Saturday, July 18, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Parade
Every spring Silver Creek celebrated it’s terminal small-townness with “The Pansy Parade.” Of course now it’s turned into much eye-rolling and references to gay pride, but back in the 60s it meant just flowers. It was a kids-only parade, with the exception of the high school marching band and Mr. Grovner’s antique fire engine that he pulled out on any occasion even remotely appropriate for such a vehicle. And a few occasions where the vehicle was highly inappropriate.
The Pansy Parade featured a bunch of mortified kids riding bikes of pulling smaller siblings in wagons, all covered in flowers. Sort of a juvenile Rose Parade. Mothers all over town would spend hours raiding their gardens and the local hillsides for colorful blooms to turn banana-seated Schwinns and dented Red Fliers into mini monuments to horticultural exaggeration.
And for some reason, us kids were always put into costume. These costumes rarely, if ever, had anything to do with what we were riding or pulling. Usually it was last Halloween’s costume, resurrected with the addition of a flower on the lapel of a clown suit or painted insanely onto the sheet of a small ghost. You’d see a cowboy riding a tricycle covered in pink roses or a black-clad witch, complete with pointed hat, wearing a garland of sweet pea blooms.
Really, the whole thing was ridiculous. But the parents loved it as much as the kids hated it. The only ones who didn’t seem to mind where the really small ones, often pulled in a wagon by mom or dad. They’d happily clap their pudgy hands, pausing occasionally to nap or to try and eat the décor. The dogs didn’t seem to mind either. Somehow it became part of the tradition to braid a collar of dandelions or put a crown of yellow dandelions on Fido’s head.
But anyone over the age of seven had to be forced at gunpoint to take part. The whole town would turn out with their Instamatics to sip watery lemonade and line Union Street, waving tiny American flags and cheering like they were watching the Super Bowl. On the street, boys hung their heads in shame at being draped in daisies; the only consolation being that every other boy was being similarly debased.
Any girl who wasn’t a girly-girl hated this. And any girl who hated flowers, or had allergies, had it worst of all. Sign me up for all three. I loathed being forced to pretend to be a princess when I would have preferred to be dressed as G.I. Joe. And mom would take my bike and, with masking tape applied with such thoroughness that it looked like mummy wrapping, would cover it with these hideous little flowers that were not only creepy, but also made me sneeze incessantly. So there I’d be, in one of my older sister’s hand-me-down dresses and a Cinderella hat made from sheet of construction paper, trying to ride my overloaded bike down a street clogged with miserable kids; my nose as red as a carnation and my mind filled with images of revenge. One day, I told myself, I’d force my parents to cover themselves in leaves and pine needles, dress up like total freaks, and walk slowly down Union Street while all the kids in town snapped photographs and laughed.
Stephen King has nothing on the demon mind of a child forced to do something against her will.
Every spring Silver Creek celebrated it’s terminal small-townness with “The Pansy Parade.” Of course now it’s turned into much eye-rolling and references to gay pride, but back in the 60s it meant just flowers. It was a kids-only parade, with the exception of the high school marching band and Mr. Grovner’s antique fire engine that he pulled out on any occasion even remotely appropriate for such a vehicle. And a few occasions where the vehicle was highly inappropriate.
The Pansy Parade featured a bunch of mortified kids riding bikes of pulling smaller siblings in wagons, all covered in flowers. Sort of a juvenile Rose Parade. Mothers all over town would spend hours raiding their gardens and the local hillsides for colorful blooms to turn banana-seated Schwinns and dented Red Fliers into mini monuments to horticultural exaggeration.
And for some reason, us kids were always put into costume. These costumes rarely, if ever, had anything to do with what we were riding or pulling. Usually it was last Halloween’s costume, resurrected with the addition of a flower on the lapel of a clown suit or painted insanely onto the sheet of a small ghost. You’d see a cowboy riding a tricycle covered in pink roses or a black-clad witch, complete with pointed hat, wearing a garland of sweet pea blooms.
Really, the whole thing was ridiculous. But the parents loved it as much as the kids hated it. The only ones who didn’t seem to mind where the really small ones, often pulled in a wagon by mom or dad. They’d happily clap their pudgy hands, pausing occasionally to nap or to try and eat the décor. The dogs didn’t seem to mind either. Somehow it became part of the tradition to braid a collar of dandelions or put a crown of yellow dandelions on Fido’s head.
But anyone over the age of seven had to be forced at gunpoint to take part. The whole town would turn out with their Instamatics to sip watery lemonade and line Union Street, waving tiny American flags and cheering like they were watching the Super Bowl. On the street, boys hung their heads in shame at being draped in daisies; the only consolation being that every other boy was being similarly debased.
Any girl who wasn’t a girly-girl hated this. And any girl who hated flowers, or had allergies, had it worst of all. Sign me up for all three. I loathed being forced to pretend to be a princess when I would have preferred to be dressed as G.I. Joe. And mom would take my bike and, with masking tape applied with such thoroughness that it looked like mummy wrapping, would cover it with these hideous little flowers that were not only creepy, but also made me sneeze incessantly. So there I’d be, in one of my older sister’s hand-me-down dresses and a Cinderella hat made from sheet of construction paper, trying to ride my overloaded bike down a street clogged with miserable kids; my nose as red as a carnation and my mind filled with images of revenge. One day, I told myself, I’d force my parents to cover themselves in leaves and pine needles, dress up like total freaks, and walk slowly down Union Street while all the kids in town snapped photographs and laughed.
Stephen King has nothing on the demon mind of a child forced to do something against her will.
Why Bother?
Why bother trying to sleep when I have to get up at 4:45 anyway and it's now 2 am. It'll take me at least two hours, if not longer, to fall asleep if I can. So there seems little point in trying just to get 45 minutes of sleep. So I shall pull an all-nighter, which is usual for me, but not nearly as easy to manage as when I was in my 20s.
All-nighters are also easier when there's a goal. Studying for finals. Finishing a paper. Talking for 8 hours, lost in time, with a good friend or a new crush. But staying up all night watching movies because you know you're not going to sleep makes the time creep on. Perhaps I should write a paper just to give myself a task. "Examine the role of the voiceless woman in the novels and Dickens and discuss how the actions of his female characters either advance or hinder his plots."
Or not.
I read an article last week that said Michael Jackson took up to 10 Xanax a night. During this recent phase of insomnia and my comment how I had run out of Ambien, I heard from no fewer than 3 of my friends who were concerned to learn that I take sleeping pills and were worried about my becoming addicted. I take one pill every 2 or 3 days so that I can count on a few good night's sleep a week and my wonderful friends are worried about me. I love that. Didn't MJ had friends who watched out for him? Personally, I'm touched that they care enough to poke into my life and say "are you OK?" It gives me a total warm, fuzzy feeling. It doesn't alter the fact that I'm exhausted and cranky, but it does make me all warm and fuzzy.
I have the best friends in the world. Oh, and the most wonderful husband as well.
Why bother trying to sleep when I have to get up at 4:45 anyway and it's now 2 am. It'll take me at least two hours, if not longer, to fall asleep if I can. So there seems little point in trying just to get 45 minutes of sleep. So I shall pull an all-nighter, which is usual for me, but not nearly as easy to manage as when I was in my 20s.
All-nighters are also easier when there's a goal. Studying for finals. Finishing a paper. Talking for 8 hours, lost in time, with a good friend or a new crush. But staying up all night watching movies because you know you're not going to sleep makes the time creep on. Perhaps I should write a paper just to give myself a task. "Examine the role of the voiceless woman in the novels and Dickens and discuss how the actions of his female characters either advance or hinder his plots."
Or not.
I read an article last week that said Michael Jackson took up to 10 Xanax a night. During this recent phase of insomnia and my comment how I had run out of Ambien, I heard from no fewer than 3 of my friends who were concerned to learn that I take sleeping pills and were worried about my becoming addicted. I take one pill every 2 or 3 days so that I can count on a few good night's sleep a week and my wonderful friends are worried about me. I love that. Didn't MJ had friends who watched out for him? Personally, I'm touched that they care enough to poke into my life and say "are you OK?" It gives me a total warm, fuzzy feeling. It doesn't alter the fact that I'm exhausted and cranky, but it does make me all warm and fuzzy.
I have the best friends in the world. Oh, and the most wonderful husband as well.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Scenes from Silver Creek: A Tale of Two Churches
My family was a two-church household. Mom (four-time President of St. Edith’s Women’s Club) is a die-hard Episcopal. Dad (Monday night Bingo caller for six years) was an equally die-hard Catholic. When they had kids they made a rule, they would alternate children, each parent claiming children to raise in their faith. My eldest sister, Kathleen was raised in mom’s church. My eldest brother, Ronnie went with dad. Diane came next and was claimed by mom. Peter went with dad. Then came me.
That was their big mistake; they had an odd number of children. The supreme and eternal question of my soul was decided on a coin flip. Dad won. I lost. My other sisters seem far better adjusted than I, having been raised on a diet of God lite and good will. I, however, had “Christ died for YOUR sins” ingrained in me from such an early age that to this day I feel guilty for everything from telling a little white lie to the oppression of slavery.
Every Sunday the other females in the family would turn left at the drive and walk down a tree-shaded street towards St. Edith’s. I, in a symbolism too hilarious to be ignored, would turn left with the men in my family and walk past Spender’s Mortuary, the Dead End Bar and Grill, and the sign for the city dump on our way towards the frigid bulk of Our Lady of Angels.
Where St. Edith’s was light, bright, and cozy with padded benches and happy hymns; OLA was dark, uncomfortable, and had two temperatures: cold and freezing. And it was filled with rows of hard wooden benches guaranteed to numb any butt within 10 minutes. No matter how often the church ladies changed the roses and carnations the place always smelled of rotten flowers and the hideous realism of the Stations of the Cross I swear look like sketches I’ve seen done by prisoners at Auschwitz.
When I was growing up, the iron, Irish hand of Father Patrick Sheehy, ran OLA with all the benevolence of the IRS. He was a big, grouchy bear of a man. And if you’re waiting for me to add the expected “with a heart of gold” you won’t get it. He was cranky, judgmental, cold, and absolutely the worst person to instill the warmth of God’s love in heart of a shy child. He was also, quite inconveniently, deaf as a stump. This affliction made confession a veritable cavalcade of embarrassment as, by the end, you were basically screaming out all your petty sins for the entire congregation to hear. It’s how Mr. Hopgood found out about Mrs. Hopgood’s tryst with his brother, and how my brothers found out it was I who told our parents about their flirtation with cigarettes.
Father Sheehy’s one concession to seeming human was the fact that he kept birds. He conscripted the boys club and had them build a huge aviary out behind the rectory and there he could often be found surrounded by his beloved finches, parakeets, and doves. Later on he badgered some of the fathers to build separate area where he could care for wounded pigeons and other wild birds. He even had a parrot for a few years, a large taxidermied-looking creature that dropped feathers out of its tail on a regular basis and yet never seemed to run out of them. This horrid creature made a noise like the unholy dead whenever anyone but Father Sheehy got too close and it was widely rumored that noise was responsible for Mrs. Luckweather’s final heart attack.
My family was a two-church household. Mom (four-time President of St. Edith’s Women’s Club) is a die-hard Episcopal. Dad (Monday night Bingo caller for six years) was an equally die-hard Catholic. When they had kids they made a rule, they would alternate children, each parent claiming children to raise in their faith. My eldest sister, Kathleen was raised in mom’s church. My eldest brother, Ronnie went with dad. Diane came next and was claimed by mom. Peter went with dad. Then came me.
That was their big mistake; they had an odd number of children. The supreme and eternal question of my soul was decided on a coin flip. Dad won. I lost. My other sisters seem far better adjusted than I, having been raised on a diet of God lite and good will. I, however, had “Christ died for YOUR sins” ingrained in me from such an early age that to this day I feel guilty for everything from telling a little white lie to the oppression of slavery.
Every Sunday the other females in the family would turn left at the drive and walk down a tree-shaded street towards St. Edith’s. I, in a symbolism too hilarious to be ignored, would turn left with the men in my family and walk past Spender’s Mortuary, the Dead End Bar and Grill, and the sign for the city dump on our way towards the frigid bulk of Our Lady of Angels.
Where St. Edith’s was light, bright, and cozy with padded benches and happy hymns; OLA was dark, uncomfortable, and had two temperatures: cold and freezing. And it was filled with rows of hard wooden benches guaranteed to numb any butt within 10 minutes. No matter how often the church ladies changed the roses and carnations the place always smelled of rotten flowers and the hideous realism of the Stations of the Cross I swear look like sketches I’ve seen done by prisoners at Auschwitz.
When I was growing up, the iron, Irish hand of Father Patrick Sheehy, ran OLA with all the benevolence of the IRS. He was a big, grouchy bear of a man. And if you’re waiting for me to add the expected “with a heart of gold” you won’t get it. He was cranky, judgmental, cold, and absolutely the worst person to instill the warmth of God’s love in heart of a shy child. He was also, quite inconveniently, deaf as a stump. This affliction made confession a veritable cavalcade of embarrassment as, by the end, you were basically screaming out all your petty sins for the entire congregation to hear. It’s how Mr. Hopgood found out about Mrs. Hopgood’s tryst with his brother, and how my brothers found out it was I who told our parents about their flirtation with cigarettes.
Father Sheehy’s one concession to seeming human was the fact that he kept birds. He conscripted the boys club and had them build a huge aviary out behind the rectory and there he could often be found surrounded by his beloved finches, parakeets, and doves. Later on he badgered some of the fathers to build separate area where he could care for wounded pigeons and other wild birds. He even had a parrot for a few years, a large taxidermied-looking creature that dropped feathers out of its tail on a regular basis and yet never seemed to run out of them. This horrid creature made a noise like the unholy dead whenever anyone but Father Sheehy got too close and it was widely rumored that noise was responsible for Mrs. Luckweather’s final heart attack.
Photo of the day: Bury Me With My Dog
I cannot explain the iconography of this memorial. A man who looks like a miner and his faithful sidekick. Is it St. Francis, patron saint of animals? Is it King the Wonder Dog? In any case, it's at Holy Cross, the Catholic Cemetery in Colma. Not too far from where my father is buried.
I cannot explain the iconography of this memorial. A man who looks like a miner and his faithful sidekick. Is it St. Francis, patron saint of animals? Is it King the Wonder Dog? In any case, it's at Holy Cross, the Catholic Cemetery in Colma. Not too far from where my father is buried.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Scenes from Silver Creek: Summertime Jam
Every summer the ladies of Silver Creek went into a frenzy of jam making. I remember being roped into the berry picking as a child. Fat bushes of blackberry and delicate beds of strawberry. Apricots warm from the summer sun and baskets of wormy apples. For weeks every kitchen would be too hot to enter as the heat of the day competed with the steam rising from ancient, vast stoves as to which was more uncomfortable.
My mother, sadly, made the worst jam in town and it was always a disappointment to me to see such delicious fruit and know it would be ruined by mom’s hammer touch. The blackberry jam would have tiny bits of branches in it that you would find, all unexpected, smeared on your January toast. The strawberry jam would be so sweet that it was almost painful to eat. Tasteless apple butter. I used to love to go to the homes of my aunts and taste their wonderful jars of summer glory. Why? I would ask, did my mother and only my mother miss the cooking gene in the family?
But every year she would tie on her sunshine yellow apron and rope in the family to work. The boys would haul cardboard boxes of empty jars from the basement and then be free to be free. The girls, unfortunately, were tied by antique gender roles into washing and sterilizing jars, slicing fruit, and handing mom ingredients like surgical nurses during a fruit appendectomy. When my sisters got married and moved out it fell to me, the baby of the family, to do the work that three of us used to share. And we did it, knowing full well that all of this sweat would result in gleaming jars of crap.
Even my father, who worshipped my mother, wasn’t up to the task of pretending her jam was anything other than awful. He even developed a “berry allergy” that got him out of having to put the thin, purple substance that mom called grape jelly onto his morning toast. When all of us kids tried to claim we’d inherited the same allergy, she refused to believe us. She took me, as the smallest, and sat me on the chrome and red-leather step stool in the kitchen and force fed me spoonfuls of grape jelly then watched me like a hawk to see if I came out in a rash. I didn’t and, to her mind, that made all of her kids immune from dad’s affliction. To this day my brother Ronnie blames me for not being a better actress. I tried to tell him that Katharine Hepburn couldn’t produce hives on cue, but there is no reasoning with a man who was daily forced to eat the much-feared cranberry-orange relish.
Each year at the Christmas boutique benefiting St. Edith’s, housewives all over Silver Creek would proudly produce the fruits of their summer labors for sale. Large wicker baskets would be decorated with red and green ribbon or sprigs of fake holly and filled with homemade goods. The tables of the church hall would groan under the weight of golden loaves of pound cake and plates full of sugar-dusted cookies. There was an unspoken competition to be first through the door and then make a beeline for Mrs. Hudson’s basket with glistening jars of strawberry jam, packets of sweet macaroons, eye-wateringly dill pickles, and a little pottery crock of clover honey.
Unfortunately for mom, her ineptitude in the kitchen was well known and nobody ever wanted her basket. After one year when it was the last basket left, dad took to making a great show of buying hers first “before anyone else beat him to it."
Every summer the ladies of Silver Creek went into a frenzy of jam making. I remember being roped into the berry picking as a child. Fat bushes of blackberry and delicate beds of strawberry. Apricots warm from the summer sun and baskets of wormy apples. For weeks every kitchen would be too hot to enter as the heat of the day competed with the steam rising from ancient, vast stoves as to which was more uncomfortable.
My mother, sadly, made the worst jam in town and it was always a disappointment to me to see such delicious fruit and know it would be ruined by mom’s hammer touch. The blackberry jam would have tiny bits of branches in it that you would find, all unexpected, smeared on your January toast. The strawberry jam would be so sweet that it was almost painful to eat. Tasteless apple butter. I used to love to go to the homes of my aunts and taste their wonderful jars of summer glory. Why? I would ask, did my mother and only my mother miss the cooking gene in the family?
But every year she would tie on her sunshine yellow apron and rope in the family to work. The boys would haul cardboard boxes of empty jars from the basement and then be free to be free. The girls, unfortunately, were tied by antique gender roles into washing and sterilizing jars, slicing fruit, and handing mom ingredients like surgical nurses during a fruit appendectomy. When my sisters got married and moved out it fell to me, the baby of the family, to do the work that three of us used to share. And we did it, knowing full well that all of this sweat would result in gleaming jars of crap.
Even my father, who worshipped my mother, wasn’t up to the task of pretending her jam was anything other than awful. He even developed a “berry allergy” that got him out of having to put the thin, purple substance that mom called grape jelly onto his morning toast. When all of us kids tried to claim we’d inherited the same allergy, she refused to believe us. She took me, as the smallest, and sat me on the chrome and red-leather step stool in the kitchen and force fed me spoonfuls of grape jelly then watched me like a hawk to see if I came out in a rash. I didn’t and, to her mind, that made all of her kids immune from dad’s affliction. To this day my brother Ronnie blames me for not being a better actress. I tried to tell him that Katharine Hepburn couldn’t produce hives on cue, but there is no reasoning with a man who was daily forced to eat the much-feared cranberry-orange relish.
Each year at the Christmas boutique benefiting St. Edith’s, housewives all over Silver Creek would proudly produce the fruits of their summer labors for sale. Large wicker baskets would be decorated with red and green ribbon or sprigs of fake holly and filled with homemade goods. The tables of the church hall would groan under the weight of golden loaves of pound cake and plates full of sugar-dusted cookies. There was an unspoken competition to be first through the door and then make a beeline for Mrs. Hudson’s basket with glistening jars of strawberry jam, packets of sweet macaroons, eye-wateringly dill pickles, and a little pottery crock of clover honey.
Unfortunately for mom, her ineptitude in the kitchen was well known and nobody ever wanted her basket. After one year when it was the last basket left, dad took to making a great show of buying hers first “before anyone else beat him to it."
Photo of the day: Madeline
It's Bastille Day and I wanted to photograph something French. But aside from French's mustard and stacks of French music, there's not much around here that fits. So you get a refrigerator magnet. Sorry.
It's all part of my shameless plug, anyway. Tonight from 6-9 pm (Pacific time) I'll be playing an all-French special on my radio show. Vive la Revolution features such historic figures of French music as Charles Trenet, Yves Montand, Edith Piaf, and Maurice Chevalier. Plus current stars such as Sanseverino, Paris Combo, Arthur H, and Francis Cabrel. I'll also be playing music from French-speaking countries and French-speaking artists in Canada and elsewhere. Tune in to 90.1 FM in the bay area or over the internet at KZSU live. Or you can listen via iTunes radio; Radio -> College-> KZSU.
Vive la France!
It's Bastille Day and I wanted to photograph something French. But aside from French's mustard and stacks of French music, there's not much around here that fits. So you get a refrigerator magnet. Sorry.
It's all part of my shameless plug, anyway. Tonight from 6-9 pm (Pacific time) I'll be playing an all-French special on my radio show. Vive la Revolution features such historic figures of French music as Charles Trenet, Yves Montand, Edith Piaf, and Maurice Chevalier. Plus current stars such as Sanseverino, Paris Combo, Arthur H, and Francis Cabrel. I'll also be playing music from French-speaking countries and French-speaking artists in Canada and elsewhere. Tune in to 90.1 FM in the bay area or over the internet at KZSU live. Or you can listen via iTunes radio; Radio -> College-> KZSU.
Vive la France!
Monday, July 13, 2009
Scenes from Silver Creek. The Funeral.
When Aunt Lenore finally wound down, at age 94, the whole town turned out for the funeral. The family bought five uniforms for the high school marching band and had them lead a New Orleans style parade down Union Street from St. Edith’s church to the cemetery out behind the softball field. It lacked some authenticity, as the band didn’t know how to play “Just A Closer Walk With Thee.” The best we could do was “Joy to the World” (the Creedence version, not the Christmas Carol). Since Aunt Camilla was already “appalled, disgusted, and sickened” by what she called “The Spectacle,” the bullfrog was just one more detail to offend her delicate sensibilities. She’d tried to put her dainty, size 5 foot down on the horseshoe wreath Aunt L had explicitly requested and her request to be buried in jeans and her beloved “I Love Dachshunds” sweatshirt. We outnumbered Aunt Camilla who washed her hands of the whole thing, and did as Aunt L wanted. (As a child I always thought Aunt Camilla must have the cleanest hands in Silver Creek as she was always washing them of something.)
The Reverend Polehouse delivered a lovely sermon about “loving thy neighbor” which, considering Aunt L’s many love affairs, seemed to be full of double entrendres that kept me just this side of giggles the entire time. Then we all stood and sang, “There is a Green Hill” and went outside to join the parade. All except Aunt Camilla, of course, who demanded to be driven the ¾ of a mile to the cemetery in a decent manner. We played rock/paper/scissors to see who had to drive her. My cousin, Daniel lost and helped Aunt Camilla into his pickup, which she regarded with horror, as if being asked to purposely step in manure.
After the graveside service (the solemnity of which was marred somewhat by the intrusion of a large and muddy sheepdog that came out of nowhere with a repulsive tennis ball in his mouth and a hopeful look on his face and who would not be dissuaded from bumping into us until someone, I think it was Mr. Jeevers from the hardware store, threw it for him.) we all headed to the Foreign Legion hall for casseroles and condolences and some much-needed, heavily-spiked Hawaiian Punch.
The day was hot and all the ladies were attired in light dresses. They were so heavily talcum powdered that when they went to hug you, small clouds of white rose like tiny dust storms from their bosoms and my sedate black dress soon had a grey tinge to it.
The men loosened their ties and took off their jackets, retreating into male groups to discuss sports and business. Across the street, the children were terrorizing the elementary school playground, their excited shrieks accompanied by the frenzied barks of the sheepdog that had followed the procession to the hall.
Inside the hall it seemed oddly dark after the brightness of the day. Amid the photos of old veterans shaking hands with Bob Hope there were displays of Aunt L. Pictures of her as a child, hugging a dumb looking sheep. As a bobbed-haired teenager with overalls and an arm slung around a girl that nobody could identify. On her first wedding day, and all the subsequent wedding days (four in all), in dresses of varying degrees of laughability and with husband of varying degrees of suitability. The only one any of us had ever liked was husband number three, Otto. A man of stunning plainness who obviously worshipped Aunt L and always went around looking slightly confused that such a force of nature had chosen him. When he died of a heart attack on an Over 40 Club bus trip to Branson, Aunt L went into the only period of depression I’d ever seen her experience.
When Aunt Lenore finally wound down, at age 94, the whole town turned out for the funeral. The family bought five uniforms for the high school marching band and had them lead a New Orleans style parade down Union Street from St. Edith’s church to the cemetery out behind the softball field. It lacked some authenticity, as the band didn’t know how to play “Just A Closer Walk With Thee.” The best we could do was “Joy to the World” (the Creedence version, not the Christmas Carol). Since Aunt Camilla was already “appalled, disgusted, and sickened” by what she called “The Spectacle,” the bullfrog was just one more detail to offend her delicate sensibilities. She’d tried to put her dainty, size 5 foot down on the horseshoe wreath Aunt L had explicitly requested and her request to be buried in jeans and her beloved “I Love Dachshunds” sweatshirt. We outnumbered Aunt Camilla who washed her hands of the whole thing, and did as Aunt L wanted. (As a child I always thought Aunt Camilla must have the cleanest hands in Silver Creek as she was always washing them of something.)
The Reverend Polehouse delivered a lovely sermon about “loving thy neighbor” which, considering Aunt L’s many love affairs, seemed to be full of double entrendres that kept me just this side of giggles the entire time. Then we all stood and sang, “There is a Green Hill” and went outside to join the parade. All except Aunt Camilla, of course, who demanded to be driven the ¾ of a mile to the cemetery in a decent manner. We played rock/paper/scissors to see who had to drive her. My cousin, Daniel lost and helped Aunt Camilla into his pickup, which she regarded with horror, as if being asked to purposely step in manure.
After the graveside service (the solemnity of which was marred somewhat by the intrusion of a large and muddy sheepdog that came out of nowhere with a repulsive tennis ball in his mouth and a hopeful look on his face and who would not be dissuaded from bumping into us until someone, I think it was Mr. Jeevers from the hardware store, threw it for him.) we all headed to the Foreign Legion hall for casseroles and condolences and some much-needed, heavily-spiked Hawaiian Punch.
The day was hot and all the ladies were attired in light dresses. They were so heavily talcum powdered that when they went to hug you, small clouds of white rose like tiny dust storms from their bosoms and my sedate black dress soon had a grey tinge to it.
The men loosened their ties and took off their jackets, retreating into male groups to discuss sports and business. Across the street, the children were terrorizing the elementary school playground, their excited shrieks accompanied by the frenzied barks of the sheepdog that had followed the procession to the hall.
Inside the hall it seemed oddly dark after the brightness of the day. Amid the photos of old veterans shaking hands with Bob Hope there were displays of Aunt L. Pictures of her as a child, hugging a dumb looking sheep. As a bobbed-haired teenager with overalls and an arm slung around a girl that nobody could identify. On her first wedding day, and all the subsequent wedding days (four in all), in dresses of varying degrees of laughability and with husband of varying degrees of suitability. The only one any of us had ever liked was husband number three, Otto. A man of stunning plainness who obviously worshipped Aunt L and always went around looking slightly confused that such a force of nature had chosen him. When he died of a heart attack on an Over 40 Club bus trip to Branson, Aunt L went into the only period of depression I’d ever seen her experience.
Photo of the day: Orange Tree. Blue Sky.
The orange tree in our back yard has very dramatic branches against the blue of a summer sky.
Despite my best intentions of a photo safari, I had forgotten I'd be spending all day at the adopt-a-thon and, consequently, had to spend most of today recovering due to lots of sore muscles. In the good news department, however, my Ambien refill we be processed this week. On Wednesday. It'll take a few days to get here, but I can look forward to sleep sometime next week.
The orange tree in our back yard has very dramatic branches against the blue of a summer sky.
Despite my best intentions of a photo safari, I had forgotten I'd be spending all day at the adopt-a-thon and, consequently, had to spend most of today recovering due to lots of sore muscles. In the good news department, however, my Ambien refill we be processed this week. On Wednesday. It'll take a few days to get here, but I can look forward to sleep sometime next week.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Photo of the day: Excessive Cuteness
Behold Daniel, Striped Tiger. That's his name. Obviously somebody in the kitten nursery is a Mr. Rogers fan. He's very sweet, loves to snuggle, is quite talkative, and will be snapped up by some lucky person as soon as he's in the adoption area.
Today was a great day at the nursery. We got some brand new kitties. They were found by construction workers actually out in front of the shelter. Within 20-30 minutes they had passed through intake, had their first blood tests, and were brought into the nursery. There wasn't even any paperwork for them yet. So we fixed up a kennel, introduced them to the concept of being fed by syringe, and gave them some of their first-ever cuddles. This tiny litter of three seems to be about two weeks old, and are the cutest things ever. Here's a photo of the one I TLC'd. I nicknamed him "Longitude" since he has lines running straight down his back.
His little frowny face just kills me. Considering he had the worst, most stressful day ever (being separated by mom, grabbed by some sweaty construction guys, having your blood drawn, handed over to strangers to have them shove food down your throat) the whole litter was doing very well. When I left they were all curled up in a pile asleep in their kennel. But this little sad face shows that Longitude wasn't too sure about the whole thing.
Behold Daniel, Striped Tiger. That's his name. Obviously somebody in the kitten nursery is a Mr. Rogers fan. He's very sweet, loves to snuggle, is quite talkative, and will be snapped up by some lucky person as soon as he's in the adoption area.
Today was a great day at the nursery. We got some brand new kitties. They were found by construction workers actually out in front of the shelter. Within 20-30 minutes they had passed through intake, had their first blood tests, and were brought into the nursery. There wasn't even any paperwork for them yet. So we fixed up a kennel, introduced them to the concept of being fed by syringe, and gave them some of their first-ever cuddles. This tiny litter of three seems to be about two weeks old, and are the cutest things ever. Here's a photo of the one I TLC'd. I nicknamed him "Longitude" since he has lines running straight down his back.
His little frowny face just kills me. Considering he had the worst, most stressful day ever (being separated by mom, grabbed by some sweaty construction guys, having your blood drawn, handed over to strangers to have them shove food down your throat) the whole litter was doing very well. When I left they were all curled up in a pile asleep in their kennel. But this little sad face shows that Longitude wasn't too sure about the whole thing.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Yes, I Admit it, I'm Selfish
This commentary piece from CNN asks why do people think it's selfish for a woman to decide not to have kids. Gee, I didn't know it was selfish but I suppose it is, in a way. I am selfish enough not to want to deal with kids. I don't want to pay for college educations and braces. I already can't sleep at night, throw in middle of the night feedings and I'm doomed. But my decision stems mostly from an acknowledgement that I'd make a terrible mother. I have no maternal instincts. Never have had. Didn't want to play with baby dolls as a kid. Never plays mommy. Never pushed my teddy bears in a carriage. I just don't have the gene, the patience, the financial security, or the desire to be a parent. Bravo to people who do, but it's not for me.
But why, exactly, does that matter to anyone except Husband? And why do people think you're selfish for deciding not to have kids. Are we in danger of running out?
I have problems with this article. First off the author says "what's wrong with being selfish?" Well nothing. But then she lists the most shallow and stupid of pursuits. Apparently we selfish, childless-by-choice women are that way because we would rather go on a shoe binge at Nordstrom. Um....no. Actually, at the risk of sounding too noble, my favorite way to spend money (and I think Husband would back me up on this) is giving it to causes I believe in. Oh yes, and we want to go to parties and clubs. Strange, but I'd rather volunteer my time.
But what really gets me are the comments on this piece. Here's one:
I don't have a problem with your being selfish and not reproducing.....you and any other women not interested in having kids will automatically remove themselves from the gene pool and only the less selfish women will reproduce and be left.
Here's another:
If you choose to not have children you ARE being selfish. Now that that is settled maybe you can talk about why it's OK to be selfish. And the correct answer to anyone who understands our social contract society is that selfishness is generally a bad thing for society. So if you are reasonably intelligent, emotionally mature, and make a reasonable amount of money, and choose selfish desires over having children, you are doing society a dis-service.
So rather than have a bunch of opinionated idiots deem me "selfish" I should have kids I don't want? For what purpose? The species is hardly in danger of dying out. In fact, we're highly overpopulated. So why do you need my contribution? And what gives mothers the monopoly on selflessness? I'm no Mother Teresa, but I do think I have a good social conscience and try to do my bit to make the world better. And yet I'm selfish because I don't focus all my time and attention on one child?
Personally I think way too many people reproduce who shouldn't. They have kids for the wrong reasons and then don't raise them well. So why would people who claim to love kids want children to be born to someone who doesn't want them and who knows they would be bad at it?
The one comment I did like came from someone who said that if you want to be really selfless, you need to adopt. Good point.
This commentary piece from CNN asks why do people think it's selfish for a woman to decide not to have kids. Gee, I didn't know it was selfish but I suppose it is, in a way. I am selfish enough not to want to deal with kids. I don't want to pay for college educations and braces. I already can't sleep at night, throw in middle of the night feedings and I'm doomed. But my decision stems mostly from an acknowledgement that I'd make a terrible mother. I have no maternal instincts. Never have had. Didn't want to play with baby dolls as a kid. Never plays mommy. Never pushed my teddy bears in a carriage. I just don't have the gene, the patience, the financial security, or the desire to be a parent. Bravo to people who do, but it's not for me.
But why, exactly, does that matter to anyone except Husband? And why do people think you're selfish for deciding not to have kids. Are we in danger of running out?
I have problems with this article. First off the author says "what's wrong with being selfish?" Well nothing. But then she lists the most shallow and stupid of pursuits. Apparently we selfish, childless-by-choice women are that way because we would rather go on a shoe binge at Nordstrom. Um....no. Actually, at the risk of sounding too noble, my favorite way to spend money (and I think Husband would back me up on this) is giving it to causes I believe in. Oh yes, and we want to go to parties and clubs. Strange, but I'd rather volunteer my time.
But what really gets me are the comments on this piece. Here's one:
I don't have a problem with your being selfish and not reproducing.....you and any other women not interested in having kids will automatically remove themselves from the gene pool and only the less selfish women will reproduce and be left.
Here's another:
If you choose to not have children you ARE being selfish. Now that that is settled maybe you can talk about why it's OK to be selfish. And the correct answer to anyone who understands our social contract society is that selfishness is generally a bad thing for society. So if you are reasonably intelligent, emotionally mature, and make a reasonable amount of money, and choose selfish desires over having children, you are doing society a dis-service.
So rather than have a bunch of opinionated idiots deem me "selfish" I should have kids I don't want? For what purpose? The species is hardly in danger of dying out. In fact, we're highly overpopulated. So why do you need my contribution? And what gives mothers the monopoly on selflessness? I'm no Mother Teresa, but I do think I have a good social conscience and try to do my bit to make the world better. And yet I'm selfish because I don't focus all my time and attention on one child?
Personally I think way too many people reproduce who shouldn't. They have kids for the wrong reasons and then don't raise them well. So why would people who claim to love kids want children to be born to someone who doesn't want them and who knows they would be bad at it?
The one comment I did like came from someone who said that if you want to be really selfless, you need to adopt. Good point.
My New Favorite Cat
Poor Cooper was brought into the shelter after she was hit by a car. She's lost her left eye, and several teeth (so her tongue often hangs out). She really looks like Bill the Cat from "Bloom County." (I'll let you compare the images:
She is, however, so sweet. Every time I have worked with her she has crawled right into my lap and not moved. Today she spent 30 minutes curled up on my lap, leaning her head against my chest and letting me pet her all over. She played a little, but mostly just wanted the love. I kept telling her what a beautiful girl she is. And she really is. I hope someone looks past her first impression to see the gorgeous gray love bug that I just want to take home and protect so that she never has to have another bad day. I really, really, really want her to find a loving home. I'm just sorry it can't be ours.
Poor Cooper was brought into the shelter after she was hit by a car. She's lost her left eye, and several teeth (so her tongue often hangs out). She really looks like Bill the Cat from "Bloom County." (I'll let you compare the images:
She is, however, so sweet. Every time I have worked with her she has crawled right into my lap and not moved. Today she spent 30 minutes curled up on my lap, leaning her head against my chest and letting me pet her all over. She played a little, but mostly just wanted the love. I kept telling her what a beautiful girl she is. And she really is. I hope someone looks past her first impression to see the gorgeous gray love bug that I just want to take home and protect so that she never has to have another bad day. I really, really, really want her to find a loving home. I'm just sorry it can't be ours.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Photo of the day: Board
Are you as bored as I with sub-acceptable photographs? Between insomnia and cat/kitten duty I never seem to have enough time (or energy) to get out there and take photos. This coming weekend, however, I swear I will. As god is my witness, Scarlet O'Hara will never go hungry again.
Are you as bored as I with sub-acceptable photographs? Between insomnia and cat/kitten duty I never seem to have enough time (or energy) to get out there and take photos. This coming weekend, however, I swear I will. As god is my witness, Scarlet O'Hara will never go hungry again.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Eavesdropping
Overheard at the gas station:
Man on cell phone: I don't know, somewhere on the Peninsula, I needed to get gas. .... No, it's not Palo Alto. I can't see a Starbucks from where I am.
(Apparently no matter where you are in Palo Alto you are in sight of a Starbucks.)
.....
Overheard at the shelter 1:
Woman (looking at kittens): Oh my god, they are so cute. Look, baby, aren't they adorable?
Boyfriend (looking at cell phone): Dude, Leo got a tattoo on his ass. Look (shows phone to girl).
(Personally, I'd rather look at kittens than Leo's ass.)
.....
Overheard at the shelter 2:
Woman, looking at a kitten, to husband: Honey, I've found my birthday present.
Man: Can't I just buy yourself some shoes?
Overheard at the gas station:
Man on cell phone: I don't know, somewhere on the Peninsula, I needed to get gas. .... No, it's not Palo Alto. I can't see a Starbucks from where I am.
(Apparently no matter where you are in Palo Alto you are in sight of a Starbucks.)
.....
Overheard at the shelter 1:
Woman (looking at kittens): Oh my god, they are so cute. Look, baby, aren't they adorable?
Boyfriend (looking at cell phone): Dude, Leo got a tattoo on his ass. Look (shows phone to girl).
(Personally, I'd rather look at kittens than Leo's ass.)
.....
Overheard at the shelter 2:
Woman, looking at a kitten, to husband: Honey, I've found my birthday present.
Man: Can't I just buy yourself some shoes?
Monday, July 06, 2009
Two From the Kitten Nursery
This little one is just about ready to go to a foster home. He'll be back and available for adoption soon.
This is Daniel Striped Tiger. He's brand new. I got to snuggle with him today and totally fell in love, in spite of the fact that he, like Cipher, wants to lick my hair.
This little one is just about ready to go to a foster home. He'll be back and available for adoption soon.
This is Daniel Striped Tiger. He's brand new. I got to snuggle with him today and totally fell in love, in spite of the fact that he, like Cipher, wants to lick my hair.
Sunday, July 05, 2009
Pigpen in the Planter
Pigpen, one of our neighborhood cats, loves our side yard. She can often be seen lying on the concrete, her rumpled hair blowing in the breeze, desperately in need of a bath. Poor thing is a mess. Today I discovered that she also likes curling into an unused planter box. Because she's a dirt-gray color, she blends perfectly with the weathered wood and leftover soil.
Pigpen, one of our neighborhood cats, loves our side yard. She can often be seen lying on the concrete, her rumpled hair blowing in the breeze, desperately in need of a bath. Poor thing is a mess. Today I discovered that she also likes curling into an unused planter box. Because she's a dirt-gray color, she blends perfectly with the weathered wood and leftover soil.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Photo of the day: Independence Day
Happy Fortha July. What are you doing to celebrate? A picnic followed by fireworks? A BBQ with friends? Husband and I are being very American and going to a baseball game where we shall eat hot dogs and watch the Giants. A beautiful day in the sunshine at the most gorgeous ballpark in the US. I will, of course, be dressed like Betsy Ross.
Happy Fortha July. What are you doing to celebrate? A picnic followed by fireworks? A BBQ with friends? Husband and I are being very American and going to a baseball game where we shall eat hot dogs and watch the Giants. A beautiful day in the sunshine at the most gorgeous ballpark in the US. I will, of course, be dressed like Betsy Ross.
Friday, July 03, 2009
Stream of Unconsciousness
I'm going through a pretty severe insomnia phase and, of course, I'm all out of Ambien. Thanks to the wonders of mail-order pharmacies and tight-fisted insurance companies they won't even begin to process my refill until the 15th. Give it another week for processing and shipping and I'm looking at three more weeks of no sleep. I'm getting about 3 or 4 hours a night, so it's not a total loss. But it's not enough and it's catching up to me.
I'm getting into that phase where the sillies take over. Everything is vaguely hilarious. I feel almost drunk because I'm so goofy and, occasionally, light headed. I kind of like it. Like getting high without all that nasty breaking the law crap. It's actually quite fun, in a completely unhealthy, entirely dysfunctional way. I smile a lot. I'm giddy. God help us, I sing. Today I found myself in the middle of kitten duty singing the theme to "The Muppet Show" to a kitten, only to look up and see the other volunteers staring at me in bemused horror and moving their chairs back ever so slightly. Luckily the kittens didn't seem to mind it. But that self-censoring chip, never very effective in my case anyway, is practically non-existent. Poor Husband. There's no telling what I might do if he takes me out in public this weekend. (Which he will...Giants game on the 4th. Yay!) I don't mean I'm going to rip my shirt off and yell "Do me, Lincecum!" Because, well, eww. But I do tend to say things without thinking even when I do get enough sleep.
Hell, when he introduced me to his boss a few months ago the first thing I said to him was "Hi, do I have to kiss your ass?" I mean what kind of woman says that to her husband's boss? Oh yeah, me.
I don't know how he puts up with me.
I'm going through a pretty severe insomnia phase and, of course, I'm all out of Ambien. Thanks to the wonders of mail-order pharmacies and tight-fisted insurance companies they won't even begin to process my refill until the 15th. Give it another week for processing and shipping and I'm looking at three more weeks of no sleep. I'm getting about 3 or 4 hours a night, so it's not a total loss. But it's not enough and it's catching up to me.
I'm getting into that phase where the sillies take over. Everything is vaguely hilarious. I feel almost drunk because I'm so goofy and, occasionally, light headed. I kind of like it. Like getting high without all that nasty breaking the law crap. It's actually quite fun, in a completely unhealthy, entirely dysfunctional way. I smile a lot. I'm giddy. God help us, I sing. Today I found myself in the middle of kitten duty singing the theme to "The Muppet Show" to a kitten, only to look up and see the other volunteers staring at me in bemused horror and moving their chairs back ever so slightly. Luckily the kittens didn't seem to mind it. But that self-censoring chip, never very effective in my case anyway, is practically non-existent. Poor Husband. There's no telling what I might do if he takes me out in public this weekend. (Which he will...Giants game on the 4th. Yay!) I don't mean I'm going to rip my shirt off and yell "Do me, Lincecum!" Because, well, eww. But I do tend to say things without thinking even when I do get enough sleep.
Hell, when he introduced me to his boss a few months ago the first thing I said to him was "Hi, do I have to kiss your ass?" I mean what kind of woman says that to her husband's boss? Oh yeah, me.
I don't know how he puts up with me.
Photo of the day: The Music Office
Not ours, but the one at the radio station. It's about the size of a small bathroom and decorated mostly in stickers from bands and labels around the world. Highly colorful chaos, really. It can only hold one person comfortably. Two if you don't mind having to move out of the way a lot. Three and the walls start to close in and the air gets sucked out of the room. But we love it.
Not ours, but the one at the radio station. It's about the size of a small bathroom and decorated mostly in stickers from bands and labels around the world. Highly colorful chaos, really. It can only hold one person comfortably. Two if you don't mind having to move out of the way a lot. Three and the walls start to close in and the air gets sucked out of the room. But we love it.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Photo of the day: Bayside
Sometimes you need to appreciate a photo not for its quality, nor even its subject, but what it represents. This represents, to me, what's best about a summer day in the Bay Area. Blue sky. Birds on the bay. Seeing the east bay hills from the peninsula. And, just to the right of where I focused, one tiny sailboat out for a day on the bay. It was clear and warm. The path was full of people walking dogs, runners dripping sweat, and little kids tossing bits of stale bread to the ducks. And this is why I love where I live.
Sometimes you need to appreciate a photo not for its quality, nor even its subject, but what it represents. This represents, to me, what's best about a summer day in the Bay Area. Blue sky. Birds on the bay. Seeing the east bay hills from the peninsula. And, just to the right of where I focused, one tiny sailboat out for a day on the bay. It was clear and warm. The path was full of people walking dogs, runners dripping sweat, and little kids tossing bits of stale bread to the ducks. And this is why I love where I live.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Photo of the day: Abstract in Concrete and Rust
I have no wish to analyze what draws my photographer's eye to things like broken fences and rusty gates. But I'm odd that way. Faced with a beautiful landscape or a falling-down barn, I tend to go to the barn. In my photographic history I've photographed doorknobs when others were shooting garden shots, and captured dented bumpers while the rest of the crows was looking at a dramatic sunset.
This particular shot looks to me like some weird abstract sculptural piece that would cost $75,000 and stand on a platform in your local MOMA and make people spout twaddle like "existential" and "the formless void."
But really, it's a piece of rusty metal sitting on a broken concrete slab.
I have no wish to analyze what draws my photographer's eye to things like broken fences and rusty gates. But I'm odd that way. Faced with a beautiful landscape or a falling-down barn, I tend to go to the barn. In my photographic history I've photographed doorknobs when others were shooting garden shots, and captured dented bumpers while the rest of the crows was looking at a dramatic sunset.
This particular shot looks to me like some weird abstract sculptural piece that would cost $75,000 and stand on a platform in your local MOMA and make people spout twaddle like "existential" and "the formless void."
But really, it's a piece of rusty metal sitting on a broken concrete slab.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Well Crap
A federal advisory panel has recommended a ban on Vicodin and Percocet. Oh goodie. The ban was suggested because of possible liver damage due to these drugs containing Acetaminophen. According to the NYT article, more than 400 people die every year from overdoses. So Tylenol, which is the acetaminophen king, can still be bought over-the-counter and taken indiscriminately. But Vicodin, frequently used to treat chronic pain (like mine) will be banned. So not happy.
Whatever happened to personal responsibility? Yes, I know you can overdose from this. That's why I always take a half a pill first and only take the second half of the Vicodin if I'm still in pain. I've been doing this for years and haven't developed an addiction or a liver problem. I know this because my doctor, who prescribes the Vicodin, insists on a complete liver screening every six months. And while I'm sorry for the 400 people who overdose, what about the millions of us who haven't and aren't likely to? We are to be denied a proven painkiller that we take responsibly because some idiot takes a Vicodin and washes it down with 20 Tylenol? When pain is a daily part of your life, you learn to live with it. But it helps to have something like Vicodin for those days where you hurt so bad you can barely get out of bed. These drugs already require a prescription, which comes with thorough warnings about addiction, side-effects, and dangerous drug interactions. But apparently I'm too stupid to take care of myself and need the government to spare my from my own idiocy and deny me a drug that helps make my life possible. It seems like a very tiny number of people who take Vicodin or Percocet end up in the ER but we're all being penalized. I find it unfair and ridiculous. We're grown ups here, folks, let us talk to our doctors and take our own risks.
A federal advisory panel has recommended a ban on Vicodin and Percocet. Oh goodie. The ban was suggested because of possible liver damage due to these drugs containing Acetaminophen. According to the NYT article, more than 400 people die every year from overdoses. So Tylenol, which is the acetaminophen king, can still be bought over-the-counter and taken indiscriminately. But Vicodin, frequently used to treat chronic pain (like mine) will be banned. So not happy.
Whatever happened to personal responsibility? Yes, I know you can overdose from this. That's why I always take a half a pill first and only take the second half of the Vicodin if I'm still in pain. I've been doing this for years and haven't developed an addiction or a liver problem. I know this because my doctor, who prescribes the Vicodin, insists on a complete liver screening every six months. And while I'm sorry for the 400 people who overdose, what about the millions of us who haven't and aren't likely to? We are to be denied a proven painkiller that we take responsibly because some idiot takes a Vicodin and washes it down with 20 Tylenol? When pain is a daily part of your life, you learn to live with it. But it helps to have something like Vicodin for those days where you hurt so bad you can barely get out of bed. These drugs already require a prescription, which comes with thorough warnings about addiction, side-effects, and dangerous drug interactions. But apparently I'm too stupid to take care of myself and need the government to spare my from my own idiocy and deny me a drug that helps make my life possible. It seems like a very tiny number of people who take Vicodin or Percocet end up in the ER but we're all being penalized. I find it unfair and ridiculous. We're grown ups here, folks, let us talk to our doctors and take our own risks.
The Music Instinct
Husband and I are halfway through a fascinating PBS program called The Music Instinct: Science & Song. It's a fascinating look at how our brains respond to music. What is genetic and what is inherited?
As a world music DJ, I was especially intrigued at the role that culture plays in our musical life. There was a wonderful singer from Pakistan, I believe, and another from Tibet. They discussed how Asian music has a different tonal scale than Western music and, because of this, often sounds "out of tune" to Western ears. I was also fascinated by them playing piano music to villagers in Cameroon who had no previous exposure to European classical music before and how they responded emotionally to the tunes by categorizing each piece as "happy," "sad," or "scary." If you have a chance to check it out, I highly recommend it.
I'm hoping they get to why people respond to different styles of music. Why do I love world music but hate death metal? Why does Husband play jazz and not hip-hop? My siblings and I have very different tastes in music and yet we all grew up with the same records on our parents stereo. So why do I turn to Django Reinhardt and my sister to the Rolling Stones?
Husband and I are halfway through a fascinating PBS program called The Music Instinct: Science & Song. It's a fascinating look at how our brains respond to music. What is genetic and what is inherited?
As a world music DJ, I was especially intrigued at the role that culture plays in our musical life. There was a wonderful singer from Pakistan, I believe, and another from Tibet. They discussed how Asian music has a different tonal scale than Western music and, because of this, often sounds "out of tune" to Western ears. I was also fascinated by them playing piano music to villagers in Cameroon who had no previous exposure to European classical music before and how they responded emotionally to the tunes by categorizing each piece as "happy," "sad," or "scary." If you have a chance to check it out, I highly recommend it.
I'm hoping they get to why people respond to different styles of music. Why do I love world music but hate death metal? Why does Husband play jazz and not hip-hop? My siblings and I have very different tastes in music and yet we all grew up with the same records on our parents stereo. So why do I turn to Django Reinhardt and my sister to the Rolling Stones?
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Gimpy
So I had a bit of an accident yesterday involving a runaway kitten and a hard concrete floor. The result is a swollen knee, a sore back, and a sprained ankle. It's nothing serious, and I'll be fine in a few days, but it brings to the forefront one of the things about me that drives Husband crazy: I'm a lousy patient.
I'm just not good at being sick or injured. I insist on doing all the things I normally do, even though I may be in pain or may feel like death on toast. I'll still try to carry a full laundry basket or make dinner. I'll insist on getting up to get my own glass of water, even though Husband has kindly offered to get one for me. I'm just, generally stubborn.
Many years ago when my best friend Steve was dealing with the first stages of being HIV+ he asked me what I thought he'd be like when he was dying. I told him that I think when people die they act like they do when they have the flu, multiplied by a million. I told him he was pretty pathetic when sick so when he was in the final stages he'd probably drive me crazy. (As it turns out, I was wrong.) And he told me that if my theory was true when it came to be my time I would get up and turn off my own life-support system. He's probably right. I'll insist on doing it myself. "No, don't bother yourself, I can hit the off switch."
I try to be good, honest. I admitted defeat and did not go to cat duty today, the first day I've ever missed. But since it hurts to walk and since I'm using a cane, I figured it would just be stupid to try and carry 18-pound cats around. But I was dressed and ready to go with my keys in my hand before I gave in. And while I did spend most of the day with my leg up and ice on my knee and ankle, I did put some laundry in the washer and put dinner in the oven.
But I have to admit, I'm a gimp. My ankle is definitely sprained (it's happened too many times to the same ankle to mistake it) and I am going to have to be a lazy slug this weekend if I want to make kitten duty on Monday. But I also know that at some point tomorrow Husband is going to look at me and say "what are you doing" as I try to clean the bathroom or sweep the kitchen floor.
So I had a bit of an accident yesterday involving a runaway kitten and a hard concrete floor. The result is a swollen knee, a sore back, and a sprained ankle. It's nothing serious, and I'll be fine in a few days, but it brings to the forefront one of the things about me that drives Husband crazy: I'm a lousy patient.
I'm just not good at being sick or injured. I insist on doing all the things I normally do, even though I may be in pain or may feel like death on toast. I'll still try to carry a full laundry basket or make dinner. I'll insist on getting up to get my own glass of water, even though Husband has kindly offered to get one for me. I'm just, generally stubborn.
Many years ago when my best friend Steve was dealing with the first stages of being HIV+ he asked me what I thought he'd be like when he was dying. I told him that I think when people die they act like they do when they have the flu, multiplied by a million. I told him he was pretty pathetic when sick so when he was in the final stages he'd probably drive me crazy. (As it turns out, I was wrong.) And he told me that if my theory was true when it came to be my time I would get up and turn off my own life-support system. He's probably right. I'll insist on doing it myself. "No, don't bother yourself, I can hit the off switch."
I try to be good, honest. I admitted defeat and did not go to cat duty today, the first day I've ever missed. But since it hurts to walk and since I'm using a cane, I figured it would just be stupid to try and carry 18-pound cats around. But I was dressed and ready to go with my keys in my hand before I gave in. And while I did spend most of the day with my leg up and ice on my knee and ankle, I did put some laundry in the washer and put dinner in the oven.
But I have to admit, I'm a gimp. My ankle is definitely sprained (it's happened too many times to the same ankle to mistake it) and I am going to have to be a lazy slug this weekend if I want to make kitten duty on Monday. But I also know that at some point tomorrow Husband is going to look at me and say "what are you doing" as I try to clean the bathroom or sweep the kitchen floor.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Jerks
We're surrounded by them. The guy who drives 95 on the freeway, cutting in and out of traffic and being only a few seconds away from being a statistic. The woman who parks her shopping cart in the middle of the grocery store aisle so that you can't get by on either side. The commenter on your favorite blog who always misses the point. The parents who let their horrible demon-spawn children run around like banshees and then get upset at you when little Boris runs into your parked car and lets out with an ear-shattering shriek (True story. The father asked to see my insurance info. What I showed him was my finger.)
I have serious pet peeves, all of them caused by jerks. I hate people who don't use their turn signals, people who talk too loudly on their cell phones (although it does make for great eavesdropping), people who chew with their mouth open, and people who preach loudly about their close, personal relationship with God and yet seem to know nothing of compassion, tolerance, and love. These people are all jerks.
And since it's 3 am, I'm wide awake and facing another sleepless night and I've got my cranky pants on, I'm going to give you my "this makes you a jerk list."
- being rude to waiters, store clerks, or anyone else without a 401(k) and a Porsche
- thinking we're freaks that we consider our cat to be part of our family
- people who don't give their money or their time to charities
- littering
- idiots who won't make way for a car with their turn signal on that is obviously trying to get over one lane to make the next exit
- overpaid, overprivileged white guys trying to act like rappers
- thinking music is crap just because it's popular. Yeah, OK, a lot of it is. But there are a lot of mega-music-stars who can still deliver a few good songs. I hate it when people get so hung up on being hip that they don't care about what's good. Trust me Elvis Costello will always be better than 99% of indie-feminist-breakup-crap produced from some record label that's run out of the back of a printing shop.
- signing up to be on a reality TV show and then whining about how hard it is to live in the public eye
- hypocrisy
- dismissing a critic's opinion because you think he or she just "didn't get it." It's an opinion, not a true or false test.
- putting so much emphasis on getting married that you don't think about what it will mean to actually be married
- denying equal rights to those you don't agree with.
- thinking you can write when you've never tried. Do you think you can play the piano without a lesson?
- being oblivious to others. You can't wait an extra 10 seconds and hold the door for the woman pushing the stroller?
- not being grateful. If I hold the door for the woman with the stroller, she'd better say thank you.
- being a teenager and moseying across the street like a 95-year old retiree in Boca Raton with a walker and a bad hip replacement. Great, seven cars stopped at the intersection waiting for you to cross and you do it like you're running in slow motion from Chariots of Fire
- talking during the movie
- dropping your allegiance to a sports team when they're losing or it's no longer hip to go to the games. Hey. either you're a fan or not.
- making endless lists of pet peeves just because you're tired and cranky
We're surrounded by them. The guy who drives 95 on the freeway, cutting in and out of traffic and being only a few seconds away from being a statistic. The woman who parks her shopping cart in the middle of the grocery store aisle so that you can't get by on either side. The commenter on your favorite blog who always misses the point. The parents who let their horrible demon-spawn children run around like banshees and then get upset at you when little Boris runs into your parked car and lets out with an ear-shattering shriek (True story. The father asked to see my insurance info. What I showed him was my finger.)
I have serious pet peeves, all of them caused by jerks. I hate people who don't use their turn signals, people who talk too loudly on their cell phones (although it does make for great eavesdropping), people who chew with their mouth open, and people who preach loudly about their close, personal relationship with God and yet seem to know nothing of compassion, tolerance, and love. These people are all jerks.
And since it's 3 am, I'm wide awake and facing another sleepless night and I've got my cranky pants on, I'm going to give you my "this makes you a jerk list."
- being rude to waiters, store clerks, or anyone else without a 401(k) and a Porsche
- thinking we're freaks that we consider our cat to be part of our family
- people who don't give their money or their time to charities
- littering
- idiots who won't make way for a car with their turn signal on that is obviously trying to get over one lane to make the next exit
- overpaid, overprivileged white guys trying to act like rappers
- thinking music is crap just because it's popular. Yeah, OK, a lot of it is. But there are a lot of mega-music-stars who can still deliver a few good songs. I hate it when people get so hung up on being hip that they don't care about what's good. Trust me Elvis Costello will always be better than 99% of indie-feminist-breakup-crap produced from some record label that's run out of the back of a printing shop.
- signing up to be on a reality TV show and then whining about how hard it is to live in the public eye
- hypocrisy
- dismissing a critic's opinion because you think he or she just "didn't get it." It's an opinion, not a true or false test.
- putting so much emphasis on getting married that you don't think about what it will mean to actually be married
- denying equal rights to those you don't agree with.
- thinking you can write when you've never tried. Do you think you can play the piano without a lesson?
- being oblivious to others. You can't wait an extra 10 seconds and hold the door for the woman pushing the stroller?
- not being grateful. If I hold the door for the woman with the stroller, she'd better say thank you.
- being a teenager and moseying across the street like a 95-year old retiree in Boca Raton with a walker and a bad hip replacement. Great, seven cars stopped at the intersection waiting for you to cross and you do it like you're running in slow motion from Chariots of Fire
- talking during the movie
- dropping your allegiance to a sports team when they're losing or it's no longer hip to go to the games. Hey. either you're a fan or not.
- making endless lists of pet peeves just because you're tired and cranky
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Watch Out, Red Cats
Cats at the shelter are broken down into two categories: red cats and green cats. (OK, yes, they're also broken down into male and female. But that's not the point, is it?) Red cats are the ones that have behavior problems. Too aggressive. Too shy. Too aloof. They'll take a swipe at you if you go near them or cower under a towel non-stop. Or you take them into a room and they just ignore you. It's hard to find homes for cats that act like evil assassins (as opposed to the kind ones), dysfunctional loners, or teen-agers.
You need special training to become a red cat volunteer and tomorrow I'll meet up with one of the animal behaviorists and learn how to deal with problem cats. I love the idea of helping the most-in-need kitties with their behavior problems so that they can go to a good home. But I'm a bit uncertain as to whether or not I'll be any good at it. It takes tons of patience (not my best quality) and a genuine love for animals (OK, that I have). What I find the sticking point for me is that when you work with these cats you might not get the usual paycheck you get from working with the green cats -- purrs, a ball of love in the lap, a hand lick. You're more likely to come away with scratches than a shirt covered in cat fur from too much cuddling and too much shedding. (I swear there are some cats that shed little whirlwinds of fur when you just look at them.)
So far the cats I've worked with have given me far more than I've given them. I feel incredibly lucky to be able to play with them, comb them, and have them cozy into my lap. But these new cats will probably not be as generous. I may spend 30 minutes of love, patience, and attention and be rewarded with a bloody hand. So will I still love this when I'm not spending time with non-stop cute? Some of the green cats can be unpredictable and I've had my share of scrapes and difficult kitties who didn't want to leave the kennel or wanted nothing to do with me once they got into the room. So maybe I've already had my trial by fire. I just worry that I'm not good enough to give these problem children what they need.
I'm am looking forward to my next step as a TLC volunteer and am happy that they think I'm ready for it. I'll still work with the green cats, so I don't need to give up on my favorites. But this way I'll be cleared to work with every cat up for adoption, which is a very cool thing.
Have I mentioned lately how much I love this? I swear I've found my calling. Too bad it doesn't pay. I'm going to mourn when I have to go back to work and give up my furry children.
Cats at the shelter are broken down into two categories: red cats and green cats. (OK, yes, they're also broken down into male and female. But that's not the point, is it?) Red cats are the ones that have behavior problems. Too aggressive. Too shy. Too aloof. They'll take a swipe at you if you go near them or cower under a towel non-stop. Or you take them into a room and they just ignore you. It's hard to find homes for cats that act like evil assassins (as opposed to the kind ones), dysfunctional loners, or teen-agers.
You need special training to become a red cat volunteer and tomorrow I'll meet up with one of the animal behaviorists and learn how to deal with problem cats. I love the idea of helping the most-in-need kitties with their behavior problems so that they can go to a good home. But I'm a bit uncertain as to whether or not I'll be any good at it. It takes tons of patience (not my best quality) and a genuine love for animals (OK, that I have). What I find the sticking point for me is that when you work with these cats you might not get the usual paycheck you get from working with the green cats -- purrs, a ball of love in the lap, a hand lick. You're more likely to come away with scratches than a shirt covered in cat fur from too much cuddling and too much shedding. (I swear there are some cats that shed little whirlwinds of fur when you just look at them.)
So far the cats I've worked with have given me far more than I've given them. I feel incredibly lucky to be able to play with them, comb them, and have them cozy into my lap. But these new cats will probably not be as generous. I may spend 30 minutes of love, patience, and attention and be rewarded with a bloody hand. So will I still love this when I'm not spending time with non-stop cute? Some of the green cats can be unpredictable and I've had my share of scrapes and difficult kitties who didn't want to leave the kennel or wanted nothing to do with me once they got into the room. So maybe I've already had my trial by fire. I just worry that I'm not good enough to give these problem children what they need.
I'm am looking forward to my next step as a TLC volunteer and am happy that they think I'm ready for it. I'll still work with the green cats, so I don't need to give up on my favorites. But this way I'll be cleared to work with every cat up for adoption, which is a very cool thing.
Have I mentioned lately how much I love this? I swear I've found my calling. Too bad it doesn't pay. I'm going to mourn when I have to go back to work and give up my furry children.
Photo of the day: My Favorite Flower
I know most people consider it a weed. But I've always been rather fond of dandelions. I suppose to call it my favorite might not be entirely true, but since I have this freaky, well, thing where most flowers give me the heebie-jeebies, this is one of the few that doesn't make me want to go all peculiar. There's something admirable about their persistence and their insistent cheeriness. If dandelions were a person, they'd drive me crazy. But in a plant like this (that doesn't make me go all peculiar) it's kind of nice. There's a huge lawn near the shelter with dandelions growing wild all over it and I think it's so pretty, all those yellow dots in the sea of green.
I bought a new camera bag today so now I can carry my new lens with me. Now I have no excuse not to go out and shoot.
I know most people consider it a weed. But I've always been rather fond of dandelions. I suppose to call it my favorite might not be entirely true, but since I have this freaky, well, thing where most flowers give me the heebie-jeebies, this is one of the few that doesn't make me want to go all peculiar. There's something admirable about their persistence and their insistent cheeriness. If dandelions were a person, they'd drive me crazy. But in a plant like this (that doesn't make me go all peculiar) it's kind of nice. There's a huge lawn near the shelter with dandelions growing wild all over it and I think it's so pretty, all those yellow dots in the sea of green.
I bought a new camera bag today so now I can carry my new lens with me. Now I have no excuse not to go out and shoot.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Photo of the day: Spiderweb and Goo
I like spiderwebs. Odd, as I'm not real fond of spiders. (Sorry, PETA, I kill bugs.) But I love how intricate webs can be. I think they're really quite beautiful in a way. This one....not so much. It's done its job too well and has trapped every bit of spew and goo that's come its way. Bits of plant life. Bits of....well, just bits. But it's still one of those marvels of nature. Like, say, Hugh Jackman.
I like spiderwebs. Odd, as I'm not real fond of spiders. (Sorry, PETA, I kill bugs.) But I love how intricate webs can be. I think they're really quite beautiful in a way. This one....not so much. It's done its job too well and has trapped every bit of spew and goo that's come its way. Bits of plant life. Bits of....well, just bits. But it's still one of those marvels of nature. Like, say, Hugh Jackman.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Catching Up
Oh, what did insomniacs do before the internet? Here I am, wide awake at nearly 4 after having had only 30-minutes sleep. So, to share the love, I'm sharing the links.
For my fellow grammarians. I give you the unnecessary quotes blog.
For appreciators of how weird people are, check out passive aggressive notes.
And for sheet WTF-ness, you suck at Craigslist will provide you with random glimpses of our surreal world.
Enjoy, possums.
Oh, what did insomniacs do before the internet? Here I am, wide awake at nearly 4 after having had only 30-minutes sleep. So, to share the love, I'm sharing the links.
For my fellow grammarians. I give you the unnecessary quotes blog.
For appreciators of how weird people are, check out passive aggressive notes.
And for sheet WTF-ness, you suck at Craigslist will provide you with random glimpses of our surreal world.
Enjoy, possums.
Our Backyard Buffet
The kibble we feed Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) was recalled due to a manufacturer error that put in the wrong balance of nutrients. Until they start selling it again, we've tried to feed her something else. One brand she wouldn't go near. Rather than toss out a back of perfectly good cat food, I decided to put out a few piles for the feral cats that frequent our backyard. It was a huge hit.
This is Orange Cat 1 nibbling away while, in the background, Plaid Cat waits her turn.
Orange Cat 2 (note the difference in tails between the two orange cats, one long hair one short, that's how we finally figured out there were two) chowing down in the side yard. I later saw him at the pile in the front yard, along with a Siamese-colored cat who ran away when she saw me watching from the front window.
Plaid Cat at a table for one. Soon after she left, Mama Cat came buy for the no-plate special.
In all I counted six different cats enjoying our hospitality. I don't want them to come to rely on food here, although I'm not sure why...they're already here all day anyway. And I'm wondering if it might help us trap them and get them spayed or neutered (I'm still trying to figure out how to fit a cat trap into the back of a Honda Civic.) But it's a good way to get rid of the food that is, apparently, not good enough for Queen Cipher. They seemed to love it. And, I have to confess, I feel less concerned about them knowing they all had a good meal today.
The kibble we feed Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) was recalled due to a manufacturer error that put in the wrong balance of nutrients. Until they start selling it again, we've tried to feed her something else. One brand she wouldn't go near. Rather than toss out a back of perfectly good cat food, I decided to put out a few piles for the feral cats that frequent our backyard. It was a huge hit.
This is Orange Cat 1 nibbling away while, in the background, Plaid Cat waits her turn.
Orange Cat 2 (note the difference in tails between the two orange cats, one long hair one short, that's how we finally figured out there were two) chowing down in the side yard. I later saw him at the pile in the front yard, along with a Siamese-colored cat who ran away when she saw me watching from the front window.
Plaid Cat at a table for one. Soon after she left, Mama Cat came buy for the no-plate special.
In all I counted six different cats enjoying our hospitality. I don't want them to come to rely on food here, although I'm not sure why...they're already here all day anyway. And I'm wondering if it might help us trap them and get them spayed or neutered (I'm still trying to figure out how to fit a cat trap into the back of a Honda Civic.) But it's a good way to get rid of the food that is, apparently, not good enough for Queen Cipher. They seemed to love it. And, I have to confess, I feel less concerned about them knowing they all had a good meal today.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Photo of the day: Attack of the New Zealanders
In trying out my wonderful new zoom lens the other day I caught several planes coming in for a landing at SFO. I was really impressed with the "image stabilizer" feature of the lens, which lets me capture moving targets with a sweet clarity. While this is one of the dullest photographs ever, I'm posting it because I'm pleased with how close this lens gets me. This weekend, I must go on a safari. (After I review at least two CDs for the station, clean the bathroom, do the laundry, go grocery shopping....oh fuck, I'm boring myself.)
In trying out my wonderful new zoom lens the other day I caught several planes coming in for a landing at SFO. I was really impressed with the "image stabilizer" feature of the lens, which lets me capture moving targets with a sweet clarity. While this is one of the dullest photographs ever, I'm posting it because I'm pleased with how close this lens gets me. This weekend, I must go on a safari. (After I review at least two CDs for the station, clean the bathroom, do the laundry, go grocery shopping....oh fuck, I'm boring myself.)
Friday, June 19, 2009
Cat Burglar
A few minutes ago there was an attempted break in at our house.
I heard the sound of clawing at the screen door into the backyard and went to investigate. With a flashlight I found the culprit, sitting on the top step, trying to get in. It was one of the brown tabbies, caught red-pawed. He didn't run away and, in fact, when I crouched down to his eye level he just stared at me with this "well, are you going to open the door or not?" look. I talked to him through the door and did my best to discourage him from this life of crime. I'm sure he had the usual sob story. Mother with loose morals. Absentee father. Running with a tough crowd. But his response to my attempt to set him on the straight and narrow was to renew his efforts to claw his way through the screen. So I opened the back door and he made tracks so fast I didn't even see him leave. (Hmmm...maybe he was a ghost cat.)
It's a very windy night here and, as I discovered when I opened the door, quite cold for June. I don't know what he was doing because he obviously didn't want to come in (not that I would have let him, anyway). But it was a very odd few moments with me staring at our intruder through the screen door. Perhaps if I work with a sketch artist we can catch him. I know he had green eyes and pointed ears. I'm sure we'll see his photo soon, in the post office.
A few minutes ago there was an attempted break in at our house.
I heard the sound of clawing at the screen door into the backyard and went to investigate. With a flashlight I found the culprit, sitting on the top step, trying to get in. It was one of the brown tabbies, caught red-pawed. He didn't run away and, in fact, when I crouched down to his eye level he just stared at me with this "well, are you going to open the door or not?" look. I talked to him through the door and did my best to discourage him from this life of crime. I'm sure he had the usual sob story. Mother with loose morals. Absentee father. Running with a tough crowd. But his response to my attempt to set him on the straight and narrow was to renew his efforts to claw his way through the screen. So I opened the back door and he made tracks so fast I didn't even see him leave. (Hmmm...maybe he was a ghost cat.)
It's a very windy night here and, as I discovered when I opened the door, quite cold for June. I don't know what he was doing because he obviously didn't want to come in (not that I would have let him, anyway). But it was a very odd few moments with me staring at our intruder through the screen door. Perhaps if I work with a sketch artist we can catch him. I know he had green eyes and pointed ears. I'm sure we'll see his photo soon, in the post office.
Pick Your Battles
The fine freaks at PETA are shooting themselves in their natural-fiber clad foot again by taking president Obama to task for swatting a fly. Yeah, way to pick your battles there, naked people. It's not like you need him on your side for important legislature regarding endangered species, lobbying for an end to whale killing, seal clubbing, and wolves being shot from helicopters. No you go right ahead and piss him off from the start about a fucking fly. You know, the kind that you kill by the dozens driving your eco-friendly car through a summer evening gnat storm. So what's the procedure? You've got naked supermodels painted with cuts of beef on their bodies and they're going to lay down in front of the NY Stock Exchange to protest the fact that McDonalds makes more money that the cereal company "Grist Mill". But as you turn the corner...oh no! A bug has just kamakazeed itself against your winshield. So, do you cite yourself for cruelty? Does one of the models have to cut off a limb in atonement, you know, to balance our karma with natureworldgoddess?
You come home from a hard day of standing in a bikini and a stuffed harp seal to find your apartment has been infested with cockroaches. Of course you don't reach for the RAID. You reprimand them for not asking permission to eat all your arugula nut balls and suggest they might be happier outside. You will leave the windows open for them to leave and they repay your kindness by inviting in all their rat friends. Eventually you will have to accept such coexistence is not working as you've now got a rat bite right next to your Brazilian wax. I suppose you can buy them all bus tickets to a nice farm upstate where there will be toys and other rats and roaches to play with and lots of land to roam. Or you can stop being a total shitfuck and kill the damned things.
Now anyone who knows me knows that I love animals. I support WWF, Defenders of WIldlife, local rescue centers, international organizations devoted to the ecology and vanishing species. But I eat meat, because it's tasty. I don't wear fur, because that's just dumb. But I do not put a high value on the life of a fly. It comes onto my turf, it's mine. And since I don't think they're in danger of extinction, I feel safe in knocking one silly with a rolled up National Geographic. So why in the name of all that has a brain, doest PETA insist on doing galactically stupid things like alienating the President over a fly. Do they really think the next time "a hey your fishing nets are killing turtles" debate crops up and they arrive naked, (Why do they always have to be naked?) but for turtle suits, that Washington will say "Oh yes, we must listen to them for they have changed the world view on killing flies." You see, people kill the fly because it's an annoying buzz. PETA is its own annoying buzz. They need to graduate up to something that more of a voice and less of a "hey, we interrupted our AP English class discussion of Animal Farm by running naked into the classroom with signs that read "Meat is Fear" so that should also work with the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.
PETA, behave yourselves! If you want animal rights, stop pissing off the ones that can help you get those rights. Stop the grandstading we-were-on-Entertainment Tonight tactics that just make you look like a bunch of illogical lunatics. If you want to make a change, then work toward it, don't just throw temper tantrums. Meet with Obama and say here's what we want. Ask for protection for the arctic wilderness and the Amazon rainforest. Tell him we need stricter codes on puppy and kitten mills. We need more funding for shelters to care for the animals that fill organizations all over the country. We need strong spay and neutering programs for cats and dog. Stop worrying about flies and try moving up the food chain a bit. Because I have a sneaking feeling that approaching reasonable individuals as reasonable individuals and not some hemp-clad shock mob you'll find them more willing to talk to you. And you'll get a hell of a lot more support if you talk dogs, cats, wolves, turtles, whales, that kind of thing than if you insist on demonstrating humane lice traps and kind ways to convince fleas to flee.
The fine freaks at PETA are shooting themselves in their natural-fiber clad foot again by taking president Obama to task for swatting a fly. Yeah, way to pick your battles there, naked people. It's not like you need him on your side for important legislature regarding endangered species, lobbying for an end to whale killing, seal clubbing, and wolves being shot from helicopters. No you go right ahead and piss him off from the start about a fucking fly. You know, the kind that you kill by the dozens driving your eco-friendly car through a summer evening gnat storm. So what's the procedure? You've got naked supermodels painted with cuts of beef on their bodies and they're going to lay down in front of the NY Stock Exchange to protest the fact that McDonalds makes more money that the cereal company "Grist Mill". But as you turn the corner...oh no! A bug has just kamakazeed itself against your winshield. So, do you cite yourself for cruelty? Does one of the models have to cut off a limb in atonement, you know, to balance our karma with natureworldgoddess?
You come home from a hard day of standing in a bikini and a stuffed harp seal to find your apartment has been infested with cockroaches. Of course you don't reach for the RAID. You reprimand them for not asking permission to eat all your arugula nut balls and suggest they might be happier outside. You will leave the windows open for them to leave and they repay your kindness by inviting in all their rat friends. Eventually you will have to accept such coexistence is not working as you've now got a rat bite right next to your Brazilian wax. I suppose you can buy them all bus tickets to a nice farm upstate where there will be toys and other rats and roaches to play with and lots of land to roam. Or you can stop being a total shitfuck and kill the damned things.
Now anyone who knows me knows that I love animals. I support WWF, Defenders of WIldlife, local rescue centers, international organizations devoted to the ecology and vanishing species. But I eat meat, because it's tasty. I don't wear fur, because that's just dumb. But I do not put a high value on the life of a fly. It comes onto my turf, it's mine. And since I don't think they're in danger of extinction, I feel safe in knocking one silly with a rolled up National Geographic. So why in the name of all that has a brain, doest PETA insist on doing galactically stupid things like alienating the President over a fly. Do they really think the next time "a hey your fishing nets are killing turtles" debate crops up and they arrive naked, (Why do they always have to be naked?) but for turtle suits, that Washington will say "Oh yes, we must listen to them for they have changed the world view on killing flies." You see, people kill the fly because it's an annoying buzz. PETA is its own annoying buzz. They need to graduate up to something that more of a voice and less of a "hey, we interrupted our AP English class discussion of Animal Farm by running naked into the classroom with signs that read "Meat is Fear" so that should also work with the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.
PETA, behave yourselves! If you want animal rights, stop pissing off the ones that can help you get those rights. Stop the grandstading we-were-on-Entertainment Tonight tactics that just make you look like a bunch of illogical lunatics. If you want to make a change, then work toward it, don't just throw temper tantrums. Meet with Obama and say here's what we want. Ask for protection for the arctic wilderness and the Amazon rainforest. Tell him we need stricter codes on puppy and kitten mills. We need more funding for shelters to care for the animals that fill organizations all over the country. We need strong spay and neutering programs for cats and dog. Stop worrying about flies and try moving up the food chain a bit. Because I have a sneaking feeling that approaching reasonable individuals as reasonable individuals and not some hemp-clad shock mob you'll find them more willing to talk to you. And you'll get a hell of a lot more support if you talk dogs, cats, wolves, turtles, whales, that kind of thing than if you insist on demonstrating humane lice traps and kind ways to convince fleas to flee.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Power of Song
I have just watched the PBS target="new">Great Performances production of Chess in Concert, a version of the hip 1980's musical that spawned the classic "One Night in Bangkok."
I am not a musical theatre fan, but I must confess that I love Chess. I played the original recording so much that I can still sing almost all of the songs by heart. This version was a bit disconcerting because they changed the lyrics, gave songs to characters that weren't in that number in the cast recording, and added some music I don't ever recall hearing. I even saw the musical in London in the 80s and remember loving it.
This version stars PBS's own velvet-voiced fair haired favorite, Josh Groban. He's one of those performers where I love his voice. (No, really I do.) But don't like any of his recordings. I think he has a gorgeous instrument but his over-the-top smarmy love songs just make me want to puke. So it was interesting to hear him sing songs that I like and, I have to confess, I thought he did a great job. In fact I liked pretty much all of the male cast, but was less enthusiastic about the females. (Idina Menzel, while no doubt having a lovely voice, is no Elaine Paige.)
But then Groban got to "Anthem," the show-stopping love song to a homeland that ends the first act. And that's where the melancholy kicked in. You see, my late, lamented friend Stephen Frugoli used to sing this song. It was a favorite audition number of his, a signature tune when he'd perform cabaret while touring with Les Miserables and the song he sang at the pre-wedding cabaret for some dear friends. I swear I can still picture him getting up on that stage. A bit frail as he'd been fighting pneumonia and overwhelmed by the clothing that was too large for his too-rapidly-shrinking frame. And then he belted out "Anthem" and I swear everyone in the room got tears in their eyes. Perhaps I'm romanticizing the moment, but I don't think I am. Even though he voice was obviously not at its best, he still managed to make the crowd erupt. It was one of my all-time sweetest, most favorite memories of him and so I cannot hear this song without thinking of him.
In many ways I think Stephen did it much better than Groban. Stephen's voice was a bit deeper and he managed to bring a sort of melancholy passion to that song that made it soar. Groban did an outstanding job and is no doubt a better singer. But Josh Groban never brought me breakfast in bed or helped me paint my bedroom. And while I miss Stephen and his partner (my best friend and brother, Steve Sutherland) every day of my life, it was sweet to be reminded of that one night when we were all together, happy, celebrating, and alive and Stephen made the room fall in love with him.
I have just watched the PBS target="new">Great Performances production of Chess in Concert, a version of the hip 1980's musical that spawned the classic "One Night in Bangkok."
I am not a musical theatre fan, but I must confess that I love Chess. I played the original recording so much that I can still sing almost all of the songs by heart. This version was a bit disconcerting because they changed the lyrics, gave songs to characters that weren't in that number in the cast recording, and added some music I don't ever recall hearing. I even saw the musical in London in the 80s and remember loving it.
This version stars PBS's own velvet-voiced fair haired favorite, Josh Groban. He's one of those performers where I love his voice. (No, really I do.) But don't like any of his recordings. I think he has a gorgeous instrument but his over-the-top smarmy love songs just make me want to puke. So it was interesting to hear him sing songs that I like and, I have to confess, I thought he did a great job. In fact I liked pretty much all of the male cast, but was less enthusiastic about the females. (Idina Menzel, while no doubt having a lovely voice, is no Elaine Paige.)
But then Groban got to "Anthem," the show-stopping love song to a homeland that ends the first act. And that's where the melancholy kicked in. You see, my late, lamented friend Stephen Frugoli used to sing this song. It was a favorite audition number of his, a signature tune when he'd perform cabaret while touring with Les Miserables and the song he sang at the pre-wedding cabaret for some dear friends. I swear I can still picture him getting up on that stage. A bit frail as he'd been fighting pneumonia and overwhelmed by the clothing that was too large for his too-rapidly-shrinking frame. And then he belted out "Anthem" and I swear everyone in the room got tears in their eyes. Perhaps I'm romanticizing the moment, but I don't think I am. Even though he voice was obviously not at its best, he still managed to make the crowd erupt. It was one of my all-time sweetest, most favorite memories of him and so I cannot hear this song without thinking of him.
In many ways I think Stephen did it much better than Groban. Stephen's voice was a bit deeper and he managed to bring a sort of melancholy passion to that song that made it soar. Groban did an outstanding job and is no doubt a better singer. But Josh Groban never brought me breakfast in bed or helped me paint my bedroom. And while I miss Stephen and his partner (my best friend and brother, Steve Sutherland) every day of my life, it was sweet to be reminded of that one night when we were all together, happy, celebrating, and alive and Stephen made the room fall in love with him.
Remember me?
I got my hair cut today and ended up sitting next to a woman I went to high school with. She recognized me, which I can't figure out is a good thing or a bad thing. Her I wouldn't have known. Mostly because I had to wrack my brain just to recall that I had known her. Her name was familiar, but that was pretty much all.
She seems like a very sweet, very nice woman. But I was amazed at how many people from high school she was still friends with. I kept in touch with exactly two people from high school. One died of AIDS and the other lives in Saudi Arabia. So high school reunions are not exactly big on my to-do list. But this woman chatted about our upcoming reunion (to which I wouldn't go if I was forced to at gunpoint) and caught me up on a litany of people whose faces I couldn't recall and whose names were only a vague recollection. She knew that Mary Jones is a teacher and Ann Brown is a nurse. Bob Smith died in a jet ski accident, which I'm sure is a tragedy but I'm pretty sure I never knew a Bob Smith. Dave Shmultski has three kids and is an architect in Phoenix and Susan Flugelhoffer is a dentist and is working on her third marriage.
It was really weird sitting there talking to a stranger about unknown people while gunk on my head turned my hair from gray to brown and people around us were discussing summer vacations and home repairs. She knew so much about so many people that I have forgotten that it surprised me.
I don't have any friends that go back that far. For me my oldest friendships stem from the mid-80's. Everyone before that has either died or we just fell out of touch. My best friend for most of high school moved to Columbus, Ohio and basically disappeared. My friend Maria is really just a Christmas card pal as she and her husband and kids have made a life out of living all over the world (Japan, Peru, Turkey, Malaysia, and now, Saudi Arabia) and I haven't actually seen her in over a decade. So the concept of this woman having been friends for 40 years with someone we both graduated with is astounding. (No, I haven't been out of high school 40 years -- they met in grade school.) But it was a nice slice of small town life to run into someone from the past and both flattering and baffling that she remembered me.
I got my hair cut today and ended up sitting next to a woman I went to high school with. She recognized me, which I can't figure out is a good thing or a bad thing. Her I wouldn't have known. Mostly because I had to wrack my brain just to recall that I had known her. Her name was familiar, but that was pretty much all.
She seems like a very sweet, very nice woman. But I was amazed at how many people from high school she was still friends with. I kept in touch with exactly two people from high school. One died of AIDS and the other lives in Saudi Arabia. So high school reunions are not exactly big on my to-do list. But this woman chatted about our upcoming reunion (to which I wouldn't go if I was forced to at gunpoint) and caught me up on a litany of people whose faces I couldn't recall and whose names were only a vague recollection. She knew that Mary Jones is a teacher and Ann Brown is a nurse. Bob Smith died in a jet ski accident, which I'm sure is a tragedy but I'm pretty sure I never knew a Bob Smith. Dave Shmultski has three kids and is an architect in Phoenix and Susan Flugelhoffer is a dentist and is working on her third marriage.
It was really weird sitting there talking to a stranger about unknown people while gunk on my head turned my hair from gray to brown and people around us were discussing summer vacations and home repairs. She knew so much about so many people that I have forgotten that it surprised me.
I don't have any friends that go back that far. For me my oldest friendships stem from the mid-80's. Everyone before that has either died or we just fell out of touch. My best friend for most of high school moved to Columbus, Ohio and basically disappeared. My friend Maria is really just a Christmas card pal as she and her husband and kids have made a life out of living all over the world (Japan, Peru, Turkey, Malaysia, and now, Saudi Arabia) and I haven't actually seen her in over a decade. So the concept of this woman having been friends for 40 years with someone we both graduated with is astounding. (No, I haven't been out of high school 40 years -- they met in grade school.) But it was a nice slice of small town life to run into someone from the past and both flattering and baffling that she remembered me.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Transit
I took Caltrain down to see Husband this afternoon, with a connection to the light rail system to get me from Mountain View to Hell Central. I'd forgotten how fascinating it is to take the train. Not the train part, but the observation. Higher than ground level, speeding past lives, you get glimpses into little worlds. Sure, it's voyeuristic, but that's part of the charm. You look out through a window much in need of cleaning, and you keep your eyes open.
I passed low-rent apartments where people were hanging laundry out on balcony clotheslines and high-priced homes with a BMW in the drive and a gardener in the yard. I saw welding, towing, and carpentry. A woman pushing triplets in the world's largest stroller and a man riding one bike and holding on to another one that he was either taking home or stealing. Two dogs wrestling in a park, one cat staring out of a condo window, and three kids all wearing sports gear from a different team (Niners, Giants, A's). I saw tech geeks with uppity briefcases, iPod, iPhone, and laptops. I saw an obviously exhausted woman in nurse wear with three shopping bags and no front tooth. I was treated to a 3-year old's screamingly annoying rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star and the thrumming beat of the hip-hop-hood behind me whose headphones were so loud I could even understand some of the words. I saw teenagers kiss goodbye with the desperate passion that only teenagers can manage....at the Palo Alto station, no doubt it would be at least 18 hours before they saw each other again and that last kiss has to hold them. And I saw, much to my amusement, how all the guys on the train looked up as the hot girl walked by.
I passed a guy in a wheelchair with a "Homeless Vet" sign and a scruffy mutt at his feet talking to a security guard who was eating an apple. And a huge guy in really skanky dreadlocks who was carrying what looked like a violin. Among my fellow passengers were observed the following items: two tennis rackets; a large sheet of poster board with photos of Hawaii on it; three huge suitcases that belonged to one small woman; a loaf of bread (no bag, no other groceries, just a guy carrying a loaf of bread); a red inflatable reindeer with wheels (I SWEAR I am not making this up!); a plastic lei, several computers, iPods, and cell phones; and a wok.
And all this passed by without me ever leaving my seat. Transit is heaven for someone who loves to people watch.
I took Caltrain down to see Husband this afternoon, with a connection to the light rail system to get me from Mountain View to Hell Central. I'd forgotten how fascinating it is to take the train. Not the train part, but the observation. Higher than ground level, speeding past lives, you get glimpses into little worlds. Sure, it's voyeuristic, but that's part of the charm. You look out through a window much in need of cleaning, and you keep your eyes open.
I passed low-rent apartments where people were hanging laundry out on balcony clotheslines and high-priced homes with a BMW in the drive and a gardener in the yard. I saw welding, towing, and carpentry. A woman pushing triplets in the world's largest stroller and a man riding one bike and holding on to another one that he was either taking home or stealing. Two dogs wrestling in a park, one cat staring out of a condo window, and three kids all wearing sports gear from a different team (Niners, Giants, A's). I saw tech geeks with uppity briefcases, iPod, iPhone, and laptops. I saw an obviously exhausted woman in nurse wear with three shopping bags and no front tooth. I was treated to a 3-year old's screamingly annoying rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star and the thrumming beat of the hip-hop-hood behind me whose headphones were so loud I could even understand some of the words. I saw teenagers kiss goodbye with the desperate passion that only teenagers can manage....at the Palo Alto station, no doubt it would be at least 18 hours before they saw each other again and that last kiss has to hold them. And I saw, much to my amusement, how all the guys on the train looked up as the hot girl walked by.
I passed a guy in a wheelchair with a "Homeless Vet" sign and a scruffy mutt at his feet talking to a security guard who was eating an apple. And a huge guy in really skanky dreadlocks who was carrying what looked like a violin. Among my fellow passengers were observed the following items: two tennis rackets; a large sheet of poster board with photos of Hawaii on it; three huge suitcases that belonged to one small woman; a loaf of bread (no bag, no other groceries, just a guy carrying a loaf of bread); a red inflatable reindeer with wheels (I SWEAR I am not making this up!); a plastic lei, several computers, iPods, and cell phones; and a wok.
And all this passed by without me ever leaving my seat. Transit is heaven for someone who loves to people watch.
Yawning
Insomnia is an odd creature. Sometimes I handle it better than others.
There are some nights where it doesn't bother me that I'm awake. I nestle cozily into a nest of pillows and blankets and indulge in a favorite old movie or good book. I'll have hot cocoa at 3 am or toast at 5.
Then there are the nights that feel 27-hours long and I feel 97-years old. Tonight is one of those nights. I feel all the well-earned aches and pains of working at the shelter (today I folded three barrels of towels). I'm exhausted and sleepy, but cannot sleep. I can't get comfortable or shut my brain off.
I know I'll fall asleep eventually tomorrow, I mean this, morning. And I'll be grateful to be unemployed and not have to haul my ass out of bed at 7 am even though I've only been asleep for an hour. If I'm lucky I'll get two or three hours before I wake up and get on with my day. Luckier still to have a day off to deal with being a zombie. I'm off at the shelter and not doing my radio show, so I don't even have to leave the house if I feel too tired to drive.
But with Husband snoring peacefully in the bedroom and Cipher curled up next to him like a loyal feline angel, I have to admit that I'm envious of everyone who manages to have a regular sleep cycle. And now, on to the next video.
Insomnia is an odd creature. Sometimes I handle it better than others.
There are some nights where it doesn't bother me that I'm awake. I nestle cozily into a nest of pillows and blankets and indulge in a favorite old movie or good book. I'll have hot cocoa at 3 am or toast at 5.
Then there are the nights that feel 27-hours long and I feel 97-years old. Tonight is one of those nights. I feel all the well-earned aches and pains of working at the shelter (today I folded three barrels of towels). I'm exhausted and sleepy, but cannot sleep. I can't get comfortable or shut my brain off.
I know I'll fall asleep eventually tomorrow, I mean this, morning. And I'll be grateful to be unemployed and not have to haul my ass out of bed at 7 am even though I've only been asleep for an hour. If I'm lucky I'll get two or three hours before I wake up and get on with my day. Luckier still to have a day off to deal with being a zombie. I'm off at the shelter and not doing my radio show, so I don't even have to leave the house if I feel too tired to drive.
But with Husband snoring peacefully in the bedroom and Cipher curled up next to him like a loyal feline angel, I have to admit that I'm envious of everyone who manages to have a regular sleep cycle. And now, on to the next video.
Photo of the day: Pidge
My wonderful husband gave me a fabulous present for our 6th wedding anniversary yesterday. A zoom lens for my camera. Expect to see a whole crop of new and better photos. I went out by the bay and took over 200 photos in less than an hour. The zoom is great and quite versatile. I found that it also takes great close-up photos of things nearby. Such as this pigeon.
Thanks, Husband. For the lens and, more importantly, for 6 amazing years. I love you.
My wonderful husband gave me a fabulous present for our 6th wedding anniversary yesterday. A zoom lens for my camera. Expect to see a whole crop of new and better photos. I went out by the bay and took over 200 photos in less than an hour. The zoom is great and quite versatile. I found that it also takes great close-up photos of things nearby. Such as this pigeon.
Thanks, Husband. For the lens and, more importantly, for 6 amazing years. I love you.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Pay Up
This article in the New York Times illustrates an increasingly-common practice in today's economy: credit card companies settling for less that the full amount owed in order to get delinquent accounts to pay something. You've probably seen the ads on TV for those credit counseling companies that offer to negotiate down your credit card bill.
Excuse me, but isn't that, well, stealing?
If you take something and don't pay for it, your a thief. If you charge $10,000 at Nordstrom and can't afford to pay it you get to negotiate so that you get that $10,000 worth of merchandise for only $6000? Why is that right?
Like most people, Husband and I have credit cards. And here's the thing, we pay our bills. Yes, I feel sorry for people who are out of work and in debt. But the thing is, and here's the hard lesson, don't buy things you can't pay for. I get the concept that if you have no money the idea of buying something and putting off paying for it is attractive, perhaps you might even see it as your only option. But you should have to pay for it eventually. And waiting until you're $10k in debt before you admit you can't pay for it is just wrong. But now it seems to be legal. Well I don't think it is. Nor do I think it's moral or fair. We pay our bills and I know we're lucky to be able to. If we couldn't pay them we'd stop charging things and find a way to pay the rest of the account. We wouldn't buy clothing we can't afford or trips we could live without. Yeah, if we were starving we might want to charge groceries. But I think we'd probably go to a food bank first because we would know we wouldn't be able to pay the bill once it came in.
Forgive my high horse here (what the hell does that expression mean, anyway?) but I'm tired of the sheer unfairness of it all. And it doesn't make sense. If you negotiate with a credit card company to pay, say $5k of a $7k debt it means you've got $5k to pay them with. Well why didn't you pay them the $5k in the first place so your account wouldn't be overdue? And why, when you're that much in debt and know you can't pay, do you continue to keep charging? Cut up your Visa card for fuck's sake.
This article in the New York Times illustrates an increasingly-common practice in today's economy: credit card companies settling for less that the full amount owed in order to get delinquent accounts to pay something. You've probably seen the ads on TV for those credit counseling companies that offer to negotiate down your credit card bill.
Excuse me, but isn't that, well, stealing?
If you take something and don't pay for it, your a thief. If you charge $10,000 at Nordstrom and can't afford to pay it you get to negotiate so that you get that $10,000 worth of merchandise for only $6000? Why is that right?
Like most people, Husband and I have credit cards. And here's the thing, we pay our bills. Yes, I feel sorry for people who are out of work and in debt. But the thing is, and here's the hard lesson, don't buy things you can't pay for. I get the concept that if you have no money the idea of buying something and putting off paying for it is attractive, perhaps you might even see it as your only option. But you should have to pay for it eventually. And waiting until you're $10k in debt before you admit you can't pay for it is just wrong. But now it seems to be legal. Well I don't think it is. Nor do I think it's moral or fair. We pay our bills and I know we're lucky to be able to. If we couldn't pay them we'd stop charging things and find a way to pay the rest of the account. We wouldn't buy clothing we can't afford or trips we could live without. Yeah, if we were starving we might want to charge groceries. But I think we'd probably go to a food bank first because we would know we wouldn't be able to pay the bill once it came in.
Forgive my high horse here (what the hell does that expression mean, anyway?) but I'm tired of the sheer unfairness of it all. And it doesn't make sense. If you negotiate with a credit card company to pay, say $5k of a $7k debt it means you've got $5k to pay them with. Well why didn't you pay them the $5k in the first place so your account wouldn't be overdue? And why, when you're that much in debt and know you can't pay, do you continue to keep charging? Cut up your Visa card for fuck's sake.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Eavesdropping
Overheard at the grocery store 1:
Man on cell phone: I was watching the Giants game, but I think she said he died.
(Wouldn't that be something you might want to be sure about?)
.....
Overheard at the grocery store 2:
Woman to man, in produce section: Get some carrots and some apples.
Man: Aren't we out of bread too?
Woman: Did I tell you to get bread?
(Well that's a happy marriage.
.....
Overheard at the shelter:
Little girl: Look mommy, kittens!
Mom: Don't touch the kittens, Imelda.
Little girl: If I don't touch them how will we know which one alive?
(Um, they're all alive, genius girl.)
Overheard at the grocery store 1:
Man on cell phone: I was watching the Giants game, but I think she said he died.
(Wouldn't that be something you might want to be sure about?)
.....
Overheard at the grocery store 2:
Woman to man, in produce section: Get some carrots and some apples.
Man: Aren't we out of bread too?
Woman: Did I tell you to get bread?
(Well that's a happy marriage.
.....
Overheard at the shelter:
Little girl: Look mommy, kittens!
Mom: Don't touch the kittens, Imelda.
Little girl: If I don't touch them how will we know which one alive?
(Um, they're all alive, genius girl.)
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