat treats and two large jars of catnip.
Cipher doesn't like either.
Yeah, they're for the shelter cats. I spent nearly an hour stuffing catnip into baby socks (which I also bought) to make little catnip toys for the kitties. I just love being able to give the kitties treats when I'm there. So even though I don't have enough time to socialize all the cats I'd like to, I'm still able to brighten their day with a bit of a snack or some kitty-drugs. You wouldn't believe how happy it makes them. How they perk up. And for cats that don't get out enough or get nearly enough attention, doing anything to break the monotony is a great thing.
I'm a freak. I'm a crazy cat lady. I don't have 11 cats at home. I don't have cutesy cat towels or wall hangings. But I am a freak.
Today Husband and I went to the pet store to pick up food for Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) and I also bought three containers of cat treats and two large jars of catnip.
Cipher doesn't like either.
Yeah, they're for the shelter cats. I spent nearly an hour stuffing catnip into baby socks (which I also bought) to make little catnip toys for the kitties. I just love being able to give the kitties treats when I'm there. So even though I don't have enough time to socialize all the cats I'd like to, I'm still able to brighten their day with a bit of a snack or some kitty-drugs. You wouldn't believe how happy it makes them. How they perk up. And for cats that don't get out enough or get nearly enough attention, doing anything to break the monotony is a great thing.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Photo of the day: Vigilance
She never gets tired of keeping watch. She stands firm in the rain and withers not in with the baking sun. She carries your name, announcing your identity when you can no longer announce for yourself. And through it all, she pays no attention to the flowers growing around her lifeless feet and over your sightless eyes.
She never gets tired of keeping watch. She stands firm in the rain and withers not in with the baking sun. She carries your name, announcing your identity when you can no longer announce for yourself. And through it all, she pays no attention to the flowers growing around her lifeless feet and over your sightless eyes.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Updates from the Shelter
It's been another busy week in the world of cat caretaking. 29 kittens in the nursery. Countless cats in the adoption area. I worked with many new faces this week, plus some old favorites. It's weirdly hot and humid today, so many of the cats were grumpy....especially the ones outside. I worked with two red cats today and had my most successful session ever with one of the guys who gives me trouble.
"Joe" tends to get hissy, swatty, and bitey and I haven't been able to figure out his triggers. Today I was extra watchful of his body language and noticed this tiny ear twitch that he gives before he turns. Because of that I was able to stop petting him before he got over stimulated. Everything was fine until I picked him up to bring him back and he became hissing, yowling cat from hell. Luckily one of the other volunteers was nearby so she opened doors for me, which made the return much easier.
One of the other red cats is a shy girl. Having learned my lesson from "Joe" I put her carrier down right in front of her cage. To my surprise, she jumped right in when I opened the door. Nice trick. Once in the socializing room she explored a bit, would come by for a pet and then wander away once more. After about 10 minutes of this she curled up in my lap and began to purr like a Ferrari. I think she eventually dozed off, having curled herself into a perfect ball. I had her out for 30 minutes because I just couldn't bring myself to disturb her. Once I did move again she jumped down and, to my surprise, hopped into her box again. She's so sweet and such a lovely girl.
Words cannot express how much I love volunteering there. And days like this, when your patience is rewarded with a shy girl making herself welcome in your lap, are the kind of days when this is the best paying job in the world.
It's been another busy week in the world of cat caretaking. 29 kittens in the nursery. Countless cats in the adoption area. I worked with many new faces this week, plus some old favorites. It's weirdly hot and humid today, so many of the cats were grumpy....especially the ones outside. I worked with two red cats today and had my most successful session ever with one of the guys who gives me trouble.
"Joe" tends to get hissy, swatty, and bitey and I haven't been able to figure out his triggers. Today I was extra watchful of his body language and noticed this tiny ear twitch that he gives before he turns. Because of that I was able to stop petting him before he got over stimulated. Everything was fine until I picked him up to bring him back and he became hissing, yowling cat from hell. Luckily one of the other volunteers was nearby so she opened doors for me, which made the return much easier.
One of the other red cats is a shy girl. Having learned my lesson from "Joe" I put her carrier down right in front of her cage. To my surprise, she jumped right in when I opened the door. Nice trick. Once in the socializing room she explored a bit, would come by for a pet and then wander away once more. After about 10 minutes of this she curled up in my lap and began to purr like a Ferrari. I think she eventually dozed off, having curled herself into a perfect ball. I had her out for 30 minutes because I just couldn't bring myself to disturb her. Once I did move again she jumped down and, to my surprise, hopped into her box again. She's so sweet and such a lovely girl.
Words cannot express how much I love volunteering there. And days like this, when your patience is rewarded with a shy girl making herself welcome in your lap, are the kind of days when this is the best paying job in the world.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Things I Believed When I Was a Kid...
- I thought the word "signed" was actually written on all those notes and letters people read in movies. "See you in two weeks. Signed, John."
- I thought alligator was pronounced "all-a-ga-tor-ay." Must have thought they were Italian.
- I thought there was one really, really long street in California called "Frontage Road."
- I thought that stars hummed and the really twinkly ones were humming the loudest.
- I had a hard time with the concept of the past and aging. So I'd see a handsome photo of Robert Taylor from the 40's and think he was gorgeous had to do be convinced that at that point he was either dead or 80.
- I didn't hear whatever good stuff my parents said about me but I heard loud and clear all the bad.
-I couldn't handle the "L part of my fist name and said my name was"wisa" My siblings would correct me "no it's LLLL-isa! So then I'd say "ULLLLL Weesa" I still get teased about this.
- I thought the word "signed" was actually written on all those notes and letters people read in movies. "See you in two weeks. Signed, John."
- I thought alligator was pronounced "all-a-ga-tor-ay." Must have thought they were Italian.
- I thought there was one really, really long street in California called "Frontage Road."
- I thought that stars hummed and the really twinkly ones were humming the loudest.
- I had a hard time with the concept of the past and aging. So I'd see a handsome photo of Robert Taylor from the 40's and think he was gorgeous had to do be convinced that at that point he was either dead or 80.
- I didn't hear whatever good stuff my parents said about me but I heard loud and clear all the bad.
-I couldn't handle the "L part of my fist name and said my name was"wisa" My siblings would correct me "no it's LLLL-isa! So then I'd say "ULLLLL Weesa" I still get teased about this.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Art Show
The Silver Creek Arts Guild was, unfortunately, one of the most popular and certainly the most prolific club in town. They met once a week to gossip and, ostensibly, to work. I could never understand how everyone worked at once because they all seemed to have different mediums. At any one time you’d walk into the rec center and see Mrs. Hodges turning lumps of clay into differently-shaped lumps of clay or Mrs. Morgenstern painting yet another pastel seascape that would look exactly like the last pastel seascape.
Each season they had a “showing” which typically featured paintings with no perspective, slightly boring and out-of-focus photographs, and the occasional still life with unappetizing fruit. To see these still lifes you would assume that no one in Silver Creek had ever seen real fruit. They bore no resemblance in either shape or color to any fruit known to man.
Sadly for us, dreadful Aunt Camille was a member of the Guild and expected us to attend every show Her artistic oeuvre seemed limited to malformed ballet dancers or anemic poodles who always seemed to have either not enough or too many limbs. She would only branch out when the Guild would do themes. I remember for the “Childhood Dreams” theme she contributed a nightmarish series of scenes from Mother Goose that, quite frankly, scared the crap out of me when I was 6. I recall actually shrieking the following Christmas when I unwrapped her watercolor of The Old Man and the Shoe and, subsequently, I had to coaxed out from under the dining room table by my father before the rest of the gifts could be unwrapped.
The spring flowers show was a much-detested annual event and produced some exemplary pieces of horticultural horrors. I think I attribute my dislike of flowers to early exposure to oddly colored blobs of paint thrown on top of dead-fingers of stalk. They were universally awful and I was comforted to know that I was not alone in my hatred of the spring show above all others. I would typically try to get the flu that week. Once, when I was 14, I actually kissed 8-year old Benny Martin on the lips because he had strep throat I wanted to get sick enough to had an excuse to miss the show.
The amusing thing about these shows is that everybody won a ribbon. We had blue ribbons for first place of course, and red and white for second and third. But we had so many shows in town for so many various things (ranging from growing the largest watermelon to the best costume in the Halloween parade) that the city never could afford to have the name of the event put on the ribbon. Silver Creek bought them in bulk so all they said was “First Prize”. Not “First Prize, Spring Art Show.” Eventually everyone in town had a ribbon for doing, growing, or making something, even if it were just for showing up to the event.
Aunt Camille always won at least one blue ribbon per competition because everyone was afraid not to. I remember looking at one of her malformed ballerinas, and the combination of elongated body and disregard for perspective made me feel as if I were standing down a steep hill and looking up at a fun house mirror. I was vaguely seasick form the battling viewpoints and lines and kept finding myself leaning slightly back and forth to orient myself. I pointed this out to my friend Gina and we noticed that other people did the same thing. Eventually we stood in a corner and giggled as we watched everyone in town pause, look, and weave.
The landscape show was notorious for several unique and decidedly phallic geographic formations and bleak winter landscapes so depressing that the suicide hotline had an upswing in calls. Aunt Camille’s contribution that year was entitled “The Mighty Mississippi,” which she had never seen, depicted in an unlikely turquoise blue more suitable for the Caribbean. This wound through an idyllic, Mark Twain-esque dreamscape of weeping willows, rounded hills, and blue sky. Unfortunately her trees looked like green cigars, the hills looked like two breasts, and the sky was filled with clouds shaped like barnyard animals.
The only really good artist in town was Dr. Foster. But he only painted trout. That’s it. Not even other fish, just trout. And always dead. No mater what the theme Dr. Foster would contribute a trout painting. They were exquisite in detail and execution, but they were, after all, only dead trout.
The Silver Creek Arts Guild was, unfortunately, one of the most popular and certainly the most prolific club in town. They met once a week to gossip and, ostensibly, to work. I could never understand how everyone worked at once because they all seemed to have different mediums. At any one time you’d walk into the rec center and see Mrs. Hodges turning lumps of clay into differently-shaped lumps of clay or Mrs. Morgenstern painting yet another pastel seascape that would look exactly like the last pastel seascape.
Each season they had a “showing” which typically featured paintings with no perspective, slightly boring and out-of-focus photographs, and the occasional still life with unappetizing fruit. To see these still lifes you would assume that no one in Silver Creek had ever seen real fruit. They bore no resemblance in either shape or color to any fruit known to man.
Sadly for us, dreadful Aunt Camille was a member of the Guild and expected us to attend every show Her artistic oeuvre seemed limited to malformed ballet dancers or anemic poodles who always seemed to have either not enough or too many limbs. She would only branch out when the Guild would do themes. I remember for the “Childhood Dreams” theme she contributed a nightmarish series of scenes from Mother Goose that, quite frankly, scared the crap out of me when I was 6. I recall actually shrieking the following Christmas when I unwrapped her watercolor of The Old Man and the Shoe and, subsequently, I had to coaxed out from under the dining room table by my father before the rest of the gifts could be unwrapped.
The spring flowers show was a much-detested annual event and produced some exemplary pieces of horticultural horrors. I think I attribute my dislike of flowers to early exposure to oddly colored blobs of paint thrown on top of dead-fingers of stalk. They were universally awful and I was comforted to know that I was not alone in my hatred of the spring show above all others. I would typically try to get the flu that week. Once, when I was 14, I actually kissed 8-year old Benny Martin on the lips because he had strep throat I wanted to get sick enough to had an excuse to miss the show.
The amusing thing about these shows is that everybody won a ribbon. We had blue ribbons for first place of course, and red and white for second and third. But we had so many shows in town for so many various things (ranging from growing the largest watermelon to the best costume in the Halloween parade) that the city never could afford to have the name of the event put on the ribbon. Silver Creek bought them in bulk so all they said was “First Prize”. Not “First Prize, Spring Art Show.” Eventually everyone in town had a ribbon for doing, growing, or making something, even if it were just for showing up to the event.
Aunt Camille always won at least one blue ribbon per competition because everyone was afraid not to. I remember looking at one of her malformed ballerinas, and the combination of elongated body and disregard for perspective made me feel as if I were standing down a steep hill and looking up at a fun house mirror. I was vaguely seasick form the battling viewpoints and lines and kept finding myself leaning slightly back and forth to orient myself. I pointed this out to my friend Gina and we noticed that other people did the same thing. Eventually we stood in a corner and giggled as we watched everyone in town pause, look, and weave.
The landscape show was notorious for several unique and decidedly phallic geographic formations and bleak winter landscapes so depressing that the suicide hotline had an upswing in calls. Aunt Camille’s contribution that year was entitled “The Mighty Mississippi,” which she had never seen, depicted in an unlikely turquoise blue more suitable for the Caribbean. This wound through an idyllic, Mark Twain-esque dreamscape of weeping willows, rounded hills, and blue sky. Unfortunately her trees looked like green cigars, the hills looked like two breasts, and the sky was filled with clouds shaped like barnyard animals.
The only really good artist in town was Dr. Foster. But he only painted trout. That’s it. Not even other fish, just trout. And always dead. No mater what the theme Dr. Foster would contribute a trout painting. They were exquisite in detail and execution, but they were, after all, only dead trout.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Pondering
After ten years on the air I'm considering giving up my radio show. I just don't look forward to doing my show every week the way that I should. And I'm beginning to feel guilty about taking up a primo spot for so long when so many people want it. But another part of me can't imagine not being on the air, learning about world music, and hanging out with all the wonderful, crazy people at KZSU.
Perhaps I'm just in a rut. Maybe I need to take a quarter off from world music and play blues. Or do a funk show. I'm not sure. And I haven't made any decisions yet....just thinking.
After ten years on the air I'm considering giving up my radio show. I just don't look forward to doing my show every week the way that I should. And I'm beginning to feel guilty about taking up a primo spot for so long when so many people want it. But another part of me can't imagine not being on the air, learning about world music, and hanging out with all the wonderful, crazy people at KZSU.
Perhaps I'm just in a rut. Maybe I need to take a quarter off from world music and play blues. Or do a funk show. I'm not sure. And I haven't made any decisions yet....just thinking.
Photo of the day: The White Rose
Today is Bosworth Field Day. On this day in 1485, Richard III, the last Plantagenet King of England, was slain at the Battle of Bosworth Field by Henry Tudor, later Henry VII. Don't believe Shakespeare. Old Will was wrong about Richard. He was neither a hunchback nor a murderer. Don't believe me? Find out for yourself. The white rose was the symbol for the House of York, of which Richard was a member.
Today is Bosworth Field Day. On this day in 1485, Richard III, the last Plantagenet King of England, was slain at the Battle of Bosworth Field by Henry Tudor, later Henry VII. Don't believe Shakespeare. Old Will was wrong about Richard. He was neither a hunchback nor a murderer. Don't believe me? Find out for yourself. The white rose was the symbol for the House of York, of which Richard was a member.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Photo of the day: The Escape Artist
She's figured out how to slide open the cage door and she's determined to get out. Hilarious to watch in action. It takes all four feet plus her mouth but she's getting better, and faster, at it. We now have to keep the door clipped shut so she can't go all Houdini on us.
She's figured out how to slide open the cage door and she's determined to get out. Hilarious to watch in action. It takes all four feet plus her mouth but she's getting better, and faster, at it. We now have to keep the door clipped shut so she can't go all Houdini on us.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Photo of the day: Openings
I think I managed to concuss myself in the middle of last night. It's a bit fuzzy but I think I was trying to avoid stepping on the cat and ended up going head-first into the fridge. I have a heck of a bump and it's nicely red and ugly. In a few days it will probably look like Husband has been knocking me around. I say the "concussed" part rather than just "whacked the hell out of my head" because I was really groggy this morning and, in fact, have no recollection of Husband kissing me goodbye. However, dear friends, I am fine (this is just one of the hazards of being a klutz) and this statement has nothing to do with today's photo. Just thought I'd mention it.
Wishing you all a bump-free day.
I think I managed to concuss myself in the middle of last night. It's a bit fuzzy but I think I was trying to avoid stepping on the cat and ended up going head-first into the fridge. I have a heck of a bump and it's nicely red and ugly. In a few days it will probably look like Husband has been knocking me around. I say the "concussed" part rather than just "whacked the hell out of my head" because I was really groggy this morning and, in fact, have no recollection of Husband kissing me goodbye. However, dear friends, I am fine (this is just one of the hazards of being a klutz) and this statement has nothing to do with today's photo. Just thought I'd mention it.
Wishing you all a bump-free day.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Catching Up
If zombies attack, we are all hosed according to science
.....
$10 million dollars because Hondas aren't tornado proof? Lady, you can't sue people because you're a fucking idiot.
.....
Who says teenagers aren't brainy? How about classes in riding the bus.
If zombies attack, we are all hosed according to science
.....
$10 million dollars because Hondas aren't tornado proof? Lady, you can't sue people because you're a fucking idiot.
.....
Who says teenagers aren't brainy? How about classes in riding the bus.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Dog Show
We had a variety of pets growing up. A black cat named Bishop. A parakeet named Maynard. Various guinea pigs and hamsters. But only one dog; a black, scruffy mutt named Caruso.
I honestly cannot recall where Caruso came from, whether we adopted him from the pound or found him as a stray; but come he did and he stayed. Caruso was one of the most ill trained dogs ever. Whenever we took him off the leash he would run away. He never learned to sit or fetch or do any of those dog tricks. But he was madly loveable and so ugly-cute that you couldn’t help but be charmed.
He had free reign of our back yard, and a long leash in the front. All the neighbors knew him and so too, luckily, did the mailman. For one time Caruso got loose and was gone for hours. I was frantic, until the mailman drove up with Caruso sitting proudly in the mail truck, tail waving, barking happily.
I suppose I was about 7 or 8 when a national dog food company sponsored a dog show in the parking lot of the supermarket. There was a cute dog category so, of course, I had to enter Caruso.
In spite of his protests I bathed and combed him until his scruffy hair was slightly less scruffy, put him on his leash, and headed downtown. There amid the purebred pups I strutted with him. Well, technically I pulled him and then he pulled me. While Mrs. Albreckson walked her annoying Pekingese like she was at Westminster, and the annoying Pekingese acted like she was one of the Queen’s corgis, I dragged poor Caruso in front of the town. Of course, being Caruso, he misbehaved. He stopped to pee. He barked at the crowd. When the judge walked by Caruso rolled over to have his tummy scratched. And he sniffed the crotch of the man next to me with a neurotic Poodle.
Since Caruso was well known in town, he had his fair share of admirers in the crowd. In fact the mailman was there, cheering him on. But, alas, he had no chance amongst his well-behaved, well-groomed brethren. But the judge, taking pity on either the clueless child or the careless dog, awarded us an Honorable Mention ribbon, which Caruso promptly tried to eat. I was so proud of that ribbon. It was the first thing I’d ever won, even if it was won by my dog.
We had a variety of pets growing up. A black cat named Bishop. A parakeet named Maynard. Various guinea pigs and hamsters. But only one dog; a black, scruffy mutt named Caruso.
I honestly cannot recall where Caruso came from, whether we adopted him from the pound or found him as a stray; but come he did and he stayed. Caruso was one of the most ill trained dogs ever. Whenever we took him off the leash he would run away. He never learned to sit or fetch or do any of those dog tricks. But he was madly loveable and so ugly-cute that you couldn’t help but be charmed.
He had free reign of our back yard, and a long leash in the front. All the neighbors knew him and so too, luckily, did the mailman. For one time Caruso got loose and was gone for hours. I was frantic, until the mailman drove up with Caruso sitting proudly in the mail truck, tail waving, barking happily.
I suppose I was about 7 or 8 when a national dog food company sponsored a dog show in the parking lot of the supermarket. There was a cute dog category so, of course, I had to enter Caruso.
In spite of his protests I bathed and combed him until his scruffy hair was slightly less scruffy, put him on his leash, and headed downtown. There amid the purebred pups I strutted with him. Well, technically I pulled him and then he pulled me. While Mrs. Albreckson walked her annoying Pekingese like she was at Westminster, and the annoying Pekingese acted like she was one of the Queen’s corgis, I dragged poor Caruso in front of the town. Of course, being Caruso, he misbehaved. He stopped to pee. He barked at the crowd. When the judge walked by Caruso rolled over to have his tummy scratched. And he sniffed the crotch of the man next to me with a neurotic Poodle.
Since Caruso was well known in town, he had his fair share of admirers in the crowd. In fact the mailman was there, cheering him on. But, alas, he had no chance amongst his well-behaved, well-groomed brethren. But the judge, taking pity on either the clueless child or the careless dog, awarded us an Honorable Mention ribbon, which Caruso promptly tried to eat. I was so proud of that ribbon. It was the first thing I’d ever won, even if it was won by my dog.
Photo of the day: Floral Arrangement or Murder Weapon -- You Decide
No clue what these berries are. They look like something growing on a hedge in St. Mary Mead (Miss Marple's village) that she would immediately point out with some quaint name like "oh yes, that's known as the misstress killer. So called after Miriam Clethorne died must unexpectedly right after it became common knowledge that she'd been seen holding hands with Dr. Richardson."
I'd stay away from nibbling on this just in case you've been cheating on someone and have a Miss Marple around.
No clue what these berries are. They look like something growing on a hedge in St. Mary Mead (Miss Marple's village) that she would immediately point out with some quaint name like "oh yes, that's known as the misstress killer. So called after Miriam Clethorne died must unexpectedly right after it became common knowledge that she'd been seen holding hands with Dr. Richardson."
I'd stay away from nibbling on this just in case you've been cheating on someone and have a Miss Marple around.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Eavesdropping
Overheard at the shelter. For those of you not from around here there's a wildfire in a place called Bonny Doon, in the Santa Cruz mountains, not too far from here:
Guy 1: Have you heard about the fire in Bonny Doon?
Guy 2: No, what about it?
Guy 1: Um...well, that's it really. There's a fire in Bonny Doon.
Guy 2: (Obviously full of concern): Do you think I should grow a beard?
Overheard at the shelter. For those of you not from around here there's a wildfire in a place called Bonny Doon, in the Santa Cruz mountains, not too far from here:
Guy 1: Have you heard about the fire in Bonny Doon?
Guy 2: No, what about it?
Guy 1: Um...well, that's it really. There's a fire in Bonny Doon.
Guy 2: (Obviously full of concern): Do you think I should grow a beard?
Photo of the day: Ground Cover
Oh the secrets scurrying amid the leaves and stones. Coffee-colored salamanders with zipper-fast speed moving too fast for a cheap camera to focus. Small mice chattering around mouths full of fallen berries. Tiny brown birds looking suspiciously inconspicuous poking amid the leavings for worms and other delicacies. One man's fallen brush is, to another, an afternoon buffet. Champagne extra, of course.
Oh the secrets scurrying amid the leaves and stones. Coffee-colored salamanders with zipper-fast speed moving too fast for a cheap camera to focus. Small mice chattering around mouths full of fallen berries. Tiny brown birds looking suspiciously inconspicuous poking amid the leavings for worms and other delicacies. One man's fallen brush is, to another, an afternoon buffet. Champagne extra, of course.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Snow White and the 7 Cats
There are currently seven cats in our backyard. I tried to photograph all of them but two are in the shade and I just couldn't get a good shot. But I did catch five of them, including all three brown tabbies.
Two brown tabbies and the Siamese-y one.
One of the orange tabbies and the third brown tabby.
There are currently seven cats in our backyard. I tried to photograph all of them but two are in the shade and I just couldn't get a good shot. But I did catch five of them, including all three brown tabbies.
Two brown tabbies and the Siamese-y one.
One of the orange tabbies and the third brown tabby.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Talky Crew
I went to cat duty today. I never go on Tuesday and I think I now know why; it's the talky day. Very nice people who won't shut up. Volunteers, not customers, which is what made it so strange. All I wanted to do was hang with the kitties and give them extra love and it turned into Chatfest 2009.
There was the volunteer who kept asking me about Lola* (*All the cat names have been changed to protect the innocent.) Lola is a "red cat" who can be a real handful. She takes all your attention. So having some woman asking you, in one breath (take a big breath here and read this out loud): "How long have you been a volunteer? Do you work only with red cats? Have you worked with Lola before? How do you know what to expect? Do you shave or wax your bikini line?" (OK, I made the last one up.) But she wanted to know all about working with Lola. Which is fine....just not when I'm working withLola. Ask me later. But distracting me when I'm working with a cat known for biting the limbs off unsuspecting volunteers is not the way to endear yourself to me. To make matters worse, her constant chatter freaked out poor Lola, who then took it out on me. I had to cut the visit short, without taking her out of her cage, because she was getting so stressed from two people looking at her.
Then there was Mr. Nice Guy. Who really was nice but who also came into the rooms when I was doing one-on-one with the cats to give them some two-on-one, which sounds dirty but really wasn't. I'm not sure why he didn't just take his own cats out, but this volunteer apparently just wanted to hang and chat so he kept coming in where I was. Odd. Um, hello, there are dozens of cats that need attention so why are you ignoring them to be with me and the cat that I'm socializing? He came in when I was with Milo*, one of my favorite cats, and completely ruined my rhythm. With Milo there's a ritual. First play, then catnip, finally pets and combing. But when Mr. Nice Guy came in during catnip time Milo didn't know what to do? Do I go back to playing? Is it petting time? Who is this man and why is he here? I didn't want to be rude, but I was wondering why he didn't go get his own cat. (And before you think "hitting on you" he was about 70 and talked a lot about his wife.)
Finally there was the volunteer who told me WAY too much about herself. I mean sure, make polite small talk. Say hi. Discuss the cats. But for the love of cheese do not tell me about your divorce, your shoulder operation, your much younger boyfriend, your cat's digestive problems, and why you think your church choir director is having an affair. I mean I don't know your name and now I know how often Mr. Fluffy poops. Thanks, really needed to know that.
For me the oddest one of the day wasn't one of the volunteer's who kept trying to make conversation -- it was the looker. She kept looking through the windows of the room where I was socializing cats. When I went into one of the cat condos, she looked. When I was socializing a cat in her cage because all the rooms were busy, she looked. It was kind of freaking me out? Was my fly open? Did she think I was hot? Did she think I was going to try some weird voodoo experiment with a cat, a chicken, a black candle and some bastardized Latin?
I think I'll stick to my regular cat socializing days. Tuesdays are too weird.
I went to cat duty today. I never go on Tuesday and I think I now know why; it's the talky day. Very nice people who won't shut up. Volunteers, not customers, which is what made it so strange. All I wanted to do was hang with the kitties and give them extra love and it turned into Chatfest 2009.
There was the volunteer who kept asking me about Lola* (*All the cat names have been changed to protect the innocent.) Lola is a "red cat" who can be a real handful. She takes all your attention. So having some woman asking you, in one breath (take a big breath here and read this out loud): "How long have you been a volunteer? Do you work only with red cats? Have you worked with Lola before? How do you know what to expect? Do you shave or wax your bikini line?" (OK, I made the last one up.) But she wanted to know all about working with Lola. Which is fine....just not when I'm working withLola. Ask me later. But distracting me when I'm working with a cat known for biting the limbs off unsuspecting volunteers is not the way to endear yourself to me. To make matters worse, her constant chatter freaked out poor Lola, who then took it out on me. I had to cut the visit short, without taking her out of her cage, because she was getting so stressed from two people looking at her.
Then there was Mr. Nice Guy. Who really was nice but who also came into the rooms when I was doing one-on-one with the cats to give them some two-on-one, which sounds dirty but really wasn't. I'm not sure why he didn't just take his own cats out, but this volunteer apparently just wanted to hang and chat so he kept coming in where I was. Odd. Um, hello, there are dozens of cats that need attention so why are you ignoring them to be with me and the cat that I'm socializing? He came in when I was with Milo*, one of my favorite cats, and completely ruined my rhythm. With Milo there's a ritual. First play, then catnip, finally pets and combing. But when Mr. Nice Guy came in during catnip time Milo didn't know what to do? Do I go back to playing? Is it petting time? Who is this man and why is he here? I didn't want to be rude, but I was wondering why he didn't go get his own cat. (And before you think "hitting on you" he was about 70 and talked a lot about his wife.)
Finally there was the volunteer who told me WAY too much about herself. I mean sure, make polite small talk. Say hi. Discuss the cats. But for the love of cheese do not tell me about your divorce, your shoulder operation, your much younger boyfriend, your cat's digestive problems, and why you think your church choir director is having an affair. I mean I don't know your name and now I know how often Mr. Fluffy poops. Thanks, really needed to know that.
For me the oddest one of the day wasn't one of the volunteer's who kept trying to make conversation -- it was the looker. She kept looking through the windows of the room where I was socializing cats. When I went into one of the cat condos, she looked. When I was socializing a cat in her cage because all the rooms were busy, she looked. It was kind of freaking me out? Was my fly open? Did she think I was hot? Did she think I was going to try some weird voodoo experiment with a cat, a chicken, a black candle and some bastardized Latin?
I think I'll stick to my regular cat socializing days. Tuesdays are too weird.
Photos of the day: Cuteness X 2
Two charmers from the kitten nursery. These two won't be around long once they're up for adoption.
I'm skipping my radio show tonight so I can pull some extra cat duty today. The shelter is desperately short of cat TLC-ers right now (I think people are on vacation) and there are so many kitties who need the attention so I'm heading off to spend a few hours doing what I love.
Two charmers from the kitten nursery. These two won't be around long once they're up for adoption.
I'm skipping my radio show tonight so I can pull some extra cat duty today. The shelter is desperately short of cat TLC-ers right now (I think people are on vacation) and there are so many kitties who need the attention so I'm heading off to spend a few hours doing what I love.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Today in the Kitten Nursery
The usual suspects of cuteness. This guy was extra snuggly, in spite of the heat. More pictures on Flickr.
The usual suspects of cuteness. This guy was extra snuggly, in spite of the heat. More pictures on Flickr.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
The Parade Continues
The neighborhood cats continue to confound and congregate in our yard. We recently discovered that the one brown tabby we kept seeing was actually two brown tabbies. I have just discovered that they are, in fact, three brown tabbies. I tried to take a photo of the three of them, but our own little brown tabby got in the way.
I have also found that the black cat is two black cats. That makes:
3 brown tabbies
2 black cats
2 orange cats
1 gray cat
2 calico cats
2 black and white cats
1 siamese-y looking cat
That regularly hang out in our yard. Apparently our yard smells like free tuna.
The neighborhood cats continue to confound and congregate in our yard. We recently discovered that the one brown tabby we kept seeing was actually two brown tabbies. I have just discovered that they are, in fact, three brown tabbies. I tried to take a photo of the three of them, but our own little brown tabby got in the way.
I have also found that the black cat is two black cats. That makes:
3 brown tabbies
2 black cats
2 orange cats
1 gray cat
2 calico cats
2 black and white cats
1 siamese-y looking cat
That regularly hang out in our yard. Apparently our yard smells like free tuna.
Scenes from Silver Creek: Johnnie’s
Johnnie’s was a family restaurant owned by a friend of my father. Johnnie Cannazaro and my dad grew up a few blocks away from each other; beat each other at baseball beat each other up over girls, eventually served in WWII together. They enlisted together, went to basic together and then ended up in different parts of the war. Afterwards there was some talk of going into business together, but they could never agree on what. My dad wanted to open a garage, but for Johnnie, there was only the idea of opening a restaurant and serving the recipes of his Italian grandmother.
Johnnie’s was the kind of place where you were served massive platters of antipasto before you even ordered, and where they actually had candles in old Chianti bottles. There was no menu, just a blackboard where Miriam, Johnnie’s wife, wrote the day’s offerings in pink chalk over drawings of misshapen bowls of soup and loaves of bread.
We didn’t often go out to dinner, as it was too expensive for our large family, but when we went, it was to Johnnie’s. As a child, I loved going there because I imagined it was what a celebrity felt like. We’d be greeted with hugs, shown to the best table, and generally fussed over. They’d bring me a Shirley Temple with extra cherries, which I hated but never said because I was afraid if I confessed my detestation for cherries the drinks would stop. And after dinner all us kids got free dessert, a scoop of vanilla ice cream or rainbow sherbet in a cold, silver cup.
It was at Johnnie’s where I first heard the phrase “your money is no good here.” We’d gone there for my mother’s birthday and when my dad went to pay, that’s what Johnnie said. As a kid, I was terrified. What was wrong with my dad’s money? Was it counterfeit? How would we pay for dinner? Would we be arrested? Hell, what did I know; I’d never gotten a free meal before and had no clue what he meant.
My brother Ronnie got a job there as a busboy for two summers in high school, and I remember Johnnie catering my sister Kathleen’s wedding. I also recall my mother sending me out on cold winter nights to pick up take-out containers of Johnnie’s minestrone to which he’s always add (to my immense pleasure) a warm, foil-wrapped plate of garlic bread.
Johnnie retired when I was in high school. He and Miriam had no children and, therefore, no one to leave the restaurant to. But after 30 years of feeding the town, the Cannizaro’s decided they wanted to relax. The last night at Johnnie’s party was full of great food and good memories, and my very first glass of wine. With a “don’t tell your mother” Johnnie passed me a plastic wine glass with Chianti in it and I lifted a toast with everyone else when my father said “to good times.”
I cried when it became a southern café that served pretty good fried chicken and pretty awful biscuits. And to this day I miss that minestrone and garlic bread.
Johnnie’s was a family restaurant owned by a friend of my father. Johnnie Cannazaro and my dad grew up a few blocks away from each other; beat each other at baseball beat each other up over girls, eventually served in WWII together. They enlisted together, went to basic together and then ended up in different parts of the war. Afterwards there was some talk of going into business together, but they could never agree on what. My dad wanted to open a garage, but for Johnnie, there was only the idea of opening a restaurant and serving the recipes of his Italian grandmother.
Johnnie’s was the kind of place where you were served massive platters of antipasto before you even ordered, and where they actually had candles in old Chianti bottles. There was no menu, just a blackboard where Miriam, Johnnie’s wife, wrote the day’s offerings in pink chalk over drawings of misshapen bowls of soup and loaves of bread.
We didn’t often go out to dinner, as it was too expensive for our large family, but when we went, it was to Johnnie’s. As a child, I loved going there because I imagined it was what a celebrity felt like. We’d be greeted with hugs, shown to the best table, and generally fussed over. They’d bring me a Shirley Temple with extra cherries, which I hated but never said because I was afraid if I confessed my detestation for cherries the drinks would stop. And after dinner all us kids got free dessert, a scoop of vanilla ice cream or rainbow sherbet in a cold, silver cup.
It was at Johnnie’s where I first heard the phrase “your money is no good here.” We’d gone there for my mother’s birthday and when my dad went to pay, that’s what Johnnie said. As a kid, I was terrified. What was wrong with my dad’s money? Was it counterfeit? How would we pay for dinner? Would we be arrested? Hell, what did I know; I’d never gotten a free meal before and had no clue what he meant.
My brother Ronnie got a job there as a busboy for two summers in high school, and I remember Johnnie catering my sister Kathleen’s wedding. I also recall my mother sending me out on cold winter nights to pick up take-out containers of Johnnie’s minestrone to which he’s always add (to my immense pleasure) a warm, foil-wrapped plate of garlic bread.
Johnnie retired when I was in high school. He and Miriam had no children and, therefore, no one to leave the restaurant to. But after 30 years of feeding the town, the Cannizaro’s decided they wanted to relax. The last night at Johnnie’s party was full of great food and good memories, and my very first glass of wine. With a “don’t tell your mother” Johnnie passed me a plastic wine glass with Chianti in it and I lifted a toast with everyone else when my father said “to good times.”
I cried when it became a southern café that served pretty good fried chicken and pretty awful biscuits. And to this day I miss that minestrone and garlic bread.
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