Coolest History Lesson Ever!
The mega-talented (and, frankly adorable) Lin-Manuel Miranda (Tony winning writer/composer of In the Heights) performed at a poetry slam at the White House. His Alexander Hamilton hip-hop jam is pure magic. I've watched it half a dozen times and each time it blows me away.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Baby It's Cold Outside
Those of you who live in New Hampshire or Quebec feel no sympathy for my thin Northern California blood. But I'm freezing. You have to expect cold if you live in Maine. San Francisco is not known for it's frigid climate. But we're in the middle of rain and cold and possibly even snow. Yes, snow. Not dusting the hills, but at sea level. We're not talking about a blizzard, obviously, but for those of us used to 60, 47 is really cold.
This is such an odd event that it's top story on the news. Forget unrest in Libya, we're all about the snow. The potential of a quarter inch of snow has become the chief topic of conversation. It takes so little to amuse and interest us.
Tomorrow I'm doing an adoption event which, of course, means I'll be outside walking little peeing dogs in the rain and cold. (I sincerely hope the Pee King of Northern California isn't part of the rota).
Those of you who live in New Hampshire or Quebec feel no sympathy for my thin Northern California blood. But I'm freezing. You have to expect cold if you live in Maine. San Francisco is not known for it's frigid climate. But we're in the middle of rain and cold and possibly even snow. Yes, snow. Not dusting the hills, but at sea level. We're not talking about a blizzard, obviously, but for those of us used to 60, 47 is really cold.
This is such an odd event that it's top story on the news. Forget unrest in Libya, we're all about the snow. The potential of a quarter inch of snow has become the chief topic of conversation. It takes so little to amuse and interest us.
Tomorrow I'm doing an adoption event which, of course, means I'll be outside walking little peeing dogs in the rain and cold. (I sincerely hope the Pee King of Northern California isn't part of the rota).
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Book Group Part Deux
Last night's group did not disappoint. We were evenly split on our opinion of The Thirteenth Tale by Dianne Setterfield. I, Husband, and Mama D found it flawed. The Foreigner, the Lurker, and the Actor all found it a good rainy-day read.
But since many of you seem interested in our picks, I'd like to share with you some of our favorites. These were either universally loved or the majority of the group really liked them.
As mentioned yesterday, I highly recommend Shadow of the EInd by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. It's a thumping good read. A page-turning literary thriller with compelling characters and a captivating plot. It was one of the favorite books we've read and absolutely wonderful.
I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith. A sweet, charming, delightful read about an eccentric family and their lives and loves in a falling-down castle in England. It's a gentle and warm book that's perfect for a cozy read on a rainy day.
A contemporary mystery set in a charming French village, Bruno, Chief of Police by Martin Walker is a delightful read. The characters are delightful (and, thankfully, a sequel has just been released!) and the mystery well -planned and executed. It's a well-written story full of delicious food and words. Get out the brie and baguette, pour yourself a glass of red wine, and settle in for a good read.
Not a book group read but a new discovery by me is Louise Penny, a Canadian author of wild talent and scope. She has a series featuring Chief Inspector Gamache of the Surete du Quebec. The first book in the series is Still Life and it's wonderful. Set in the southern Quebec village of Three Pines you'll be introduced to the quirky characters in the town. You must start with the first and read them in order because there is a continuing story that builds through the series. Her last book actually made me cry is was so beautifully written. Almost poetic at times and yet never lets the mystery side of things down. Absolutely great stuff.
Last night's group did not disappoint. We were evenly split on our opinion of The Thirteenth Tale by Dianne Setterfield. I, Husband, and Mama D found it flawed. The Foreigner, the Lurker, and the Actor all found it a good rainy-day read.
But since many of you seem interested in our picks, I'd like to share with you some of our favorites. These were either universally loved or the majority of the group really liked them.
As mentioned yesterday, I highly recommend Shadow of the EInd by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. It's a thumping good read. A page-turning literary thriller with compelling characters and a captivating plot. It was one of the favorite books we've read and absolutely wonderful.
I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith. A sweet, charming, delightful read about an eccentric family and their lives and loves in a falling-down castle in England. It's a gentle and warm book that's perfect for a cozy read on a rainy day.
A contemporary mystery set in a charming French village, Bruno, Chief of Police by Martin Walker is a delightful read. The characters are delightful (and, thankfully, a sequel has just been released!) and the mystery well -planned and executed. It's a well-written story full of delicious food and words. Get out the brie and baguette, pour yourself a glass of red wine, and settle in for a good read.
Not a book group read but a new discovery by me is Louise Penny, a Canadian author of wild talent and scope. She has a series featuring Chief Inspector Gamache of the Surete du Quebec. The first book in the series is Still Life and it's wonderful. Set in the southern Quebec village of Three Pines you'll be introduced to the quirky characters in the town. You must start with the first and read them in order because there is a continuing story that builds through the series. Her last book actually made me cry is was so beautifully written. Almost poetic at times and yet never lets the mystery side of things down. Absolutely great stuff.
Monday, February 21, 2011
The Third Monday of the Month
For nearly 15 years my book group has met in my living room to eat cheese and cookies and to talk about books, life, and friendship. These are some of the people I love most in the world, and the regular chance to see them once a month makes me happier than I can say.
We've been together through thick (Gravity's Rainbow by Pynchon) and thin (anything other than Gravity's Rainbow). And whether the book delights or appalls, the discussion never fails to entertain.
I love it. I love everything about it. Here are our few rules:
* We only read fiction. Within that broad distinction we've read everything from mysteries to romances, sci-fi to westerns, classics to new so-called masterpieces.
* It can't be part of a series. Everything must be a self-contained book. (We broke this rule once to read the first two Harry Potter novels).
* It has to be something busy people can easily read in a month. We've occasionally read longer books over a two-month period, but for the most part we make sure it's something we can finish.
That's about it. We take turns choosing the books, so we're each on the hot seat once or twice a year to select what we read. And that's probably my favorite part of it all. My friends are all fascinating, intelligent people so over the years they've exposed me to many authors I wouldn't pick up on my own.
And our group is diverse. There have been members who have come and gone (due to death or moving away) but we've always been a mixed blend. Male and female. Gay and straight. Religious and atheist. We have had conservative Republicans and liberal Democrats. We have people who have grown up in wealth and privilege, and people who have grown up on welfare. We're culturally diverse as well. And this diversity makes for wonderful discussions.
There have been some books we've universally hated (each year we give The Bellow Award for our least favorite book -- named in honor of the atrociously dull Humboldt's Gift by Saul Bellow) and books we've universally loved (check out Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Luis Zafron). Mostly we have a nice divide -- enough for a good debate.
There have been some books where we've only found an hour's worth of talk, and we spend the second hour catching up as friends. And those meetings are just as enjoyable as those where we spend the entire two hours debating characters, plot, writing styles, and symbolism.
Sometimes people don't finish the book and they just "come for the cheese." And there have definitely been a few books where the reason people didn't finish wasn't because they ran out of time, but because the book sucked. But it's been a hell of a lot of fun. Going back over the list of titles we've read there are certainly some I cannot recall and yet there are others that I will never forget.
I know several members of my book group check this blog occasionally. And I just want to thank them for all the years of discussions, friendship, and cheese. I love you all.
For nearly 15 years my book group has met in my living room to eat cheese and cookies and to talk about books, life, and friendship. These are some of the people I love most in the world, and the regular chance to see them once a month makes me happier than I can say.
We've been together through thick (Gravity's Rainbow by Pynchon) and thin (anything other than Gravity's Rainbow). And whether the book delights or appalls, the discussion never fails to entertain.
I love it. I love everything about it. Here are our few rules:
* We only read fiction. Within that broad distinction we've read everything from mysteries to romances, sci-fi to westerns, classics to new so-called masterpieces.
* It can't be part of a series. Everything must be a self-contained book. (We broke this rule once to read the first two Harry Potter novels).
* It has to be something busy people can easily read in a month. We've occasionally read longer books over a two-month period, but for the most part we make sure it's something we can finish.
That's about it. We take turns choosing the books, so we're each on the hot seat once or twice a year to select what we read. And that's probably my favorite part of it all. My friends are all fascinating, intelligent people so over the years they've exposed me to many authors I wouldn't pick up on my own.
And our group is diverse. There have been members who have come and gone (due to death or moving away) but we've always been a mixed blend. Male and female. Gay and straight. Religious and atheist. We have had conservative Republicans and liberal Democrats. We have people who have grown up in wealth and privilege, and people who have grown up on welfare. We're culturally diverse as well. And this diversity makes for wonderful discussions.
There have been some books we've universally hated (each year we give The Bellow Award for our least favorite book -- named in honor of the atrociously dull Humboldt's Gift by Saul Bellow) and books we've universally loved (check out Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Luis Zafron). Mostly we have a nice divide -- enough for a good debate.
There have been some books where we've only found an hour's worth of talk, and we spend the second hour catching up as friends. And those meetings are just as enjoyable as those where we spend the entire two hours debating characters, plot, writing styles, and symbolism.
Sometimes people don't finish the book and they just "come for the cheese." And there have definitely been a few books where the reason people didn't finish wasn't because they ran out of time, but because the book sucked. But it's been a hell of a lot of fun. Going back over the list of titles we've read there are certainly some I cannot recall and yet there are others that I will never forget.
I know several members of my book group check this blog occasionally. And I just want to thank them for all the years of discussions, friendship, and cheese. I love you all.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
My Day with the Pee King of San Mateo County
The dog I had charge of during today's mobile adoption was a Chihuahua mix named Canelo. I just call him the Pee King.
We were at a local pet store. The Pee King (Or PK) decided that not only did he have to mark his territory on every corner and parking meter between my car and the store, he decided he had to mark everything in the store too. PK peed on $100 dog beds. He peed on a $75 cat tree. He peed on crates, boxes, bags, counters, tables, chairs, and umbrellas. In spite of the pouring rain I took him for 6 walks in 3 hours. I'd walk him in the rain, patiently waiting while he peed himself dry. When he lifted his leg and nothing came out, I'd go back into the store ... where he'd promptly lift his leg and pee on a table.
The store personnel couldn't have been nicer. They wiped up puddles and brought over plastic training pads for him to pee on. He never did stop peeing the entire day.
I was SO happy to get home to Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) who never pees on the furniture.
Not surprisingly, the PK didn't find a home today. Maybe next time ... provided there isn't anything to pee on.
...
In other news I stumbled across the funniest wedding "toast" ever. I don't know this couple (but I'd love to meet the guy making the toast!) (Sorry, Husband.) but this song his absolutely hilarious. By the end I was laughing so hard I was afraid I'd wake up Husband and the cat. (Have I mentioned I'm going through a lovely insomnia phase?) Anyway, if you want a good laugh, check out this bit of creativity. I'd love a friend to do something like this for me!
The dog I had charge of during today's mobile adoption was a Chihuahua mix named Canelo. I just call him the Pee King.
We were at a local pet store. The Pee King (Or PK) decided that not only did he have to mark his territory on every corner and parking meter between my car and the store, he decided he had to mark everything in the store too. PK peed on $100 dog beds. He peed on a $75 cat tree. He peed on crates, boxes, bags, counters, tables, chairs, and umbrellas. In spite of the pouring rain I took him for 6 walks in 3 hours. I'd walk him in the rain, patiently waiting while he peed himself dry. When he lifted his leg and nothing came out, I'd go back into the store ... where he'd promptly lift his leg and pee on a table.
The store personnel couldn't have been nicer. They wiped up puddles and brought over plastic training pads for him to pee on. He never did stop peeing the entire day.
I was SO happy to get home to Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) who never pees on the furniture.
Not surprisingly, the PK didn't find a home today. Maybe next time ... provided there isn't anything to pee on.
...
In other news I stumbled across the funniest wedding "toast" ever. I don't know this couple (but I'd love to meet the guy making the toast!) (Sorry, Husband.) but this song his absolutely hilarious. By the end I was laughing so hard I was afraid I'd wake up Husband and the cat. (Have I mentioned I'm going through a lovely insomnia phase?) Anyway, if you want a good laugh, check out this bit of creativity. I'd love a friend to do something like this for me!
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Yo, Homies
Yeah, I'm lame. I ignore you for weeks on end and then I expect you to check in and see if I've said anything remotely interesting. But then again, it's all about me. So there.
I've been busy with something new at the shelter. I'm working with the mobile adoptions now. Now don't get all "what about the kitties?!" because I'm still all about the cats. But now, on Saturdays, I'm going out into the community and helping doggies find homes. It's great fun to be around dogs again and I love actually seeing them get adopted. You don't often get to see the cats go home with their new best friends. But with the mobile adoptions people can fall in love and go home that day with the pup of their choice.
Mostly we take small dogs (Chihuahuas, terrier mixes, etc.) but we also take bigger dogs at times too. I've learned how to work with pit bulls and saw one of our longest-term pits go home a few weeks ago. It's been quite an education -- and sometimes quite exhausting too.
Most of the time we set up in a mall or a local pet food store. But I've also been working at our "Second Chance Adoption Shop." This is a very cool place, and buckets of fun. A local mall had an empty store and they gave it to us. At first it was only supposed to be for a few months but since they haven't found a tenant yet, we get to keep it on a month-to-month basis. We have kennel space for about 8 cats or dogs and we're only open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. But we get a huge amount of foot traffic and a great deal of interest. We're almost always busy and have had a good rate of adoptions. Last Saturday I we had two dogs go home. One, an adorable Dachshund, went home with this sweet family with two kids who fell instantly in love. The funny part is that dad fell in love first. He came in, saw this pup, and melted. He came in reluctantly with one of those "kids, we're just here to look" expressions and walked out proudly leading the latest addition to the family.
I love the process of watching people fall in love. When our pit bull was adopted this couple walked up and Penny (the dog) started wagging her tail as if she recognized them. Thirty minutes later the threesome were officially a family. I watched each of the people melt and we knew before they did that it was a done deal.
It's great fun doing something new and I love the chance of working with the public a bit more. Being able to talk to people about the dogs and helping them (the dogs, not the people) to find homes is a total joy. For me, for the dogs, and for the people. It's like when Husband and I adopted Cipher. Total happiness.
Yeah, I'm lame. I ignore you for weeks on end and then I expect you to check in and see if I've said anything remotely interesting. But then again, it's all about me. So there.
I've been busy with something new at the shelter. I'm working with the mobile adoptions now. Now don't get all "what about the kitties?!" because I'm still all about the cats. But now, on Saturdays, I'm going out into the community and helping doggies find homes. It's great fun to be around dogs again and I love actually seeing them get adopted. You don't often get to see the cats go home with their new best friends. But with the mobile adoptions people can fall in love and go home that day with the pup of their choice.
Mostly we take small dogs (Chihuahuas, terrier mixes, etc.) but we also take bigger dogs at times too. I've learned how to work with pit bulls and saw one of our longest-term pits go home a few weeks ago. It's been quite an education -- and sometimes quite exhausting too.
Most of the time we set up in a mall or a local pet food store. But I've also been working at our "Second Chance Adoption Shop." This is a very cool place, and buckets of fun. A local mall had an empty store and they gave it to us. At first it was only supposed to be for a few months but since they haven't found a tenant yet, we get to keep it on a month-to-month basis. We have kennel space for about 8 cats or dogs and we're only open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. But we get a huge amount of foot traffic and a great deal of interest. We're almost always busy and have had a good rate of adoptions. Last Saturday I we had two dogs go home. One, an adorable Dachshund, went home with this sweet family with two kids who fell instantly in love. The funny part is that dad fell in love first. He came in, saw this pup, and melted. He came in reluctantly with one of those "kids, we're just here to look" expressions and walked out proudly leading the latest addition to the family.
I love the process of watching people fall in love. When our pit bull was adopted this couple walked up and Penny (the dog) started wagging her tail as if she recognized them. Thirty minutes later the threesome were officially a family. I watched each of the people melt and we knew before they did that it was a done deal.
It's great fun doing something new and I love the chance of working with the public a bit more. Being able to talk to people about the dogs and helping them (the dogs, not the people) to find homes is a total joy. For me, for the dogs, and for the people. It's like when Husband and I adopted Cipher. Total happiness.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Mambo Contest
Between them my mother and father were on every church committee in town. Dad ran the Our Lady of Angels bingo game every Monday night for at least 5 years. He was president of the father’s club. Ran the concession booth at the fall festival. Drove the mini bus for the senior trip to Reno.
Mom was equally busy over at St. Edith’s Episcopal. President of the ladies guild. Did the Sunday flowers every second weekend of the year for a dozen years. Co-chair of the St. Edith’s fashion show.
And, of course, they went to every dinner, dance, and pageant that both churches threw.
And while the adult in me applauds their community spirit, the kid I was cringed as we got roped into yet another horrible job of busing tables, making cotton candy, running a spotlight, and generally used as slave labor for God.
But, in many ways, I was repaid for all of this on the night my parents entered the St. Edith’s Valentine’s Dance Mambo Contest.
As usual I’d been volunteered by my mom for something. I tried to argue that dad was raising me Catholic and my allegiance was to OLA and I had proved that allegiance the previous month by getting up at 6 am on a Saturday to pour coffee at the pancake breakfast.
Mothers do not accept arguments. And so the day of the dance I spent hours climbing ladders (which I hate) and scotch taping red construction paper hearts all over the walls of the St. Edith’s cafeteria. Fun! I also had to sweep, set up roughly 347,000 folding chairs, and frost 8 million cupcakes with Pepto-pink frosting.
And then she dropped the bombshell….oh yes, she had also volunteered me to pour punch at the dance itself. There was I, stupidly thinking that working all day got me out of having to go to the dance itself. Silly me. Nope. She did give in and take me to McDonalds for dinner, but then it was straight back to the chain gang.
No greater hell exists than being 14 years old and being forced to watch your parents and your friends’ parents dance.
But it was actually pretty funny. I mean who would have known that Mr. and Mrs. Foster, owners of Speedy Dry Cleaners, would turn out to be the Fred and Ginger of Silver Creek? They did moves I’d never seen outside of the late-late show. And all without ever looking the other in the face. The looked at the floor, at the other dancers, at my crummy construction paper hearts, but never at each other. It was the weirdest thing.
Our neighbors, the Blocks, turned out to have four left feet. And the Reverend Polehouse and his wife did a fine job of turning every single dance into a foxtrot.
But the big surprise was when they announced the Mambo contest and my mom and dad got onto the floor. Really? My parents could mambo?
Mr. Lucas, who was acting as DJ and master of ceremonies, put on some classic Perez Prado and the couples began to move. Reverend Polehouse seemed to recognize the futility of trying to turn his foxtrot into a mambo and volunteered to be the judge. One extremely apologetic tap on the shoulder and a couple was eliminated.
The Blocks were the first to go. Not surprising considering the fact that before the vocals even began they had bumped into each other and Mr. Block’s glasses had fallen off. But as couple after couple were scuttled, my parents danced on. My dad, who I’d never seen do anything more athletic than mow the lawn, was Mr. Smooth out there. He did this hip wiggle thing that was so hilarious even my mother laughed. And mom….well mom was more uninhibited than I’d ever seen her. If I hadn’t been serving the punch myself I would have thought it had been spiked and she was dancing under the influence.
But nope, she was just having fun. I was so unused to it that it took me by surprise.
But what was more surprising was the fact that my parents, my staid and conservative parents, won the St. Edith’s Valentine’s Dance Mambo Contest. Dinner for two at Mariani’s Steak Pit.
Between them my mother and father were on every church committee in town. Dad ran the Our Lady of Angels bingo game every Monday night for at least 5 years. He was president of the father’s club. Ran the concession booth at the fall festival. Drove the mini bus for the senior trip to Reno.
Mom was equally busy over at St. Edith’s Episcopal. President of the ladies guild. Did the Sunday flowers every second weekend of the year for a dozen years. Co-chair of the St. Edith’s fashion show.
And, of course, they went to every dinner, dance, and pageant that both churches threw.
And while the adult in me applauds their community spirit, the kid I was cringed as we got roped into yet another horrible job of busing tables, making cotton candy, running a spotlight, and generally used as slave labor for God.
But, in many ways, I was repaid for all of this on the night my parents entered the St. Edith’s Valentine’s Dance Mambo Contest.
As usual I’d been volunteered by my mom for something. I tried to argue that dad was raising me Catholic and my allegiance was to OLA and I had proved that allegiance the previous month by getting up at 6 am on a Saturday to pour coffee at the pancake breakfast.
Mothers do not accept arguments. And so the day of the dance I spent hours climbing ladders (which I hate) and scotch taping red construction paper hearts all over the walls of the St. Edith’s cafeteria. Fun! I also had to sweep, set up roughly 347,000 folding chairs, and frost 8 million cupcakes with Pepto-pink frosting.
And then she dropped the bombshell….oh yes, she had also volunteered me to pour punch at the dance itself. There was I, stupidly thinking that working all day got me out of having to go to the dance itself. Silly me. Nope. She did give in and take me to McDonalds for dinner, but then it was straight back to the chain gang.
No greater hell exists than being 14 years old and being forced to watch your parents and your friends’ parents dance.
But it was actually pretty funny. I mean who would have known that Mr. and Mrs. Foster, owners of Speedy Dry Cleaners, would turn out to be the Fred and Ginger of Silver Creek? They did moves I’d never seen outside of the late-late show. And all without ever looking the other in the face. The looked at the floor, at the other dancers, at my crummy construction paper hearts, but never at each other. It was the weirdest thing.
Our neighbors, the Blocks, turned out to have four left feet. And the Reverend Polehouse and his wife did a fine job of turning every single dance into a foxtrot.
But the big surprise was when they announced the Mambo contest and my mom and dad got onto the floor. Really? My parents could mambo?
Mr. Lucas, who was acting as DJ and master of ceremonies, put on some classic Perez Prado and the couples began to move. Reverend Polehouse seemed to recognize the futility of trying to turn his foxtrot into a mambo and volunteered to be the judge. One extremely apologetic tap on the shoulder and a couple was eliminated.
The Blocks were the first to go. Not surprising considering the fact that before the vocals even began they had bumped into each other and Mr. Block’s glasses had fallen off. But as couple after couple were scuttled, my parents danced on. My dad, who I’d never seen do anything more athletic than mow the lawn, was Mr. Smooth out there. He did this hip wiggle thing that was so hilarious even my mother laughed. And mom….well mom was more uninhibited than I’d ever seen her. If I hadn’t been serving the punch myself I would have thought it had been spiked and she was dancing under the influence.
But nope, she was just having fun. I was so unused to it that it took me by surprise.
But what was more surprising was the fact that my parents, my staid and conservative parents, won the St. Edith’s Valentine’s Dance Mambo Contest. Dinner for two at Mariani’s Steak Pit.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Them's Good Eats
Hello lovies. I hope you're all safe and warm wherever you are. That your Christmas/Chanukkah/Kwanza/Solstice was happy and relatively crisis-free. We survived and, once the family obligations were over with, had a lovely time. In spite of my being sick yet again, Husband managed to spoil me on my birthday (the 23rd) and Christmas with Husband and Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) was great.
But on to last night...
Husband and I have some incredibly wonderful friends. Last night we had dinner with one of our favorite couple's at their beautiful home in the Silicon Valley. The Lurker (she reads, but never comments - so Hi Lurker!) and her husband, the Ninja, are warm and wonderful folks. And last night we were also reminded of what amazing hosts they are. The Lurker is a wonderful cook. Everything we had, from the amazing appetizer's to the scrumpy dessert (made my the Ninja's mom) was just mind-blowingly good. Last night I had brussels sprouts that were good. For the first time in my life. After so many people saying "you just haven't had them the way I cook them" only to taste that awful brussels sprouty taste yet again. Last night it was warm and delicious and kind of sweet. There was swordfish so tender that it was practically liquid. A quinoa salad that had just enough heat. A salad with pickled onions. Everything was relatively simple, but so fresh, so tasty that I sat there in a haze of inadequacy at the knowledge that I'd never be able to produce anything even remotely that good.
No, I'm not making a contest out of it. Nor is it. I just meant that the Lurker has the knack for combining flavors that I wouldn't dream of and making everything delicious. Add some good wine and great conversation and you have a perfect evening.
(To the Lurker: A thank-you card is in the mail because I am a very properly brought up young lady.)
Hello lovies. I hope you're all safe and warm wherever you are. That your Christmas/Chanukkah/Kwanza/Solstice was happy and relatively crisis-free. We survived and, once the family obligations were over with, had a lovely time. In spite of my being sick yet again, Husband managed to spoil me on my birthday (the 23rd) and Christmas with Husband and Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) was great.
But on to last night...
Husband and I have some incredibly wonderful friends. Last night we had dinner with one of our favorite couple's at their beautiful home in the Silicon Valley. The Lurker (she reads, but never comments - so Hi Lurker!) and her husband, the Ninja, are warm and wonderful folks. And last night we were also reminded of what amazing hosts they are. The Lurker is a wonderful cook. Everything we had, from the amazing appetizer's to the scrumpy dessert (made my the Ninja's mom) was just mind-blowingly good. Last night I had brussels sprouts that were good. For the first time in my life. After so many people saying "you just haven't had them the way I cook them" only to taste that awful brussels sprouty taste yet again. Last night it was warm and delicious and kind of sweet. There was swordfish so tender that it was practically liquid. A quinoa salad that had just enough heat. A salad with pickled onions. Everything was relatively simple, but so fresh, so tasty that I sat there in a haze of inadequacy at the knowledge that I'd never be able to produce anything even remotely that good.
No, I'm not making a contest out of it. Nor is it. I just meant that the Lurker has the knack for combining flavors that I wouldn't dream of and making everything delicious. Add some good wine and great conversation and you have a perfect evening.
(To the Lurker: A thank-you card is in the mail because I am a very properly brought up young lady.)
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Unpredictably Musicality
When I do my radio show I plan nothing in advance.
I may pull a few CDs from my own library, but most of what I plays comes from the station and I make it up as a I go along. I start with a song and then go from there. Usually I try to avoid jarring segues, like from an upbeat salsa directly into some sad Celtic ballad. But other than that, there are no rules.
Because of this I'm always a bit surprised to go back and look at a show's playlist (tonight's show can be found here) and find unexpected trends. For instance, I seem to have gone heavily into Africa, the Middle East, and Latin music tonight. I have no idea why and it was certainly without malice aforethought. It just happened that way. The Alma Afrobeat Ensemble, Boubacar Traore, Rahim Alhaj, Rachid Taha...they all just sort of fell into my musical mind tonight.
That's one of the things I love about being a DJ at a college radio station, the freedom to play whatever I want. And finding the unexpected thread.
Except for specials (like my annual Thanksgiving week Native American show) there are no rules to my show. If I like it, I play it. And I have been known to stop a song mid-chorus when I discovered I didn't like it. Unprofessional? Sure. But hey, I'm a volunteer DJ and I refuse to play crappy music. And I do tend to go heavily into the upbeat. But when I get home and discover I've gone heavily into Celtic music or played a lot of Cuban tunes, it's always a nice surprise.
In the middle of my show I don't plan more than one song ahead, so I typically have 3-4 minutes to decide what to play next. I don't really put much thought into the theme, just "what would follow what is playing now?" And I do like to break things up so I don't do something like a Latin set followed by a South African set. It's more fun when you play Japanese pop and then lead into Finnish folk music.
OK, I'm rambling...but anyone searching for a dissertation topic might want to look into college radio and what drives a DJ to play, without intention, certain types of music on certain nights.
When I do my radio show I plan nothing in advance.
I may pull a few CDs from my own library, but most of what I plays comes from the station and I make it up as a I go along. I start with a song and then go from there. Usually I try to avoid jarring segues, like from an upbeat salsa directly into some sad Celtic ballad. But other than that, there are no rules.
Because of this I'm always a bit surprised to go back and look at a show's playlist (tonight's show can be found here) and find unexpected trends. For instance, I seem to have gone heavily into Africa, the Middle East, and Latin music tonight. I have no idea why and it was certainly without malice aforethought. It just happened that way. The Alma Afrobeat Ensemble, Boubacar Traore, Rahim Alhaj, Rachid Taha...they all just sort of fell into my musical mind tonight.
That's one of the things I love about being a DJ at a college radio station, the freedom to play whatever I want. And finding the unexpected thread.
Except for specials (like my annual Thanksgiving week Native American show) there are no rules to my show. If I like it, I play it. And I have been known to stop a song mid-chorus when I discovered I didn't like it. Unprofessional? Sure. But hey, I'm a volunteer DJ and I refuse to play crappy music. And I do tend to go heavily into the upbeat. But when I get home and discover I've gone heavily into Celtic music or played a lot of Cuban tunes, it's always a nice surprise.
In the middle of my show I don't plan more than one song ahead, so I typically have 3-4 minutes to decide what to play next. I don't really put much thought into the theme, just "what would follow what is playing now?" And I do like to break things up so I don't do something like a Latin set followed by a South African set. It's more fun when you play Japanese pop and then lead into Finnish folk music.
OK, I'm rambling...but anyone searching for a dissertation topic might want to look into college radio and what drives a DJ to play, without intention, certain types of music on certain nights.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Radio, Radio
Tune in tonight from 5:30-8 (Pacific time) to At the Cafe Bohemian my weekly world music show. No idea what I'm going to play but I can promise most of it won't be in English.
Tune in tonight from 5:30-8 (Pacific time) to At the Cafe Bohemian my weekly world music show. No idea what I'm going to play but I can promise most of it won't be in English.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Santa Factor
In the wonderful world before mega malls and Walmarts, towns like Silver Creek had one-off so-called department stores where most people did their shopping. Ours was called Brightman’s and, yes, it was owned by a family of that name.
On the day after Thanksgiving Brightman’s would always open their Winter Wonderland. This spectacle, rivaled only by the Rockettes, consisted of a badly-painted North Pole backdrop and a moth-eaten red throne where Santa would sit while legions of Silver Creek’s kids poured out their desires for Red Flyer wagons and Malibu Barbies.
In my senior year of high school I applied at Brightman’s for the Christmas rush. I really wanted to work in the gift wrap department. What I got was elf duty. Oh god, no. Appearing before all my friends in a red and green elf costume, complete with turned-up shoes, was a trauma from which I thought I’d never recover. But I needed the money and I had just enough of a weird sense of humor to see the lunacy in it all. So I took the job.
Santa was played by Major Thackerman. Retired Marine. He didn’t so much ho-ho-ho as order kids to tell them what they wanted and then get the heck off his lap. He asked “have you been a good little boy?” in such a way that the child felt a “no” would result in having to drop and give him 50 pushups.
My fellow Catholic sufferers from OLA always had a bit of confusion going on about Santa and the confessional. So when Santa would ask about our naughty or niceness, we’d take it as instructions to get our sins off our chest, not a yes or no question. And any kid who felt honest enough to fess up to tiny infractions like “I suppose I could have been nicer to my mom and cleaned up my room before she asked” received a stern lecture on obedience to authority that would lead the child to feel so unworthy of receiving Christmas gifts as to render the very act of asking Santa irrelevant. Usually we’d slink off with our tiny cellophane-wrapped candy cane with a firm determination to be a better person and to suck it up on Christmas morning when all we got was new socks.
But I was a teenager then and no longer afraid of Santa, though I was still kinda freaked out by Major Thackerman. On those days when the Major was off, he was replaced by Waldo Hicks. Mr. Hicks ate more candy canes that he gave away because he mistakenly thought they masked the intense scent of scotch that emanated from him. Waldo was, of course, an alcoholic. But back then we would just say he drank. He was a happy drunk, not a maudlin one, so his ho-ho-ho was genuine. As was his red nose. And, unlike our retired Marine, Waldo needed no padding.
Children weren’t afraid of Waldo the way they were with the Major. And the Waldo Santa as fun. He told silly knock-knock jokes and bad riddles and laughed a lot. Sure he once got in trouble for telling Billy Morrison that he deserved the 10-speed bike he wanted because Billy’s mom was a fine-looking woman. But hey, the kids liked him and he fit the suit.
So there I was, mostly mortified by the costume. Working with General Patton and Foster Brooks. It was my job to stand by Santa’s throne and help the kids on and off his lap, helping to position them correctly so that Sandy (photography elf) could get the requisite shot of terrified kid meeting Saint Nick. Oh yes, and I handed out candy canes.
It was quite an education, I must say. Mostly cementing my conviction that I had no maternal instincts and never, ever, ever wanted to have kids. All that screaming and crying. The ear-splitting shrill cries that only kids can achieve.
But there was one perk to the job and that was working the Brightman’s employee Christmas party.
The best thing about it was being in on it when the employees, exhausted by a long season of long hours and crazy customers, got looped on the contents of an open bar and spilled their secrets to our crazy Santas.
For that party, Waldo was always in the chair because (between you and me) the Brightman’s were just as terrified of the Major as the kids were. (Antlhough the major was always invited.) But the combination of drunken Santa and drunken adults telling him their wishes was ripe for blackmail material. Too bad I didn’t take notes.
There was Mrs. Linker, who managed the cosmetics department, asking for a date with James Garner. (Who knew she had a thing for Rockford?) And Mr. Leary of the sporting goods floor who said he wanted season’s tickets to the 49ers and a date with Mrs. Linker. (Sadly, Mr. Leary looked nothing like James Garner.)
Marian Franklin, sister of my Chemistry teacher, asked Santa for naughty underwear in a voice that made poor Waldo blush under his beard. (I later learned that Miss Franklin and Waldo had a thing going on.)
In between tipsy wishes, Waldo refreshed himself from his thermos of “coffee,” which amused me because there was an open bar and he was still hiding his liquor. And since I didn’t have to do much that night but stand around in that stupid elf suit, I was able to raid the dessert table for chocolate éclairs and buttery Christmas cookies.
My friend Sean was working that year in the men’s department and aside from deriving years of inside jokes about how I look in red and green felt with a pointy hat, having him at the party was golden. The rent-a-bartender was pretty lax about IDs so Sean and I got pretty hammered as well. And with free food, a DJ, and endless freedom to mock all the people we’d had to put up with over the past two months, the night was pretty damned fun.
Until Major Santa realized we’d been hitting the free booze. Unsurprisingly, a hard-assed retired Marine had little patience for underage drinking. “I want your names,” he commanded in tones that booked no question. But hey, I never was good with authority.
“You jerk,” I said, “I’ve been working next to you for two months now and you don’t even know my name?”
And then Sean, never one to leave well enough alone, felt compelled to add. “I think you mean Major Jerk.”
At which point, we both ran.
The next day I burned the elf costume. When I had recovered from my hangover, that is.
In the wonderful world before mega malls and Walmarts, towns like Silver Creek had one-off so-called department stores where most people did their shopping. Ours was called Brightman’s and, yes, it was owned by a family of that name.
On the day after Thanksgiving Brightman’s would always open their Winter Wonderland. This spectacle, rivaled only by the Rockettes, consisted of a badly-painted North Pole backdrop and a moth-eaten red throne where Santa would sit while legions of Silver Creek’s kids poured out their desires for Red Flyer wagons and Malibu Barbies.
In my senior year of high school I applied at Brightman’s for the Christmas rush. I really wanted to work in the gift wrap department. What I got was elf duty. Oh god, no. Appearing before all my friends in a red and green elf costume, complete with turned-up shoes, was a trauma from which I thought I’d never recover. But I needed the money and I had just enough of a weird sense of humor to see the lunacy in it all. So I took the job.
Santa was played by Major Thackerman. Retired Marine. He didn’t so much ho-ho-ho as order kids to tell them what they wanted and then get the heck off his lap. He asked “have you been a good little boy?” in such a way that the child felt a “no” would result in having to drop and give him 50 pushups.
My fellow Catholic sufferers from OLA always had a bit of confusion going on about Santa and the confessional. So when Santa would ask about our naughty or niceness, we’d take it as instructions to get our sins off our chest, not a yes or no question. And any kid who felt honest enough to fess up to tiny infractions like “I suppose I could have been nicer to my mom and cleaned up my room before she asked” received a stern lecture on obedience to authority that would lead the child to feel so unworthy of receiving Christmas gifts as to render the very act of asking Santa irrelevant. Usually we’d slink off with our tiny cellophane-wrapped candy cane with a firm determination to be a better person and to suck it up on Christmas morning when all we got was new socks.
But I was a teenager then and no longer afraid of Santa, though I was still kinda freaked out by Major Thackerman. On those days when the Major was off, he was replaced by Waldo Hicks. Mr. Hicks ate more candy canes that he gave away because he mistakenly thought they masked the intense scent of scotch that emanated from him. Waldo was, of course, an alcoholic. But back then we would just say he drank. He was a happy drunk, not a maudlin one, so his ho-ho-ho was genuine. As was his red nose. And, unlike our retired Marine, Waldo needed no padding.
Children weren’t afraid of Waldo the way they were with the Major. And the Waldo Santa as fun. He told silly knock-knock jokes and bad riddles and laughed a lot. Sure he once got in trouble for telling Billy Morrison that he deserved the 10-speed bike he wanted because Billy’s mom was a fine-looking woman. But hey, the kids liked him and he fit the suit.
So there I was, mostly mortified by the costume. Working with General Patton and Foster Brooks. It was my job to stand by Santa’s throne and help the kids on and off his lap, helping to position them correctly so that Sandy (photography elf) could get the requisite shot of terrified kid meeting Saint Nick. Oh yes, and I handed out candy canes.
It was quite an education, I must say. Mostly cementing my conviction that I had no maternal instincts and never, ever, ever wanted to have kids. All that screaming and crying. The ear-splitting shrill cries that only kids can achieve.
But there was one perk to the job and that was working the Brightman’s employee Christmas party.
The best thing about it was being in on it when the employees, exhausted by a long season of long hours and crazy customers, got looped on the contents of an open bar and spilled their secrets to our crazy Santas.
For that party, Waldo was always in the chair because (between you and me) the Brightman’s were just as terrified of the Major as the kids were. (Antlhough the major was always invited.) But the combination of drunken Santa and drunken adults telling him their wishes was ripe for blackmail material. Too bad I didn’t take notes.
There was Mrs. Linker, who managed the cosmetics department, asking for a date with James Garner. (Who knew she had a thing for Rockford?) And Mr. Leary of the sporting goods floor who said he wanted season’s tickets to the 49ers and a date with Mrs. Linker. (Sadly, Mr. Leary looked nothing like James Garner.)
Marian Franklin, sister of my Chemistry teacher, asked Santa for naughty underwear in a voice that made poor Waldo blush under his beard. (I later learned that Miss Franklin and Waldo had a thing going on.)
In between tipsy wishes, Waldo refreshed himself from his thermos of “coffee,” which amused me because there was an open bar and he was still hiding his liquor. And since I didn’t have to do much that night but stand around in that stupid elf suit, I was able to raid the dessert table for chocolate éclairs and buttery Christmas cookies.
My friend Sean was working that year in the men’s department and aside from deriving years of inside jokes about how I look in red and green felt with a pointy hat, having him at the party was golden. The rent-a-bartender was pretty lax about IDs so Sean and I got pretty hammered as well. And with free food, a DJ, and endless freedom to mock all the people we’d had to put up with over the past two months, the night was pretty damned fun.
Until Major Santa realized we’d been hitting the free booze. Unsurprisingly, a hard-assed retired Marine had little patience for underage drinking. “I want your names,” he commanded in tones that booked no question. But hey, I never was good with authority.
“You jerk,” I said, “I’ve been working next to you for two months now and you don’t even know my name?”
And then Sean, never one to leave well enough alone, felt compelled to add. “I think you mean Major Jerk.”
At which point, we both ran.
The next day I burned the elf costume. When I had recovered from my hangover, that is.
The Cat Thief
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) will steal any warm spot in the house. If you get up from the sofa for two minutes to refill your water bottle, you will come back to find your seat has been turned into a cat bed.
If you get up to pee at 3 am you can count on returning to a bed that includes a cat where you were just sleeping.
Sometimes she looks so darned adorable we just don't have the heart to kick her out, so we change seats or move to the center of the bed instead of the side where you usually sleep.
In my case, this cute thievery runs to a non-stop power struggle for control of the most prized object either of us have access to the heating pad.
I have chronic back pain and the heating pad helps. (Not as much as the Vicodin helps, but it helps nonetheless.) I often will curl up on the sofa with the pad set on low to help ease my soreness, while Cipher plots her scheme to steal it from me. Sometimes she comes right out with her paws and tries to slide it out from behind me. Surprisingly enough for her, this doesn't work. So she curls up and gives me the "I am a pitiful cat and nobody loves me" look that she is convinced will get her everything she wants. This, too, doesn't work. So she waits. And the moment my ass lifts off the sofa, she's there. I don't even get to take a step away from the couch before she's moved in for the kill. She'll pull the pad down so it's flat on the sofa and then she'll curl up on it.
And I come back to a rather smug kitty trying hard to look innocent and failing miserably. But I'm such a pushover that she frequently gets to keep it.
Because Cipher is the queen.
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) will steal any warm spot in the house. If you get up from the sofa for two minutes to refill your water bottle, you will come back to find your seat has been turned into a cat bed.
If you get up to pee at 3 am you can count on returning to a bed that includes a cat where you were just sleeping.
Sometimes she looks so darned adorable we just don't have the heart to kick her out, so we change seats or move to the center of the bed instead of the side where you usually sleep.
In my case, this cute thievery runs to a non-stop power struggle for control of the most prized object either of us have access to the heating pad.
I have chronic back pain and the heating pad helps. (Not as much as the Vicodin helps, but it helps nonetheless.) I often will curl up on the sofa with the pad set on low to help ease my soreness, while Cipher plots her scheme to steal it from me. Sometimes she comes right out with her paws and tries to slide it out from behind me. Surprisingly enough for her, this doesn't work. So she curls up and gives me the "I am a pitiful cat and nobody loves me" look that she is convinced will get her everything she wants. This, too, doesn't work. So she waits. And the moment my ass lifts off the sofa, she's there. I don't even get to take a step away from the couch before she's moved in for the kill. She'll pull the pad down so it's flat on the sofa and then she'll curl up on it.
And I come back to a rather smug kitty trying hard to look innocent and failing miserably. But I'm such a pushover that she frequently gets to keep it.
Because Cipher is the queen.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Deconstructing The Big Sleep
Husband and I both love old movies. Give us Astaire and Rogers, the Marx Brothers, or Bogart and Bacall and we're in heaven. There are some movies that we've each seen dozens of times and will always watch when we see them in the TV listings. I am genetically incapable of not watching Casablanca if it's on. Never mind that I could probably quote the entire movie, if it's on I'm there. Popcorn, Husband, and Sam playing "As Time Goes By"...life doesn't get much better.
One of those must-watch films is The Big Sleep. Based on a Raymond Chandler novel, the Big Sleep is a crime classic with Bogart as Philip Marlowe and the plot has something to do with a kidnapping, blackmail, a couple of murders, and general law breaking. I say "something to do with" because in spite of the fact that I've probably watched the movie upwards of 50 times, I do not understand what the hell is going on. It has a storyline that is not so much complex as incomprehensible.
There are perhaps 20 characters that either appear or are referred to in the script and many of them I couldn't tell you who they were. There's an old guy who talks about orchids being "too like the flesh of man." There's Bacall smoking hot as one daughter of the old guy. Her younger sister is a drug addict who is being blackmailed and who I don't think appears sober in the entire film. There's a missing chauffeur who doesn't actually appear but his existence is crucial to the plot. Too bad I'm not sure why he's crucial. Bogart is, of course, Marlowe -- the smart-talking, world-weary private dick hired by old guy to help with the blackmail. There's another offstage character named Geiger who owns a bookstore that's a front for something (still no clue what). He's got a sexy adenoidal receptionist who knows nothing about books but who has a small guy with a big crush willing to drink something lethal rather than sell her out. There's some sort of charade about Bacall being at a casino and pretending to win money so a payoff looks nothing like a payoff. And there's a shoot-out at the end.
If I'm vague on the details it's because i am vague on the details. Again, I could quote entire blocks of dialog but I'm still not sure who killed the driver.
And yet, in spite of my ongoing confusion, I love this movie. Most movies that are incomprehensible just annoy the crap out of me. But this is an exception. Perhaps it's because of the razor-sharp dialog (William Faulkner was one of the co-writers of the screenplay). When Bogart and Bacall flirt you can feel the heat coming off the screen. There's a great scene where they're talking about horse racing and it turns into verbal foreplay with Bacall commenting that when it comes to "going the distance" that "it depends on who's in the saddle." Maybe it's the way Marlowe alternates between confused, amused, and just plain angry throughout the film. It could be the intelligent and slightly sly direction by Howard Hawks. But there's something in the magical alchemy that went into this film that captivates me every single time.
And every single time that Husband and I watch it, we turn to each other as the end credits roll and ask "what just happened?"
Husband and I both love old movies. Give us Astaire and Rogers, the Marx Brothers, or Bogart and Bacall and we're in heaven. There are some movies that we've each seen dozens of times and will always watch when we see them in the TV listings. I am genetically incapable of not watching Casablanca if it's on. Never mind that I could probably quote the entire movie, if it's on I'm there. Popcorn, Husband, and Sam playing "As Time Goes By"...life doesn't get much better.
One of those must-watch films is The Big Sleep. Based on a Raymond Chandler novel, the Big Sleep is a crime classic with Bogart as Philip Marlowe and the plot has something to do with a kidnapping, blackmail, a couple of murders, and general law breaking. I say "something to do with" because in spite of the fact that I've probably watched the movie upwards of 50 times, I do not understand what the hell is going on. It has a storyline that is not so much complex as incomprehensible.
There are perhaps 20 characters that either appear or are referred to in the script and many of them I couldn't tell you who they were. There's an old guy who talks about orchids being "too like the flesh of man." There's Bacall smoking hot as one daughter of the old guy. Her younger sister is a drug addict who is being blackmailed and who I don't think appears sober in the entire film. There's a missing chauffeur who doesn't actually appear but his existence is crucial to the plot. Too bad I'm not sure why he's crucial. Bogart is, of course, Marlowe -- the smart-talking, world-weary private dick hired by old guy to help with the blackmail. There's another offstage character named Geiger who owns a bookstore that's a front for something (still no clue what). He's got a sexy adenoidal receptionist who knows nothing about books but who has a small guy with a big crush willing to drink something lethal rather than sell her out. There's some sort of charade about Bacall being at a casino and pretending to win money so a payoff looks nothing like a payoff. And there's a shoot-out at the end.
If I'm vague on the details it's because i am vague on the details. Again, I could quote entire blocks of dialog but I'm still not sure who killed the driver.
And yet, in spite of my ongoing confusion, I love this movie. Most movies that are incomprehensible just annoy the crap out of me. But this is an exception. Perhaps it's because of the razor-sharp dialog (William Faulkner was one of the co-writers of the screenplay). When Bogart and Bacall flirt you can feel the heat coming off the screen. There's a great scene where they're talking about horse racing and it turns into verbal foreplay with Bacall commenting that when it comes to "going the distance" that "it depends on who's in the saddle." Maybe it's the way Marlowe alternates between confused, amused, and just plain angry throughout the film. It could be the intelligent and slightly sly direction by Howard Hawks. But there's something in the magical alchemy that went into this film that captivates me every single time.
And every single time that Husband and I watch it, we turn to each other as the end credits roll and ask "what just happened?"
Thursday, December 09, 2010
Chronicles of a Cat
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm), like most cats, prizes her coolness. Cats are cool. The jazz hipsters of the animal world. Sure they get crazy when they play. Every cat does that "run as fast as you can around the house for no reason" thing. But for the most part, they are smooth.
Which is why it's so funny when they do something totally spastic and then give you that "I meant to do that" look. Cipher (again, like most cats) likes to sleep on the top of the sofa. So there she was, napping away. Having hip cat dreams. And then the UPS guy rang the doorbell. Cipher, surprised out of her sleep, twitches and falls down onto the sofa. (Luckily she fell forward and not down the back onto the floor.) She immediately scrambles up into a sitting position and looks at me as if to say "you laugh at your peril, woman." Of course I laughed. So hard I gave myself a coughing fit.
It was just so endearingly absurd and she was trying so hard to pretend it never happened. Ah, if only I'd had a video camera.
Working with shelter cats I see a lot of those "I meant to do that" moments. Cats, in spite of their insistence on hipness, do a lot of unintentionally stupid things. There are the cats who run into the window while chasing a toy. "I totally knew that window was there. I was just using it to change my trajectory." The cats who fall off the bench "just testing to make sure gravity still works." And cats who pounce on an object and completely miss it "just putting the fear of Cat into that hapless pipe cleaner."
One of the things that cats don't realize is that it's impossible to play and look cool at the same time. They try, poor things, but never succeed. It defies the laws of nature to maintain a hipster vibe while being menaced with the creature that is your own tail. And that little chirping at the birds noise they make? So not threatening. "Yeah, you stupid finch. come over here and see whose boss!' That's what they think they're saying. But what they're actually saying is "I'm trying to fool you with my bird call but I just sound like I've got a goldfish down my throat."
As any cat owner will tell you, cats have marvelous personalities. Dog owners will say "cats are too aloof" when the truth is that cats, for all their posing, are just Vaudeville comedians with tails. Dogs are fun, sure, but because they are naturally goofy it's not that much of a surprise when they do something that makes you bust out with a laugh. But cats, by their nature, are unexpectedly hilarious and that makes it all the funnier when they break through that wall of poise and fall down onto the sofa.
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm), like most cats, prizes her coolness. Cats are cool. The jazz hipsters of the animal world. Sure they get crazy when they play. Every cat does that "run as fast as you can around the house for no reason" thing. But for the most part, they are smooth.
Which is why it's so funny when they do something totally spastic and then give you that "I meant to do that" look. Cipher (again, like most cats) likes to sleep on the top of the sofa. So there she was, napping away. Having hip cat dreams. And then the UPS guy rang the doorbell. Cipher, surprised out of her sleep, twitches and falls down onto the sofa. (Luckily she fell forward and not down the back onto the floor.) She immediately scrambles up into a sitting position and looks at me as if to say "you laugh at your peril, woman." Of course I laughed. So hard I gave myself a coughing fit.
It was just so endearingly absurd and she was trying so hard to pretend it never happened. Ah, if only I'd had a video camera.
Working with shelter cats I see a lot of those "I meant to do that" moments. Cats, in spite of their insistence on hipness, do a lot of unintentionally stupid things. There are the cats who run into the window while chasing a toy. "I totally knew that window was there. I was just using it to change my trajectory." The cats who fall off the bench "just testing to make sure gravity still works." And cats who pounce on an object and completely miss it "just putting the fear of Cat into that hapless pipe cleaner."
One of the things that cats don't realize is that it's impossible to play and look cool at the same time. They try, poor things, but never succeed. It defies the laws of nature to maintain a hipster vibe while being menaced with the creature that is your own tail. And that little chirping at the birds noise they make? So not threatening. "Yeah, you stupid finch. come over here and see whose boss!' That's what they think they're saying. But what they're actually saying is "I'm trying to fool you with my bird call but I just sound like I've got a goldfish down my throat."
As any cat owner will tell you, cats have marvelous personalities. Dog owners will say "cats are too aloof" when the truth is that cats, for all their posing, are just Vaudeville comedians with tails. Dogs are fun, sure, but because they are naturally goofy it's not that much of a surprise when they do something that makes you bust out with a laugh. But cats, by their nature, are unexpectedly hilarious and that makes it all the funnier when they break through that wall of poise and fall down onto the sofa.
Sunday, December 05, 2010
Ratzilla
I ranted a few weeks ago about this gigantic rat that ate my car and did $700 worth of damage. Well apparently sucking on my transmission wasn't enough so he decided he needed our Christmas decorations as an appetizer. Serves us right for not making chicken wings available for him. But hey, we ain't Hooters.
Husband and I got our Christmas tree today and went up into the loft in our garage where we store Crap We Only Use Once a Year. Like our huge suitcase (nibbled on). Our folding chairs (nibbled on). And our Christmas decorations (eaten).
Luckily our favorites are in a heavy-duty Tupperware container and suffered no damage. But the box containing our lights had a huge hole eaten out of the side, so we'll need to make sure the wires are OK before we string them. But we had a document box (with lid!) filled with some of our second-tier ornaments and Ratzilla ate himself a lovely door and then proceeded to go all a la carte on the contents of the box. I am sad to say that Santa has been eaten by a rat. We had a cloth Santa ornament and the little fucker ate all the stuffing out of him. He also shredded a small, dark blue cardboard box so everything else is covered in blue confetti. He also seems to have eaten the head off an angel. (Shame on him!)
Being an animal lover, I must confess to feeling guilty about setting about to kill something as sentient as a rat. I have no problem squishing spiders and am the scourge of any hapless ant unlucky enough to come into my society. But rats are cartoon characters and I was sort of upset when Husband and I put out lovely little trays full of lovely little ratsbane. But considering the $700 and the demise of Santa, I can only say the miscreant got just what he deserved.
I just hope he wasn't part of a gang.
Yes, at our home we support the death penalty for the consuming of angels and Hondas.
I ranted a few weeks ago about this gigantic rat that ate my car and did $700 worth of damage. Well apparently sucking on my transmission wasn't enough so he decided he needed our Christmas decorations as an appetizer. Serves us right for not making chicken wings available for him. But hey, we ain't Hooters.
Husband and I got our Christmas tree today and went up into the loft in our garage where we store Crap We Only Use Once a Year. Like our huge suitcase (nibbled on). Our folding chairs (nibbled on). And our Christmas decorations (eaten).
Luckily our favorites are in a heavy-duty Tupperware container and suffered no damage. But the box containing our lights had a huge hole eaten out of the side, so we'll need to make sure the wires are OK before we string them. But we had a document box (with lid!) filled with some of our second-tier ornaments and Ratzilla ate himself a lovely door and then proceeded to go all a la carte on the contents of the box. I am sad to say that Santa has been eaten by a rat. We had a cloth Santa ornament and the little fucker ate all the stuffing out of him. He also shredded a small, dark blue cardboard box so everything else is covered in blue confetti. He also seems to have eaten the head off an angel. (Shame on him!)
Being an animal lover, I must confess to feeling guilty about setting about to kill something as sentient as a rat. I have no problem squishing spiders and am the scourge of any hapless ant unlucky enough to come into my society. But rats are cartoon characters and I was sort of upset when Husband and I put out lovely little trays full of lovely little ratsbane. But considering the $700 and the demise of Santa, I can only say the miscreant got just what he deserved.
I just hope he wasn't part of a gang.
Yes, at our home we support the death penalty for the consuming of angels and Hondas.
Friday, December 03, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: Busing Tables for God
Our Lady of Angels, like most churches, was constantly having fundraisers. Monday night bingo was a staple and my dad was the caller for many years. The annual Fall Carnival. Selling Christmas seals. Selling candy bars. Selling Christmas trees. Car washes.
And, of course, food.
The St. Patrick’s Day corned beef & cabbage dinner.
The 4th of July pancake breakfast.
The Columbus Day spaghetti dinner.
The end of Fall Carnival bar-b-que.
The Easter brunch.
I swear I spent my entire childhood waiting tables. Because, of course, all the kids were free labor.
The parents did all the cooking, of course, but us kids got roped in for everything else. We swept and cleaned the cafeteria. We set up the tables. We made centerpieces and laid out silverware and glasses. We took tickets. And we schlepped food for hours. Delivering endless plates of food to people who were used to dealing with actual waiters and waitresses and expected us to behave in kind.
We cleared the dirties. Brought coffee and dessert. Fetched and carried. And hated every minute of it. We grumbled about child labor laws and wondered if this would cut our time in Purgatory. But we were not allowed to back out. For days before these events every Catholic kids all over Silver Creek would come down with mysterious illnesses. A combination of flu-like symptoms and scurvy. Perhaps gout. Maybe a touch of the plague.
But their heartless parents would accept nothing less than loss of limb as an excuse to get out of serving duty. In spite of our protestations and our no-doubt wildly contagious illness would infect the entire population of Silver Creek, mothers would deliver us to the cafeteria on time and tell us to behave ourselves.
We’d say goodbye our families with a note of “I’ll never see you again as I’m going off to be a Catholic martyr since serving spaghetti to the pious is just the same as being burnt at the stake” and off we’d go to do our duty. Sadly the parents never gave us the goodbyes our sad state deserved and we were left with the feeling that they didn’t actually care about us.
Sister Luke always seemed to be in charge of the children’s waiter corps and would check our names off on an ancient clipboard. Then she’d hand us aprons so big we’d have to fold them over three or four times so we wouldn’t trip on them. Then she’d give us a crash course in how to deliver food (“crash” being the operative word as someone always managed to drop an entire tray of whatever the night’s meal was) and set us loose.
The parental cooking staff always seemed to be made up of the bossiest people in the parish. Looking back I’m sure they were exhausted by the weeks of planning and days of cooking. But as a child they were something out of Uncle Tom’s Cabin and we lived in fear of being noticed. God forbid you should actually make eye contact with one, they’d take that as free reign to make you their personal child slave and you’d spend the rest of the night being ordered about by Mrs. Cruson or Mrs. Peterson.
Consequently the children of OLA were notorious for their bad posture as we all developed a habit of looking at the floor and not actually at anyone. Being repeatedly told to “stand up straight” was better than having Mr. Freire say “You! More garlic bread on the table by the Virgin Mary.” (Invariably your personal slave driver called you “you.” On the nights of fundraiser dinners, every child became “You.” We even had name badges on our aprons. But the cooks were too busy slicing and stirring to read.
I remember one night, I think it was the corned beef & cabbage dinner, when You McKay, You Carpenter, You Folsom and I were on salad duty. We’d walk around the drafty room with huge wooden bowls of salad. These things were the size of taiko drums and weighed a ton. And they were filled with a gourmet mix of iceberg lettuce and an oil and vinegar dressing that slopped over the rim and stained our aprons with a pink tinge. In the middle of serving one us hapless kids, I think it was Marty Carpenter (Sorry, “You” Carpenter) tripped over an untied shoelace and sprayed salad and dressing over half of the women’s club table. There were screams. There was iceberg in the bouffant. And there was Father Sheehey throwing napkins into the fray and muttering “Jesus, Mary, and all the saints!” repeatedly under his breath.
The background accompaniment to all this chaos was the song stylings of Tony Cavalerro and the Cavaliers.
How do I describe them?
Well, “bad” pretty much sums it up. But they really achieved impressive nuances of bad. First off Tony C (as he liked to be called) couldn’t sing. But he insisted on belting out “Volare” every single show. Followed by “That’s Amore” and, of course, “Volare.” No, that’s not a typo. He always sang it twice. Tony C always wanted to be Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, and Vic Damone. But he was more like the sound I’ve always pictured a cow made when stuck in them mud.
Adding to the merriment was the Cavaliers. I think the rule was if you owned an instrument you could be a Cavalier. Didn’t matter if you could play it. Mattered less if your instrument went with the rest of the band. So at any one time the Cavaliers included an accordion, drums, guitar, violin, trumpet, French horn, bagpipes, triangle, more drums, clarinet, cello, dulcimer, drums, another accordion, tuba, and marimba. We lived in fear of the Cavaliers.
The only good thing about them is that about the third rendition of “Volare,” people actually hope the child waiters spill salad dressing down their dresses so they’ll have an excuse to leave early.
Our Lady of Angels, like most churches, was constantly having fundraisers. Monday night bingo was a staple and my dad was the caller for many years. The annual Fall Carnival. Selling Christmas seals. Selling candy bars. Selling Christmas trees. Car washes.
And, of course, food.
The St. Patrick’s Day corned beef & cabbage dinner.
The 4th of July pancake breakfast.
The Columbus Day spaghetti dinner.
The end of Fall Carnival bar-b-que.
The Easter brunch.
I swear I spent my entire childhood waiting tables. Because, of course, all the kids were free labor.
The parents did all the cooking, of course, but us kids got roped in for everything else. We swept and cleaned the cafeteria. We set up the tables. We made centerpieces and laid out silverware and glasses. We took tickets. And we schlepped food for hours. Delivering endless plates of food to people who were used to dealing with actual waiters and waitresses and expected us to behave in kind.
We cleared the dirties. Brought coffee and dessert. Fetched and carried. And hated every minute of it. We grumbled about child labor laws and wondered if this would cut our time in Purgatory. But we were not allowed to back out. For days before these events every Catholic kids all over Silver Creek would come down with mysterious illnesses. A combination of flu-like symptoms and scurvy. Perhaps gout. Maybe a touch of the plague.
But their heartless parents would accept nothing less than loss of limb as an excuse to get out of serving duty. In spite of our protestations and our no-doubt wildly contagious illness would infect the entire population of Silver Creek, mothers would deliver us to the cafeteria on time and tell us to behave ourselves.
We’d say goodbye our families with a note of “I’ll never see you again as I’m going off to be a Catholic martyr since serving spaghetti to the pious is just the same as being burnt at the stake” and off we’d go to do our duty. Sadly the parents never gave us the goodbyes our sad state deserved and we were left with the feeling that they didn’t actually care about us.
Sister Luke always seemed to be in charge of the children’s waiter corps and would check our names off on an ancient clipboard. Then she’d hand us aprons so big we’d have to fold them over three or four times so we wouldn’t trip on them. Then she’d give us a crash course in how to deliver food (“crash” being the operative word as someone always managed to drop an entire tray of whatever the night’s meal was) and set us loose.
The parental cooking staff always seemed to be made up of the bossiest people in the parish. Looking back I’m sure they were exhausted by the weeks of planning and days of cooking. But as a child they were something out of Uncle Tom’s Cabin and we lived in fear of being noticed. God forbid you should actually make eye contact with one, they’d take that as free reign to make you their personal child slave and you’d spend the rest of the night being ordered about by Mrs. Cruson or Mrs. Peterson.
Consequently the children of OLA were notorious for their bad posture as we all developed a habit of looking at the floor and not actually at anyone. Being repeatedly told to “stand up straight” was better than having Mr. Freire say “You! More garlic bread on the table by the Virgin Mary.” (Invariably your personal slave driver called you “you.” On the nights of fundraiser dinners, every child became “You.” We even had name badges on our aprons. But the cooks were too busy slicing and stirring to read.
I remember one night, I think it was the corned beef & cabbage dinner, when You McKay, You Carpenter, You Folsom and I were on salad duty. We’d walk around the drafty room with huge wooden bowls of salad. These things were the size of taiko drums and weighed a ton. And they were filled with a gourmet mix of iceberg lettuce and an oil and vinegar dressing that slopped over the rim and stained our aprons with a pink tinge. In the middle of serving one us hapless kids, I think it was Marty Carpenter (Sorry, “You” Carpenter) tripped over an untied shoelace and sprayed salad and dressing over half of the women’s club table. There were screams. There was iceberg in the bouffant. And there was Father Sheehey throwing napkins into the fray and muttering “Jesus, Mary, and all the saints!” repeatedly under his breath.
The background accompaniment to all this chaos was the song stylings of Tony Cavalerro and the Cavaliers.
How do I describe them?
Well, “bad” pretty much sums it up. But they really achieved impressive nuances of bad. First off Tony C (as he liked to be called) couldn’t sing. But he insisted on belting out “Volare” every single show. Followed by “That’s Amore” and, of course, “Volare.” No, that’s not a typo. He always sang it twice. Tony C always wanted to be Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, and Vic Damone. But he was more like the sound I’ve always pictured a cow made when stuck in them mud.
Adding to the merriment was the Cavaliers. I think the rule was if you owned an instrument you could be a Cavalier. Didn’t matter if you could play it. Mattered less if your instrument went with the rest of the band. So at any one time the Cavaliers included an accordion, drums, guitar, violin, trumpet, French horn, bagpipes, triangle, more drums, clarinet, cello, dulcimer, drums, another accordion, tuba, and marimba. We lived in fear of the Cavaliers.
The only good thing about them is that about the third rendition of “Volare,” people actually hope the child waiters spill salad dressing down their dresses so they’ll have an excuse to leave early.
Thursday, December 02, 2010
And They Took My Hound Dog...
I'm gonna write a country song about the tragedy that is getting a smog check in California. You'd think that for something so many people need it would a fairly easy thing to do. But no.
Smog place #1: Our smog guy is out sick. (They had about a dozen people working there. Only one guy knows how to give a smog check?)
Smog place #2: Our smog machine is broken. (Maybe you can lend your healthy, but apparently not busy today, smog guy to the first place?)
Smog place #3: Our smog guy is out stick. (A sudden, serious virus seems to be hitting smog check guys pretty hard.)
Smog place #4: It'll be a two-hour wait. (No doubt because all the other smog places are useless.)
At smog place #5 I finally got it done. But I had to stand in the rain for 15 minutes while they did it. Oh yes, and they're a new place and didn't have their credit card machine in place so I had to pay at the gas station next door and the new girl on the register had to call someone and be talked through the credit card process. In Spanish.
Since when is such a simple process so complicated? I'd rather drive my truck off the bridge because my wife stole my hound dog and my mother broke parole then do this again.
I'm gonna write a country song about the tragedy that is getting a smog check in California. You'd think that for something so many people need it would a fairly easy thing to do. But no.
Smog place #1: Our smog guy is out sick. (They had about a dozen people working there. Only one guy knows how to give a smog check?)
Smog place #2: Our smog machine is broken. (Maybe you can lend your healthy, but apparently not busy today, smog guy to the first place?)
Smog place #3: Our smog guy is out stick. (A sudden, serious virus seems to be hitting smog check guys pretty hard.)
Smog place #4: It'll be a two-hour wait. (No doubt because all the other smog places are useless.)
At smog place #5 I finally got it done. But I had to stand in the rain for 15 minutes while they did it. Oh yes, and they're a new place and didn't have their credit card machine in place so I had to pay at the gas station next door and the new girl on the register had to call someone and be talked through the credit card process. In Spanish.
Since when is such a simple process so complicated? I'd rather drive my truck off the bridge because my wife stole my hound dog and my mother broke parole then do this again.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
At the Cafe Bohemian
I'm on the air tonight from 5:30-8 (Pacific time), with my world music show At the Cafe Bohemian. You can listen online via KZSU and share the love.
I'm on the air tonight from 5:30-8 (Pacific time), with my world music show At the Cafe Bohemian. You can listen online via KZSU and share the love.
On the Night Shift
I'm going through one of those lovely insomniac phases where I'm averaging 2-3 hours sleep a night. Fun!
The up side is I'm getting a lot of reading and movie watching done. The bad news is that I'm exhausted. But this too shall pass.
I don't know about you, but there's a hole list of books that I think I've read, but I haven't. Classics, mostly. So I have this rule of reading my way through the list, a few books each year. My latest is The House of the Seven Gables, which I thought I read in high school but after looking at it I realized was completely unfamiliar to me.
I read a lot and I always have. And I love reading the classics, though it's not always an "enjoyable" process. I cannot say that I've had fun getting through some of Dickens, let's say. A marvelous writer and I'm glad to have read him, but I have to admit that getting through The Old Curiousity Shop wasn't filled with unending joy. And I'm finding "Seven Gables" to be like that. When I'm done I'll feel a sort of modest pride that I've read another must-read. But at the moment I do find it hard going at times.
OK, I'm a Philistine. I like Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers, Elizabeth Peters and Tony Hillerman. True, I also love Jane Austen, the Brontes, and most of Dickens; Mark Twain and the Dumas (pere and fils). But I am, at heart, someone who loves enjoyable books. Give me "a thumping good read" and I'm happy. Which means I mostly read for pleasure. But occasionally I read because I should. Because I want to know that I've actually made it all the way through Crime and Punishment. (Which, by the way, I never will because my goal to read all the classics does not apply to dreary Russian novels that are 600 pages long and full of peasants and potatoes.)
I'm going through one of those lovely insomniac phases where I'm averaging 2-3 hours sleep a night. Fun!
The up side is I'm getting a lot of reading and movie watching done. The bad news is that I'm exhausted. But this too shall pass.
I don't know about you, but there's a hole list of books that I think I've read, but I haven't. Classics, mostly. So I have this rule of reading my way through the list, a few books each year. My latest is The House of the Seven Gables, which I thought I read in high school but after looking at it I realized was completely unfamiliar to me.
I read a lot and I always have. And I love reading the classics, though it's not always an "enjoyable" process. I cannot say that I've had fun getting through some of Dickens, let's say. A marvelous writer and I'm glad to have read him, but I have to admit that getting through The Old Curiousity Shop wasn't filled with unending joy. And I'm finding "Seven Gables" to be like that. When I'm done I'll feel a sort of modest pride that I've read another must-read. But at the moment I do find it hard going at times.
OK, I'm a Philistine. I like Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers, Elizabeth Peters and Tony Hillerman. True, I also love Jane Austen, the Brontes, and most of Dickens; Mark Twain and the Dumas (pere and fils). But I am, at heart, someone who loves enjoyable books. Give me "a thumping good read" and I'm happy. Which means I mostly read for pleasure. But occasionally I read because I should. Because I want to know that I've actually made it all the way through Crime and Punishment. (Which, by the way, I never will because my goal to read all the classics does not apply to dreary Russian novels that are 600 pages long and full of peasants and potatoes.)
Monday, November 29, 2010
CD Pick of the Week: De Temps Antan
Totally loving this wonderful new CD from Quebecois band De Temps Antan. Les Habits de Papier features fun and happy folk music based on les pieds (a form of seated clogging unique to Quebec). Hot fiddles, sweet accordion and warm male vocals. Mostly upbeat and so cool. From members of Quebecois supergroup La Bouttine Souriante. Every track is delicious. It's joyous, infectious, and so much fun.
Totally loving this wonderful new CD from Quebecois band De Temps Antan. Les Habits de Papier features fun and happy folk music based on les pieds (a form of seated clogging unique to Quebec). Hot fiddles, sweet accordion and warm male vocals. Mostly upbeat and so cool. From members of Quebecois supergroup La Bouttine Souriante. Every track is delicious. It's joyous, infectious, and so much fun.
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