betsytacy

not too-hot-here

2009-09-01T10:39:00.000-07:00

Here in too-hot-here it is, for once, not too hot. On the first day of September there is a hint that, in the months to come, it might cool off. Maybe.

Hygiene in Germany

2009-02-26T07:54:00.000-08:00

There are many, many things to love about Germany. The two-prong binders, for one. The electrical outlets. The spatzle and spetzi and the bright red currants. And, as pictured here, the sanitary napkin disposal bags (from a museum restroom in Berlin). So adorable! So encouraging! Look at how happy the little guy in overalls is about your menstrual cycle. He has absolute faith in you--you will not throw that pad or tampon in the WC. No! You will use the Astrein (translated, via widget, as "branch clean") AS 70 Hygiene Beutel provided. To seal the deal, he's giving you a wink and TWO thumbs up. He doesn't want you to feel embarrassed either. He's just hanging out there, on his little tightrope or whatever, wearing a handyman cap. Doing his thing. Thanks, Germany. I miss you.

Swallows and Amazons

2009-01-31T07:46:00.001-08:00

Oh, how I love you. You really are such jolly good books, with your canvas and wood and potted meat and fresh-from-the-udder milk and hullaballoos and treachery. It's the 1930s, but girls have power right alongside boys and no one thinks at any moment, "We're just pretending; it's not real," because it is real, and they--all of them--know it. There are consequences and near disasters, yet everyone sleeps well at night, knowing that they're not duffers, knowing that they could survive on open seas. And the covers! Look at the undulating waves. Look at the black and white simplicity of the flags. Look at the glorious horizon. (Not to mention the jaunty little penguin, who has gone the way of the dodo.) And then there is Winter Holiday, with the sleek, hand-drawn figures gliding across the ice and the crowd not cheering, but signalling. They know what they mean, all the way down to Roger, the youngest. They signify and it is something.

Peeve of the Day

2009-01-19T12:32:00.000-08:00

Silent houses.
Please, pretty please. Just put on the itunes, or a cd, or the radio or something. Sitting in a room with friends but without music is just so sad, no matter how good the wine or how stimulating the conversation or how crispy the little crackers. I can barely think about anything but our words coming out of our mouths and circling around our heads and ending up in little piles in dusty corners. Music fills out a space. It makes all the difference.

Organize Your Life

2008-12-06T07:15:00.000-08:00

I’ve always been a fan of Amy Vanderbilt. She was the modern gal’s Emily Post and one of the (distant cousins of) those Vanderbilts to boot. For years, she provided us with “Everyday Etiquette,” the kind that you could use when, say, serving canapés to 50 or 60 of your closest, most distinguished friends. Until one day all of that etiquette went to her head and she fell out of a window and fractured her skull and died. Grisly.

But before then she wrote, among other things, The AMY VANDERBILT SUCCESS PROGRAM FOR WOMEN. Many luscious photos from the series are available here. One of these treasures (not pictured there) has just been given to me. It is called Organize Your Life and is beautifully, simply written, so that in a mere 54 pages everything that needs to be said on the subject has been said.

Here’s condensed version:
become a mistress of your own destiny, or your husband will find his own (mistress and destiny)
babies last a short while; husbands are forever
take advantage of your womanly cycle
refuse to be the victim of droopy parsley
store three quarters of your Japanese objets d’art at any given time.
sensible women carry calling cards
always serve herrings and flatbrod at your parties; pay small children to wear suits and sit in the closet.
elevators are overdone; steps are stimulating.
make sure you know where the shut off valve is.

Many thanks, dear J, for the treasure.

Paul Montana, Hannah Lynde

2008-11-15T07:05:00.000-08:00

Today, I found an old list tucked away in some books. It consisted of two items:
*Hannah Montana
*Paul Lynde

That's it. There's no other name on the list and no clue about why I would have been thinking about either of these two superstars. Paul Lynde was the guy on Hollywood Squares, Uncle Arthur on Bewitched, and (most importantly) a guest on the Donny and Marie show. He drank too much, died pretty young, and was, I think, the first gay man I ever knew. Hannah Montana is Hannah Montana. Connections? People with their own shows who have toothy grins? That list would be much longer. What is the special link between these two? It's going to drive me crazy.

Famous People I Have Known

2008-09-29T17:26:00.000-07:00

Everybody knows that it’s important to be famous. Because if you aren’t, then who, other than your family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, and the UPS guy knows you? If you don’t get your name into the history books or tabloids, then what is the point? But if you aren’t famous yourself, it is a good idea to know people who are. And if you don’t know people who are, it is a good idea to have at least seen famous people or to have known people who have seen famous people. That way, you’ll have something to add to conversations.

Here are my contributions:
•I saw Princess Di when she visited Canada back in the 80s. I was in a moving vehicle, she was behind an adoring throng, and all I could see was the back of her head. Or the back of someone’s head, who may/may not have been Princess Di.
•I saw Bruce Willis on Michigan Avenue in Chicago. He was walking.
•I saw Huey Lewis next door. He was stroking his chin.
•I think I saw Kate Winslet incognito in a little coffee shop on the Thames. She was wearing white Nikes and I thought to myself, “Would KW really wear white Nikes?” But then I thought, “That is EXACTLY what she wants me to think. I am falling for her disguise, which also includes a tacky ring. Or maybe the ring isn’t part of the disguise and is just something she likes.” I gave it some thought. Then I realized I was reading a Thomas Hardy novel and KW was IN a Thomas Hardy movie so it had to be a cosmic sign.
•My great uncle came up with the slogan “Let Your Fingers Do the Walking.” He also got to ride in a Pasadena Parade with Andy Devine, know for being Friar Tuck in the cartoon version of Robin Hood.
•Agnes Moorehead talked to my Mom. She was not really a witch.
•An ex-boyfriend’s best friend’s great-grandfather designed the Land O Lakes maiden. The one with the knees that—voila! fold up to be her breasts. (It really does work.)
•I have seen famous people who are in bands, actually playing with their bands. Sometimes, I have seen these people before other people who, when they find out about these famous people later, think that they are special.

And that’s only the beginning.

feeling lucky

2008-07-31T17:46:00.000-07:00

it really isn't fair, is it?

but snorgtees lets you wear it on your chest to remind the world.

Why I Hate The Internet

2008-07-14T11:05:00.000-07:00

The thing is, I never even liked The Waltons. Even when I was nine and all about people living hardscrabble lives and sharing simple pleasures like banjos and turkey gravy, I just never got into it. Sometimes, after I had watched a whole marathon of reruns (Leave it to Beaver, Lassie), I'd say "Oh, it's The Waltons. I don't feel like moving away from my air-conditioned cove just yet, so I won't turn it off." And I'd sit through the John-Boys and Jim-Bobs and their problems with the old jalopy and their tuberculosis, mostly hoping to see a lot of Elizabeth, the only one who was seemed differentiated from her siblings--and that only because of her lovely red hair (Titian, maybe, to a Nancy Drew fan like me). Even at the time, in an era of pokey shows, it seemed particularly pokey-hokey. Maybe not quite as many mysterious illnesses as Little House on the Prairie, but just as many stragglers, orphans, and people coming through town on their way to nowhere.

So it came as a surprise to me when I suddenly found myself looking up The Waltons on the internet. Why did John-Boy leave the happiness of Walton Mountain? And when? Who was the kid who came after Mary Ellen? Why did all of the siblings look like they were the same age, except for John-Boy who was obviously John-Man? How many episodes were there, and what did the actors do afterwards? And why, why, why, am I wasting precious time finding out these things? But it's out there. Anybody can find out. Added up, the hours spent on the Waltons by non-Waltons fans must be staggering. It boggles the mind.

WWUD?

2008-06-11T08:20:00.000-07:00

I was going to post a picture of my little WWUD, since it has been a guiding force in my life, but I find that boingboing put up a working online version over a year ago. Go figure. (I've had mine longer so HAH! to you, boingboing. Thinking you're always so cool. Which you are.) Anyway, it's here,
http://boingboing.net/images/WWUD.swf
and I'll just have to be content with something else. Such as this little connect the dot jobby, available from your friends at printactivities.com. I like how it's all so mysterious. What will appear? Maybe Pan, from Pan's Labyrinth? No, the hair isn't quite right. Maybe Michael Bolten? No, his eyes aren't shaped like that. Wait, what is that? Number 18 over in the left corner--is it--could it--yes! I think it is. A horn. For a unicorn! How exciting.

What I've Learned This Year

2008-05-22T07:57:00.000-07:00

In "Escape (The Pina Colada Song)," he (speaking in her voice) says:
"If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape
I'm the lady you've looked for, write to me, and escape."
I had always thought it was
"If you like making love at midnight, in the dooms of a cave.
I'm the lady you've looked for, write to me, and escape."
I had always appreciated the blend of the bubbly (champagne, getting caught in the rain) and the macabre (she likes to...you know... in a cave! With spiders and bats!) Sure, "dooms of a cave" was pretty idiomatic. Or maybe just plain strange. But what is pop music for, if not to fiddle with the English language a bit?

The world seem smaller, somehow, now that I know.

I choose cake

2008-05-21T19:06:00.000-07:00

My friend H. made this cake for me five years ago.
This picture is still on my refrigerator.
It still makes me happy.

Thank you.

Peeve of the Day

2008-05-21T18:54:00.000-07:00

When BFA/MFA students use similes. Total cringe factory.
It's like when you're watching an ice skater, and she's all sparkly and purple and she's doing a triple sow cow and then she's spinning like a top and then she SMACK! hits the ground, which is as cold as ice.
Oh, wait. It actually is ice.

Like, seriously.

Salads, Green with Foam

2008-01-17T12:38:00.000-08:00

Sea Foam Salad
1 #2 1/2 size can of pears
1 cup pear syrup
1 3 oz box lime jello
2 3 oz. Pkgs Phil. Cream Cheese
1 tsp Mayonnaise
1 envelope dream whip or 1 small box Cool Whip

Heat syrup and dissolve jello in it. Let set until thick. Drain and mash pears with blender or mixer. Soften cheese with mayonnaise. Mix. Fold in Cool Whip or Dream Whip (whipped).
Mix together and refrigerate. Miss F. 1983

Notes:
1. When the alternative is Cool Whip or something from an envelope, you can be sure it’s a good recipe.
2. Wasn’t it cute when people still called cream cheese Philadelphia Cream Cheese?
3. It’s nice to know that if one finds one’s cheese is too hard, one might turn to mayonnaise, a superior softening agent.

Unicorns+ Cereal

2007-11-30T19:07:00.000-08:00

=my two favorite things in one place. (At last!)
I'm happy to say that this provides today's youth with more positive unicornish images than my last unicorn post. It just goes to show you that the minute you try to pigeonhole the unicorns, they will do something to show you that they are not pigeons.

taken from here.

Here’s What’s Cookin’: Meatballs in Grape Sauce

2007-11-25T14:58:00.000-08:00

When I was five or so, my mom decided to prepare for my future, not by stocking up on silver or buying bonds, but by collecting recipes. She was ruthless in her pursuit of them, asking her colleagues, my friends’ parents, and the mothers who sat through long, bleak hours at Kelly’s School of Dance watching their daughters “toe, heel, step, clap”. Sometimes, she handed them a special strawberry recipe card and asked them to fill it out. Other times, she let them use their own “From the Kitchen of” cards, just to spice things up a little. Then, once they had done the deed, she filed the card in the proper slot in my recipe box and forgot all about it.

I didn’t forget, though. I would hold the puffy, strawberry speckled box in my hands, squeezing it gently, imagining that it was a treasure chest. I would pull out the cards and play with them, lining them up, reordering them, reading their mysteries. I dreamed of the day when I would be allowed to turn on the oven by myself and make some delicious “Meatballs in Grape Sauce.”

That day never came. By the time I was baking by myself, the strawberry box had been all but forgotten, the ugly brown Moosewood cookbook taking its place. Instead of meatballs, I experimented (usually disastrously) with bulgar wheat and lentils.

Now, I’ve opened up the strawberry treasure box again, unearthing its delights. Fully 3/4 of the recipes make my stomach churn—and not in a good way. Still, it seems sad that they shouldn’t ever see the light of day. In the spirit of remembrance of the culinary past, I’m going to reproduce them here. Imagine the line of strawberries, the careful, slanting script.

Imagine that someone actually ate these things.

Meatballs in Grape Sauce
Meat Balls: 1 lb ground chuck
1 egg, cracker crumbs, 1 tsp worcestushire (sic) sauce
2 shakes garlic sauce; 1 shake Tabasco sauce
Roll in small balls and bake on cookie sheet 20 minutes @ 350. Drain on paper towel.
1 cup grape jelly
1 14 oz catsup
3 shakes garlic salt; 4 shakes Tabasco sauce
Heat in pan until jelly melts. Add meat balls. Simmer in sauce until ready to eat.

The Unicorns did take sides

2007-11-08T17:44:00.000-08:00

The purveyors of unicornish fun, Archie McPhee & Co., have a relationship to the fair unicorn that is quite different from my own. To them, these are not so much creatures of Light and Air, Silver and Joy, Rainbow and Trapper Keeper . They present a more diverse, politicized unicorn. An Us v. Them unicorn, ready to fight narwhals, mimes, and their own kind when need be. Apparently, some unicorns, deep in the recesses of Magic Faiyland, are very bad indeed.

I didn't know that the unicorns took sides during the Cold War! How did I not know this? It might have changed everything.
http://www.mcphee.com/categories/unicornninja.html

Peeve of the Day: Po-em

2007-10-27T17:33:00.000-07:00

I know that it is (technically) allowed. Still, that doesn't mean I have to like it. And I don't.
My Peeve of the Day: When people say PO-EM instead of POME.
Unless you're British, of course. Then I would expect no less of you.

Kleenex says

2007-10-19T14:52:00.000-07:00

Oh, Kleenex. How well I thought I knew you! Even as a very young child, I counted how many boxes of you I could go through, how I could (when the gros rhumes et allergies, as you so Frenchily put it on your box bottom, struck) fill a garbage bag and pretend I was Santa. Never did I think about calling you tissues. Never! You were always the only brand for me, Kleenex. Puffs be damned. Generics be damned. You were the one who said "Bless you" to me. Even now, I often go to sleep with you, clutching your softness in my sweaty hand (and scattering you, moist and full, around the bed throughout the night.)

And I'm totally down with your new look. I like your Expressions Oval Tissues that allow me to "Express Your [My] Style." I am astonished by your "My Kleenex" campaign that allows me to design my very own tissue box. http://www.mykleenextissue.com/ I can insert photos, frames, and clip art. I can add text! This is not my mother's Kleenex. That's the message you're sending. I hear it, Kleenex, loud and clear.

However, for a hard core user like me, these wimpy little boxes don't go the distance. I recognize that you have to appeal to a wider crowd than me, Kleenex. I know that I am not your only customer. But let me remind you that I am your best customer, if I may humbly say so. I buy you in bulk, for every room in the house. I grab handfuls of you on the way out the door. I am a profligate consumer and, as I live in Too Hot Here, I will probably continue to need your ever-loving care for years to come.

So I'd like to ask a few favors. First, if you want me to be able to express my style, let me do so in jumbo size. Because, frankly, your jumbo Kleenexes look like something out of Woman's Day magazine in 1983. (See above.) You know what I mean. Really, Kleenex, I expect more from you. And, um, what do you have to say about the creepy intergalactic Japanese flowers on your boxes? Who let you get away with that? And why are they EVERYWHERE? (Except your website?)

Finally, I'll just pose a few weensy questions for you to think about. How's that "Let it Out Campaign" working for you? You know, the one where you position yourself sweetly on a little coffee table in front of a bright blue couch, and a sympathetic bald dude asks passersby to spill their goddamn guts. The one where you say, "Are people ready to let it out?" and your response is yes! because "Turns out all it takes is a good listener. And Kleenex TM tissues." http://www.kleenex.com/lio/USA/about/index.aspx
You're good with the heartstrings thing, Kleenex. Really good.

But I ask you: "Why should those of us that live lives of quiet desperation come to you for comfort? Who are you? And is your homepage really the best page to give people serious advice about eating disorders?" Actual quote: "I want to let out the misery of suffereing (sic) with an eating disorder that no one seems to want to help me with, for 10 years. It will kill me, I know it." [Insert uncomfortable pause.] Unless I'm missing something and you've decided to go into the altruism business, the point of your website is to sell more you, n'est-ce pas?

Oh, I get it. The disorder lady will, with the help of the Kleenex Kommunity, learn to love herself (and steak & eggs with a side of buttery grits), but the viewing public will get to experience her sorrow again and again on your website, crying buckets each time, and reaching for Trusty You.

Kleenex: is that the best way? Kleenex: is that the right way?

It's not just eating disorders that you're dealing with either. Some other tags sure to inspire weepification include "jinx, crushed, lonliness (sic), failin, and Reality." Pretty heavy stuff, Kleenex. Are you sure you're ready to take this on? Isn't the common cold keeping you busy enough? Do you have to go into Misery Marketing to meet your quota?

I guess you do. And I'm sure it works.

Lament

2007-07-23T18:23:00.000-07:00

I have no great affinity for TooHotHere, U.S.A. For one thing, it is too hot. And when they took the little corner of the parkway, the one where they sold things like boiled peanuts and pitbull pups and plowed it for another condoville with shoddy balconies and be-thonged women, well, it was was a day for all to mourn.

Animal Crackers

2007-07-11T18:18:00.001-07:00

How did I ever eat these with such gusto? Not only are they a fructosey mess, the Barnum's folks also try to economize on the animal's living quarters in a way that just breaks your heart. I don't know if you can see the way the baby giraffe is trying to comfort her stooped mother, but if you could, well, you wouldn't be so Shirley Temple cavalier about eating them, I can tell you that. And on the top of the box (not shown here) they are making a valiant effort to escape. Run little zebra, run! You too, big polar bear!

Speaking of Shirley, I used to watch her on the Shirley Temple movie hour of a Sunday afternoon. Does that make me an old-timer? She pretty much kicked ass as Heidi. (Interruption: I just discovered that Arthur Treacher was in this film! Who knew? And I've been thinking of him as a fish and chips man rather than the goat's milk sort.) I myself was also of the milk persuasion, and I spent hours nursing sick Clara back to health with the leftover milk and honey from my Rice Krispies, which is kind of like Swiss goat's milk.

And I also spent hours tap dancing to the Animal Crackers song, except I could only remember the first line and had to improvise the rest. I'm sure my versions were better than this:

Animal crackers in my soup
monkies and rabbits loop the loop,
Gosh, oh gee, but I have fun,
swallowin' animals one by one.
In every bowl of soup I see,
lions and tigers watching me,
I made 'em jump right thru a hoop,
those animal crackers in my soup

When I get hold
of the 'Big bad wolf'
I just push him under to drown.
Than I bite him
in a million bits
and I gobble him right down.
When they're inside me
where its dark,
I walk around like Noah's ark
I stuff my tummy like a goop
with animal crackers in my soup

I was going to title the post "inside Shirley, where it's dark" but I knew only bad things could come of that. And why is it only "like a goop"? Isn't it just goop?

Moderate to Good

2007-06-10T16:55:00.000-07:00

occasionally very poor. 5 or 4. 3 or 2. Fog or no fog. Beautiful voice, beautiful scratchings. Mysterious numbers and delicious vowels. The Hebrides and Dover.

BBC4 Shipping Forecast
Sunday, 7:45
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/

It will bring down your heart rate, guaranteed.

Bears are naughty

2007-05-29T19:56:00.000-07:00

Thank you, somethingawful people and your photoshop phridays.
This made me happier than words.

Cheeky little beggar.

(Some are better than others, true enough. Like the tiger one here. Not for the faint of heart, I warn you.)

End Times, They Are A-Comin'

2007-05-02T15:16:00.000-07:00

How do I know?
This.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KF4pNTTHFac

And that's not all.
More signs in future posts.

Why Kids Are Weird

2007-04-15T10:32:00.000-07:00

My friend K’s room was airy and light. It was carpeted blue with a white iron bed and thin flowered curtains; mine was Raggedy Ann and Andy yellow and red. We were more girls in her room, mere steps away from a glamorous green bathroom with clear bulbs and deep bath, where mermaids swam. In her room, our stories were romantic, sweeping—they carried us away.
---------
Behind the swirls of the curtains, feet embedded deeply in the plush of the carpet, she whispered to him, “It’s you I love, and we will find a way to be together. Her gloved hand stroked his gleaming head, her red lips smothered him with kisses. His face was locked into a grin, but this was a smile beyond happiness: how did he deserve to be so lucky? With his baked potato nose and bald head, he did not cut a striking figure, yet she loved him, loved him deeply. “Ziggy” she would whisper “I love you deeply.” and he would whisper, choked, blinded by tears: “I love you too, Ms. Pacman.” Her life moved him, her difficult, decadent life hinted at by her ribbons and high heels. She had been a video game bride and this tumultuous relationship had left her bereft of a first name. Her husband, goblin-chaser, had grown too busy for her, and they had parted. Ziggy was everything she now hoped for: dependable, devoted, tractable, and soon they would be married. But it was not so simple; bliss was not so easily theirs.

Soon, things (life, love etc.) would change forever, due to the villainous Mr. Lock.
Mr. Lock was one-dimensional: evil. He made demonic plans to swoop down upon Ms. P. (he was gifted with flight when he wore his special silken bathrobe) and he carried these out. Cackling cruelly, he seized Ms. Pacman, who kicked her legs and screamed “Ziggy! Ziggy!” Then, before Ziggy could heed her cry, Mr. Lock hid her far away, across the room in his bedland palace of down and doom. He would torture her with words and with his laugh—it was all he had. He had no face, no arms, no body—he was literally a lock in man’s clothing (Not even. The bathrobe was Barbie’s.) Ziggy didn’t have a neck, but at least he had a face, a body. He would get her back. They would they would have their happily afters….he would see to it.

And they did.

Newsflash

2007-03-23T05:39:00.000-07:00

In England, they have "Slow Roasted Lamb with Moroccan Spices" potato chips (crisps, rather) in the Walkers "Sensations" line. Like other Americans, I didn't believe it at first. But I have seen it with my own eyes and

Here, at the Walkers site.
I see that the fuss is really just about some "lamb powder." (Lamb powder?)

I wonder two things 1. if they tried out a Fast Roasted Lamb variety and the sensitive British palate found it insulting. 2. If you take lamb powder before going to bed, it makes it easier to count sheep. Ha. Sorry for that.

Thinking about unicorns (again)

2007-03-23T05:24:00.000-07:00

Whenever I drove past the Unisex hair salon near my grandma’s as a kid, I felt squeamish. Not only did it have “sex” in it, but it also had “uni” which made me, sadly, picture unicorns humping. Which I AM SURE they don’t do. They just sort of wish their babies out of thin air, or conjure them from bit of fairy dust and rainbow or something. I don’t even know if they have a gender….

Okay, now that I think about it, they must, because my friend B. and I had a unicorn family. Or at least a mixed unicorn family—they were half Clydesdale. My stuffed horse Trigger got married to her Unicorn, Uni. (Very progressive for the time.)

I guess we kind of figured that unicornism was an inherited trait but that, like blue eyes, it was probably recessive. So Uni gave birth to two horses, Cotton Candy and Chocolate Chip before she had her first unicorn, Marshmallow, who, in addition to her horn, had a tiny velveteen heart sewn onto her butt. Cute stuff.

I had the strongest urge to rip that little heart out sometimes. It was so velvety soft and hard, like a bit of candy. I would sometimes secretly tug at it, to try to get it to pop out, just so I could hold it in my hands. Then I would be overcome with remorse, because what kind of monster was I? Trying to maim the little baby unicorn! Then I would push on the hard candy heart, willing it deeper into her butt. I didn’t really mean to hurt her because she was such a sweet baby unicorn. But what if the heart was bad for her, like a lump of cancer? What if it had been implanted by some awful magician? Then I should try to get it out because it could kill her! Or was that just me being selfish again? It was so hard to know. In the end, I left it in. Last time I checked on her, she was tied up in a pillowcase in the basement, doing just fine.

Specifically for Mr. Crayon

2007-02-16T08:45:00.000-08:00

Found Poem
This was sent to me by KOKO Petroleum, with the inviting title “you should read this.” And so I have, closely.

you should read this

re by about trouble Patriarch
slightly What the uninvited he
May hands falls member this
mirthless street Here of a
in absurd wore affirmed historians
I Kislovodsk re paper s
instance is stranger about completely
question stranger impossible no word
juice conversation Putzli trousers seemed
re by about trouble Patriarch
slightly What the uninvited he
May hands falls member this
mirthless street Here of a
in absurd wore affirmed historians
I Kislovodsk re paper s
instance is stranger about completely
question stranger impossible no word
juice conversation Putzli trousers seemed
re by about trouble Patriarch
slightly What the uninvited he
May hands falls member this
mirthless street Here of a
in absurd wore affirmed historians
I Kislovodsk re paper s
instance is stranger about completely
question stranger impossible no word
juice conversation Putzli trousers seemed
re by about trouble Patriarch
slightly What the uninvited he
May hands falls member this
mirthless street Here of a
in absurd wore affirmed historians
I Kislovodsk re paper s
instance is stranger about completely
question stranger impossible no word
juice conversation Putzli trousers seemed

A few lines of analysis:
Perhaps the first question readers may ask themselves is “who is the Patriarch?” (line 1). What do we know about him? We know that he is troubled, but not by the usual concerns that trouble patriarchs (virgin daughters, unruly wives, and things of that sort.) Rather, this patriarch is troubled—if only slightly—by smaller things, smaller words. First: re. This one is understandable because all abbreviations can be troubling. He is also troubled by “by.” This could indicate, of course, that the Patriarch is questioning his Author-ity, the power that he derives from his Author-Being. “By and by” he might have to, willingly or not, relinquish this power. It might also indicate a fear of contiguity, of closeness, of connection. This seems to bear itself out in the next lines, which introduce the “uninvited he” into the poem. Imagine, if you will, some additional punctuation that would allow us to feel more palpably the impact that the ‘he’ has on the Patriarch:
“What?!” The uninvited he!!”

Then: “May hands falls.” At first, this seems merely a textbook example of verb agreement errors. But let us look more closely. Perhaps “falls” is not a verb at all, but a noun. In fact, all three of these words act in this way: they can serve as either nouns or verbs (and, in one case, as a proper noun). This draws attention to the enormously plastic quality of our language.

With nothing even so much as a line break, let alone punctuation, we are asked to “member this mirthless street. “Member” is likely a shortened, colloquial form of “remember”: the poem draws us deeper into its street-spaces, even as we simultaneously dwell within our memories. (Or perhaps we are being asked to “dismember this mirthless street,” to divide up its deadness. Morbid possibility.)

As the poem continues, we encounter “affirmed historians”—the very worse kind. Certainly, they are “absurd,” and we need not linger on them. The next two words “I Kislovodsk,” brings a lovely Balkan feel to the poem, giving us, at last, a way to situate a person in the cityscape of the mirthless street, where (“here”) instance is indeed stranger—a moment, a pause, a barely-anything. The enjambment of “completely/question stranger” is a call for interrogation, for a more complete knowing even as the completed line “completely/question stranger impossible” affirms its hopelessness. The hopelessness is echoed in the desolate phrase: “no word”—here, we approach the death of language, where words no longer can be vessels of meaning.

But the poem does not end on a note of despair: far from it. Rather we have the phrase “juice conversation”—suggesting the liquidity of language, the juicy deliciousness of dialogue. Once we have reached the brink of “no word” (the, if you will “end of the line”) we can turn a new page (begin a new line) and see the fruitfulness (orange, cranberry) of language. Then too it is here that we see a connection to an older poetic tradition. For who else is concerned with trousers? Eliot, of course. This is a clear reimagining of the Prufrock lines: “I shall wear white flannel trousers and walk upon the beach.” Here, though, the trousers are not white flannel, but Putzli, which suggests, perhaps, a German fashion designer. What do the trousers “see(a)m” (pun!) to be? The seam of thought is left unfinished as the poem circles back on itself. While Hamlet reaffirms the “is” (“Seems, madam! Nay, it is. I know not 'seems.'”) this poet allows us, even in the end, to dwell in seam-y possibility.

I hope everyone

2007-02-16T08:42:00.000-08:00

had a very nice National Flag Day of Canada. (Fete du drapeau national du Canada).

And all those otherdays since last time.

Outsider Artist

2006-12-16T16:50:00.000-08:00

I took the pieces you threw away
And put them together by night and day
Washed by rain, dried by sun
A million pieces
All in one. –Howard Finster

I think I know what I want to be: an outsider artist. I worry that I might need to become insane to accomplish my goal, but maybe that’s what needs to be done. You have to sacrifice for art: it demands it of you. Alternately, I could simply avoid all contact with the mainstream art world, exploring unconventional ideas and creating extraordinary fantasy landscapes. I think that’s more doable, especially the avoiding the mainstream art world part, which isn’t my cup of tea anyway.

Some benefits of becoming an outsider artist:
• I would be seen as “more authentic”
• I could collect scraps and slivers and bits and pieces with impunity
• Social acclaim would not mar my creative process (until suddenly it did)
• I could make socially inappropriate remarks to dealers come from the big city to survey my work--and no one would think less of me for it. (See the movie Junebug)
• I would have direct contact with God and/or the devil. (This could also be considered a downside.)
• I might be asked to do an album cover for R.E.M.
• I could help demonstrate to the world that “cultural art” is the “game of a futile society, a fallacious parade” (Jean Dubuffet). Of course, I could not really know this myself, or else I would not be able to demonstrate it.

There are clearly many benefits to this new career. I don’t want to be too hasty, though. One cannot undertake such things lightly.

(Image: Howard Finster’s “Trash Can from Paradise Garden.” He’s right.)

Open Letter to a Pegasus Baby

2006-12-04T17:19:00.000-08:00

Artistry

2006-11-16T15:04:00.000-08:00

When I was about eleven, I decided that I wanted my artwork to have that professional feel. I was tired of the five-and-dime variety of paints, those sickly ovals and the cheap plastic cases and the brushes that left bristles all over the page. I wanted tubes—real tubes—of paint.

And so my Mom and I went to the art store downtown, and I browsed among the papers and canvases, the tubes and pots. I admired the silky brushes and the skeletal wooden easels. When we found what we were looking for, I was thrilled: it was a lovely collection of twenty tubes of paint, with cobalts and ochres and all the best sorts of names for colors, there on the tube.

But I was shocked by the price. My Mom said not to worry, it was a gift, I would enjoy it. But of course I worried. I worried so much that every time I squeezed a little paint into my mixing dish I would immediately regret that I had squeezed too much. And when the mountain or the tree didn’t come out right (and it never really did), I would put the paints away and wonder if I should have gotten them in the first place. This happened every time.

I don’t know why I was-am like that. It's not as if I lived through a war eating tulip bulbs like Audrey Hepburn or something (not that she would worry about wasting cobalt). Why did I worry so much about using up, wearing out? I knew my parents would buy me another one, if I wanted it.

Eventually, I became so worried about wasting the paint that I stopped altogether. In a few years the paint dried up and the tubes cracked, revealing useless innards. There was no going back.

Sometimes, I think that the moral of the story is the obvious one: carpe diem, gather ye rosebuds/ paint your mountains (however bad they are) while ye may. Mostly, though, I just think of another, easier moral: Don’t even try to make art. It’s not really worth it, in the end.

No picture for this one

2006-11-03T07:40:00.000-08:00

Today, a cockroach tried to be cute. He almost succeeded, too.
I was just done eating breakfast in a perfectly civilized room, full of civilized things (woven rug, musty Harvard classics, pictures of dead relatives). And there he was, Monsieur le biological throwback. I could tell he felt embarrassed about it. He didn’t really want to be there, during my breakfast hour. It’s just that winter’s coming on, and what else is he to do? He scuttled over to the corner (scuttle really is being kind—there should be a special word for this kind of movement) and sort of pressed himself up against it. There were no gaps in the floorboard, though, and he kept hugging it, trying to make himself smaller. This was the part that, if he had not been more than two inches long, leggy, and crunchy-oozy, would have been cute.

But maybe it worked for him: I told bugmonster to go ahead and do his thing and swiftly departed without taking a whack at him (and it literally is a kind of whack that we—and by “we” I mean “not me”—take. N. has an electric tennis racket of death, meant to kill flies. With roaches, you get sparks rather than instant death, since these beasties are perfectly engineered to survive the nuclear holocaust. But it does stun them in a spectacular way and stacks the odds in your favor*).

This is not something I thought I would be doing in my life: choosing between saying fiddle dee dee or becoming intimate with crunch-ooze while I’m still in my polka-dot pajamas. And this is not just any crunch-ooze. Remember that I live in Too Hot Here, USA. These are Palmetto bugs, and if you don’t know what a Palmetto bug is (and I did not, until 3 years ago), well, count yourself among the lucky. Because although it might make you think of fruity cocktails and lush green fronds, the reality…oh, the reality…. This is the roach royale, also by the name Bombay Canary and all sorts of other jolly euphemisms. It will work its way into your dreams and, in some cases, your closet, your bathroom and your laundry basket. When you go to the fridge for some ice water, there it will be waving its sensitive little antennae right in your eyes. So what to do?

Here is the advice of the ever-practical folks at whatsthatbug http://www.whatsthatbug.com/cockroaches.html
“Since they live outdoors, and can fly from location to location, mass annihilation of the species is the only way to keep them out of your yard. Since this is not feas[i]ble, and since they are not really pests, just a frighteningly large annoyance, I suggest learning to ignore them.”

Oh, three cheers. That “learning to ignore them” could take a lifetime. And not a pest? Please.

[Pest: from the French peste, late 15th century. Denoting the Bubonic plague.
Ok, so maybe it’s not a pest. Still, they do plague me, in a non-Bubonic kind of way.]

*One time, though (and you’ve heard the story), the roach came back. He survived death by electrocution, death by water and (almost—valiant creature) death by garbage disposal. I do have a sneaking suspicion that all of the mauled carcasses we toss so casually into the toilet rise up again underwater, their bodies becoming smooth and whole once again, their little minds remembering all.

Calling Mary Poppins

2006-10-21T13:53:00.000-07:00

I had one of those Disney push button phones when I was a kid—the kind where you could dial up different characters and they’d squeal the same sentence over and over again into your ear. (I tried to find a picture of one—no luck. They probably all broke pretty quickly).

It was a fun enough toy, except for one thing: it had Mary Poppins on it. I just could not stand Mary Poppins. Cloying, umbrella-carrying, able to fly for no apparent reason. Yuck. Eventually my parents caught on to the fact that I was steering clear of her every time I used the phone. “Don’t you want to call Mary Poppins?” they’d ask, as if they were surprised. And they’d very specifically give her a ring.

Fine for them. But no way was I going to call Mary Poppins. I just had too many other phone calls to make: to Mickey, to Minnie, to Donald. Mary did not make the cut. And the more my parents called her the madder it made me. They made such a point of it. They were all “Oh, Mary Poppins, it’s so good to talk to you” and such. Like they weren’t making it up. Prissy priss with her umbrella, hogging my parents. “Oh you want to talk to our daughter? Here she is!” they’d say. And then I would be pressured, because there she was, on the line. I held firm though. I did not answer the phone. She could wait all day, if she wanted.

Because of my grudge, I was 11 before I ever watched the movie. Spoonfulls of sugar, votes for women (step in time), chalk drawings, canons. Of course I liked it. Good old Mary Poppins. She was just hillsarealive Maria after all, singing her heart out with those funny looking kids who wanted to feed the birds for tuppence a bag.

Today, I’d totally take her call.

Still Life

2006-10-13T15:57:00.000-07:00

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it: the ghostly green of Adriaen Coorte’s “Still Life With Asparagus” (1697). Apparently, it shows his “predilection for sexual symbolism” (always the phallus, yes?) It’s more than that, though: the asparagus has aphrodisiac qualities. Its nutrients (it is said) promote sexual well-being, and, since you can eat the little phallus with the fingers, your eating experience is particularly sensual.

What do we make, then, of the little sad, limp, loose one? And the fact that the rest are so tightly bound? And the fact that it makes me want asparagus? (I mean that in a literal sense, really. I like asparagus.)

I also think of the asparagus scene from Election with Tammy and Lisa and their little cups of urine and their laughter and half-love.

St. Rita

2006-10-05T08:08:00.000-07:00

There was a little statue of St. Rita in the vestibule area of my childhood church. She was almost life size—maybe 4’5” or so. Maybe that was lifesize for her day, what with poor nutrition and fasting and anorexia(1) and all that. Anyway, she was a very pretty lady, from what you could see of her. She had a full nun’s habit, but her face was delicate and slender and she had great ceramic skin. Best of all was a lovely, ruby red gash on her forehead. It was her trademark—a wound that seeped for 15 years because she was so smitten with the Passion of Christ. They used to tell us that story in school: how she would stare and stare at her crucifix and beg Jesus to let her suffer like he did and one joyful (sorrowful) day—kapow!(2) A thorn in the forehead. And 15 years of seeping.(3)

Rita was from one of those far away places and she suffered terribly. Not just from the wound—even before that. Lots of beatings and things, I think. But also lots of forgiveness and redemption. (Checked on that: beatings galore from husband Paolo, whom she married because her parents wanted her to.) Apparently, according to the “Catholic-forum” website “she never lost her faith in God, or her desire to be with him.” But since her life on earth was full of misery and she lived in the 15th century, I can’t see how her “desire” is so especially saintworthy. (I can also think of a few equally deserving latter-day candidates.)

The wound is the best thing about her, I always felt, the thing that makes her different from all the Anns and Bernadettes out there. Every time my friends and I would walk by the statue, we’d touch it, presumably so that the holiness of St. Rita would rub off on us, like blood. I also made wishes on it—prayers I would have called them, but definitely not high-level ones. More like superstitious bits. I can’t remember if any of them came true.

FYI: She is the patron saint (among other things) of infertility, bodily ills, and (surprise) wounds. I’m thinking that if you want your wound to heal, though, she is not the saint to pray to. 15 years is a long time.

If you’d like to buy some Rita products, you can check out http://www.catholic-forum.com/SAINTS/saintr01.htm
And if you can figure out why there’s a St. Rita medallion that features “a figure of a baseball player on the back,” let me know.

-----------
(1) For more on this, see Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women by Caroline Walker Bynam. I haven’t read it since 1998, but I remember it had some very interesting moments.

(2) As you can see from the photo, this was all very sci-fi. There’s an even better photo of the event at http://www.catholic-forum.com/SAINTS/str01com.htm
She doesn’t look quite so pretty, though, which seemed to be a prereq for canonization.

(3) I very irreverently used to think “If she really wanted to suffer like Christ, doesn’t one cut along the forehead fall a bit short of crown of thorns, nails in feet and hands, etc.?” But I quickly pushed these thoughts aside. Who was I to question the saints?

Picking Picture Books

2006-09-28T06:52:00.000-07:00

Some of you are having babies or will be having babies or know people who are having babies or will have babies. What to get them? What not to get them? Here’s a brief guide.

Don’ts:
Don’t give an Eric Carle book, especially The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Most new parents will get three or four copies of that. (Apologies if you’ve been the person to give one of those 3-4 copies.) It is a cute book, true enough, but resist the temptation.

Don’t give Dr. Seuss. Snore. (Blame Jim Carey and Mike Meyers. Blame Oh the Places You’ll Go.) There are exceptions: if there’s not a movie about it, it might be ok. There’s a lot of Seuss out there, some of it better than others, so really shop around if you must give one.

Don’t give Where the Wild Things Are. Yes, it’s a good book (and wonderfully twisted and useful for all sorts of psychoanalytic readings and quite a scandal when it came out in '63). But everyone (unless you’ve been living in a cave) already knows it.

Don’t give anything with a name you recognize a. because she’s a popstar b. because he’s a comedian or c. because she’s a television personality who thinks that showing her legs= news. Just don’t, okay?

Don’t give The Giving Tree: Don’t even get me f*ing started on this book. (Yes, I do indeed hate it. But 1960s Shel Silverstein in Playboy in a nudist camp: love it.)

Proceed With Caution:
You can give Curious George books, but just recognize that there are strange master/servant issues and all sorts of spouting hoses, rocket grasping, and fishing poles placed just so. Yep: phallus phallus everywhere. Which isn’t necessarily a problem. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Recommendations:
Anything illustrated by Mary Blair. She was Disney before Disney became the soggy, claptrappish mess it is today. She did all of the cutest advertising in the 1950s and all sorts of lovely little children’s books like I Can Fly. (Many of these are out of print, so this is not the most practical suggestion.)

The Jolly Postman: Read Goldilock’s apology letter to the Three Bears, a letter from Red Riding Hood’s attorney to Mr. Wolf, a letter from Cinderella’s agent—all of which you can open up and read yourself, like real letters. Gentle training for those who have not developed a sense of irony (and just as fun for those who have).

What Planet are You From, Clarice Bean? by Lauren Child: swoopy, sparkly, witty, and a little Brit Snarky. Clarice is totally going to grow up to be like Georgia Nicholson.

Miss Rumphius by Barbara Cooney: Some people will shake their heads here. This is a book about an old lady--how can it be for kids? Because it’s gorgeous and smart and not condescending. It’s both active and restful. And I get a little feeling behind the eyes when I read the last lines.

The Day the Babies Crawled Away by Peggy Rathmann: a book done all in silhouettes. It’s a little bit dangerous and creepy, too, which is nice, but it has a safe ending.

Pish, Posh, Said Hieronymus Bosch by Nancy Willard and The Dillons: two-headed bats, pickle-winged fish, three-legged thistles (run away with the dish).

And the rhymes:
I don’t mind the ferret, I do like the bee
All witches’ familiars are friendly to me.
I’d share my last crust with a pigeon-toed rat
And some of my closest relations are cats.

My aunt was a squash,” said Hieronymus Bosch

Make Way for Ducklings by Robert McCloskey: A bit of an obvious choice, but most people will steer away from it because they think that kids, who are BRIGHT BOUNCY BUBBLES OF LOVE, need lots of COLOR. Not at all. These brown illustrations are just right just so and the story is good fun. It’s even lovelier because today it’s hard to imagine an America that would make way for anything, let alone ducklings.

Final Appeal: Even if you don’t have any new babies in your future, you should read these books anyway. They’re good.

The Way of All Beef

2006-09-21T15:55:00.000-07:00

Only three smells leak from houses here: dryer sheet, mildew, and hamburger. Down the street is a house that constantly cooks itself hamburgers, seemingly every time I walk past. I have entertained the notion that they have a hamburger smell machine, but I know better. Such machines are expensive. It must be real beef.

Do they understand what it does for me, every time? I, who look askance at beef, I who have not touched the stuff in years? It makes me 11, 12, 13. It makes me Fourth of July, wearing a flag shirt and red shorts and mixing up a creamy cake with a blueberry-strawberry Old Glory on top. It makes me sophisticated, no longer taking my burger with cheese and ketchup like a child, but with cheese and ketchup and mayo and a hint of sweet relish like a grown-up. It makes me younger than that, too, at half-remembered picnics with military moms and dads. They would be sent away in a year or two but would grill up big, juicy burgers as if they owned their lives in the meantime.

This is not the smell of two all beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese—no way. It is thicker than that, full of drippings and charcoal smoke and gritty grills. It doesn’t care that I don’t like it now. It knew me when.

Coming up with a caption

2006-09-14T09:09:00.000-07:00

for this, the most ominous photo of all.

It is my mother in the 1940s, possibly after the babysitter decided (without permission) to chop off all of her hair.

Q: Why are we on the wrong side of the window? Why is monkey-monster looking at her like that? What is monkey-monster doing these days?

Ugly

2006-09-07T09:02:00.001-07:00

Ugliest name:
Grubb.
It makes you think of the nastier sort earthworm, prying into damp decay.
A maggot, really, all potato-y white. Not quite the end of things, but almost.
I know there are people with the names Butt, Hooker, Dick. I have seen these people and known a few. (The neighbors down the street announced it: “The Butts” said their sign, in yellow script).
This, though, is the worst: a name that doesn’t bring first nasty laughs, but sticks with you, burrowing. It speaks of dirty foods, thick beefs, chickens, something below oneself.
And then of course: Rub a dub dub, thanks for the grub, yaaaaaay God! That was a revolting childhood dinner prayer, with gestures. For non-Catholics.

I'd like to take a moment now for all the poor Grubbs of the world.

Game; or, "In ambivalent aspirations"

2006-08-31T07:30:00.000-07:00

Pick words from a book, any book, one at a time. Write them down, as they come. Then, without changing the order (and deleting no more than 2-3 words and changing the tense of no more than 1 word), see what you have. It usually surprises. You feel like a baby Stein or a Surrealist game player or a writer of fortune cookies in translation.

Taken from A Postmodern Reader

Nothing of power is
certainly music:
the points without design
characterize their greatness.
Across knowledge, my legitimate attention
(curiously well-known)
brings emancipation.

Aphorisms:
1
Remold wishes, liberating sense. (And very good advice it is, too.)
2
Conservative condition (made practical) assumes its own time.
3
In ambivalent aspirations: challenging the groove.

Do They Or Don't They?

2006-08-24T07:55:00.000-07:00

For a while when I was a kid, I thought about everything in terms of mysteries. This was due to reading too much Nancy Drew and Trixie Beldon—and I’m sure that Harriet the Spy and the Bloodhound Gang had a hand in it. One adventure that my friend K. and I spent hours playing was our own Nancy Drew creation: “The Mystery at the Roller Skating Rink.” This allowed us to combine two primary interests (Solving crimes! Wearing Strawberry Shortcake skates!) into one fun game. Since she was older, K. got to be Nancy; I got to be Bess, George, and any hapless rink employees that we needed for the narrative. Most of the time was spent looking for clues. Since the rink was actually my basement, the clues were pretty obscure: “Look Nancy, next to the water heater! It’s a granola bar wrapper!” Still, such a wrapper could point to all sorts of exciting things: kidnappings, cries for help, a Trap. It was a tiring game, since it meant never taking off skates, even when “running’ up and down the stairs or crouching behind the woodpile outside the basement door, but it kept us enthralled for hours. I don’t think anything ever got solved on those days (just what was at stake was always a little fuzzy), but it allowed us to see the basement in a whole new way—as a shadowy den, with many obscure nooks and crannies where crooks could plot despicable deeds.

The thing that bothered me about Nancy then and still does (in addition to her endless bank account and her ability to jet off to Greece at the drop of a hat), was that none of the books could seem to settle on what color her hair was. Was it blond or was it strawberry blond or was it Titian? (Of course, we said tit-ee-an). Titian (a “golden-auburn”) is just not the same as “blond” or “strawberry blond,” but the author(s) didn’t seem to care. They used all of these descriptions interchangeably.

This hair confusion applies to Trixie too. Did she have blond hair or did she not--every cover told a different story. It would have made a big difference to me because, as I was blonder than K., it was natural that I play the shy sidekick, Honey (blond) Wheeler. If it turns out that Trixie really did have blond hair, I would have had more leverage.

Is there any way to find out? I probably won’t be up for playing detective games any time soon, but it would be nice to solve these mysteries, once and for all.

P.S. I just read a biography of the Nancy Drew creators, Girl Sleuth. I was hoping it could clear up the hair issue for me. It didn’t.

Who Would Win

2006-08-18T07:59:00.000-07:00

The Creepiness Award?
(For Elizabeth.) I'd say: Bangs, hands down.

I did appreciate Mr. Green Jeans and Moose and Bunny. But they were no way as fundamental to me as the Neighborhood characters. Speedy delivery? And the crayon factory? And the exciting moment when Prince Tuesday was born? All very top-notch stuff.

Is there an essay collection about the Neighborhood? I have heard about "Mr. Rogers and Me" (a film by a guy who really was Mr. Rogers's neighbor). There's also a book about the significance of the show for kids. But are there any essays that explore, say, the museum collection of Lady Elaine Fairchild? Or the never-quite relationship between Lady Aberlin and Handyman Negri? Or that ask the difficult questions about Edgar Cooke? There should be.

I'll have to think more about this.

The Real Mother Goose

2006-08-15T08:09:00.000-07:00

I had a copy of this book as a child. Of all the books I owned, I think it is safe to say that this is the one I read the least. My parents would pull it off the bookshelf every once in a while and try to get me into it, but I always resisted. Why? Take a look. What do you think is happening in that picture?

It’s obvious, right? A nefarious witch (is there any other kind?) is abducting a baby. She is flying away on a magic goose that she has brutally enslaved. Her shifty eyes, pointy hat, buckled shoes, and bony, wrinkled fingers are dead giveaways. (Seriously: look at those hands. Not just the effects of old age.)

According to my parents, my impression was inaccurate. She is, rather, a kindly old lady (possibly of Pilgrim origin) who is simply taking the baby out for a ride. Their primary arguing point was flimsy: “Look how happy the baby is,” they said, “If she was a witch, would the baby be so happy?”Such failure of logic drove me crazy. It was clear that the baby was stupid. He (she) didn’t know that s/he was being abducted. History (Hansel and Gretel) had taught me that witches could be compelling creatures. Why should this witch be any different?

Still my parents persisted. “She’s just Mother Goose. Mother Goose isn’t a witch.”
Oh isn’t she? Clearly their knowledge of witches was not as extensive as mine.
After a while, I stopped trying to convince them. The whole thing made me trust them a little less, though. If they couldn’t tell witches from Pilgrims, then I had to be on my guard. If our family was ever called upon to make such a distinction, it would be Up To Me. I just hoped they wouldn’t encourage me to get into any baskets with elderly ladies.
I remembered what almost happened to Toto, even if they didn’t.

I'd be interested to know: does anybody else have memories of scary pictures in books for kids?

Note: The baby looks like a bit of a greaser. A young Lenny maybe, from Laverne and Shirley?

summer gone

2006-08-13T08:09:00.000-07:00

When did August stop being part of summer? It gets cooler this time of year, up north. School starts, summer things start to drop away. June is summer, sort of, but really we're left with July to embody everything we need from the season. I feel cheated by all those books I read as a kid, about cabins and coves and secret places and endless weeks for exploring. Summer was enough time to refashion yourself, with the help of an old rowboat and maybe a puppy. Now there's not time enough for anything. I bet if I had a rowboat, though, I wouldn't mind it all so much.

Been Doing

2006-08-10T14:35:00.000-07:00

11 days.
8 stops.
For the best of the best, see
http://www.flickr.com/photos/gordonmerrick/
Maine photos coming soon.

A summary:

Night one
•Patty Duke is not herself the Miracle Worker.
•Casinos are sad, but bathrooms are awesome.
•Nocturnal conversations. (Shamrocks, humans with cords?) I wear earplugs so that I can’t hear myself talk (Apologies to Sean, who doesn’t and did).

Night two
Oh, the day has been so very hot. I buy socks that glow in the dark and ride a cycle side saddle.
Jussi, Heather, Sean, Gordon M. make a musical that asks the following questions:
Should he or shouldn’t he? And what about these?

Night three
Road. Portsmouth suite. And in the morning: the Friendliest of all the Toasts.
Is it wrong to want to live inside a restaurant? Because I do.
See it here.

Nights four, five
Spent among the delightful Portlanders (Emily and Casey), who have not only the most charming house above an excellent restaurant, but also cool waters close to home and the option for constant (private) rooftop drinks. Not to mention the custard! And the cherries!
And the charmingly orange and well-loved public library!
I’m all but ready to move.

Night six
Stevie is a dog who doesn’t want you to leave.
We Love Night, Dance all hours.

Nights seven, eight
The Event: pre, post. (http://www.flickr.com/photos/gordonmerrick/ J&S wedding)
Wedding and then some. The Solemnizer (Gordon Merrick) claps out the pace at which he wants all party members to walk. We enjoy singing and shuttle rides.

Night nine
Friends are electric.
Gary Numan fans wear doo-rags and like the chug chug.
He himself is a bit of a Jagged little pill.
(Goodnight to Ashford Terrace.)

Night 10
We find ourselves on a Virginia estate, eating squash blossoms and avocado and perusing an 18th century Bible. There is a signed note from Mr. Abe Lincoln and a spring house, a smoke house, a first house, a second house, a music house, and The House. All things are beautiful.

We drive away home.

Fattened Calf with Hatred

2006-07-27T07:46:00.000-07:00

I’m guessing I’m not the target audience for this e-mail. Although the No examinations! No classes! No textbooks! does sound appealing…..

Hate studying?

Academic Qualifications available from prestigious NON-ACC REDITED uni
versities.

Do you have the knowledge and the experience but lack the qualifications?

Ar e you getting turned down time and time again for the job of your dreams because you just don't have the right lett ers after your name?

Get the prestige that you d eserve today!

Move ahead in your career today!

Bac helors, Master s and PhD 's available in your f ield!

No examinations! No classes! No textbooks!

Call to register and receive your qual ifications within days!

24 hours a day 7 days a week!

Confidentiality assured!….

It is easier to get forgiveness than permission Give credit where credit is due Wherever you may be let your wind go free Be just before you are generous A book holds a house of gold. A man is known by the company he keeps. Better a meal of vegetables where there is love than a fattened calf with hatred

------
This last paragraph is what makes this e-mail different from the usual diploma mill adverts—it’s a stroke of poorly punctuated genius. It suggests that I should just go for it! Ask for forgiveness later, since it’s relatively easy to come by. I also love the vague allusions to Biblical wisdom. Nothing gives your corrupt endeavor a virtuous patina like a little fattened calf action. Although here the emphasis is on love-filled vegetable-eaters.

Mostly, though, this e-mail reminds me that I can believe in two contradictory things at once. I may never want to crack a textbook, yet I can still believe a book holds a house of gold. But it’s important to remember that this doesn’t mean that I myself don’t. I’m just as smart as any old book. I hold a house of gold too and I should be able to move ahead in my career today!

I don’t, however, understand the wind going free—is that a fart joke?

A lesson:
Q: Why is NON- ACC REDITED in caps? Isn’t that something you’d want to hide?
A: No! Flaunt your weaknesses. They will become your strengths. Then use a word like prestigious and you can get away with anything.
Watch how everything changes:
Compare:
Glass of milk with Prestigious glass of milk
Bathroom break with Prestigious bathroom break
NON- ACC REDITED degree brought to you by a site called catlover.com with
Prestigious NON ACC REDITED degree
See how easy?

(Prestigious: from the French. “Illusion or glamour; conjuring tricks.” Clever, clever.)

A Punctuation of Cherries

2006-07-23T08:52:00.000-07:00

Okay, so some of you have expressed wild enthusiasm about the food photo in my last post. So glossy! you say. So Pink and Green! It’s true. Like M. Roland Barthes says, “Glazing…serves as background for unbridled beautification: chiseled mushrooms, punctuation of cherries…arabesques of glacé fruit: the underlying coat (and this is why I call it a sediment, since the food itself becomes no more than an indeterminate bed-rock) is intended to be the page on which can be read a whole rococo cookery” (Mythologies 78).

But what IS this here food you ask?

Menu:
Lamb Kidney avec Rosemary
Parsley Rice Ring
Citrus Maraschino Mold
And Miscellaneous Frothing Mugs.

So yes, that is a sprig of parsley cascading from the kidney. Yes those are maraschino cherries. (Silly goose—did you think they would be fresh? People can catch nasty diseases and things from fresh fruit. Cook it first. Always cook it. Or drown it in gallons of sugar-goo. That works too.*)

Some hints if you try to make this at home:
Oil your rice ring!
Split and trim your kidneys
Use a cup of butter (more would be better)
Mark the gelatin layer into quarters with a toothpick—careful! you must be very careful! One wrong move and hours of work, wasted! Who did you think you were anyway, making such a complicated dish? Shame on you! Didn’t your mother teach you anything? Next time, just serve ice cream.

*p.s. I think I might have been voting age before I ever had a real cherry. Countless Christmastime jello molds and Shirley Temples had convinced me that I didn’t like them. When I found out that cherries weren’t really the color of Hawaiian Punch and actually had a deep flavor of their own I was shocked. Shocked! Why did no one clue me in to this sooner?

Brides, Kitchens

2006-07-20T14:06:00.000-07:00

I’ve been spending some time with The Bride in the Kitchen, a book my mom was given in 1970, courtesy of Rike’s Bridal Registry. It’s quite a little volume, and I thought I’d share some of its helpful hints.

First of all, it is important to know that a well-stocked kitchen contains gherkins and maraschino cherries, Worcestershire, and instant dry milk powder. That’s the standard fare. In case “guests drop in unexpectedly for lunch or cocktails,” I’m to “save a portion of one of the upper shelves” for things like Devonshire rounds, canned minced clams, crabmeat, canned beets and, yes, gherkins. It took me a minute to remember what gherkins were. At first I put them in the anchovy family, but then I remembered that they are pickles. (Side note: apparently other people are confused about gherkins too: they think that gherkins are car parts or little gnomes. I’ve confirmed this.) There are other questions that follow from the book besides “What is a gherkin?” Like “What are Devonshire rounds?” A kind of cheese? And beets? Really? The only person I know who ate canned beets was my friend S. in college.

“Once the Honeymoon is over, the daily breakfast will settle down pretty much to routine, based on the type of work your husband is engaged in, his working hours, and his eating habits. If he likes cereal or cream of wheat every morning, that is, undoubtedly, what you will give him. If he’s a ham’n’eggs man, that is what you will cook for him” (165). Undoubtedly. And yet…can’t I do more? Yes. Regardless of his preferences, “providing him with an appetizing breakfast is [my] first step in seeing that his day begins in a cheerful fashion.” I can do this by not just slapping a grapefruit on the table, but carefully cutting the center out with kitchens scissors, peeling it with a paring knife, removing the pulp, and garnishing the tender pink pieces with a cherry or a sprig of mint. I might also make a “piquant fruited topping for waffles” or “a connubial breakfast”: ham and eggs. (The word connubial gives me the willies, and I fail to see how ham and eggs is connubial, unless it is some perverse reference to boy parts and girl parts.)

No time to dwell on this, though, for there’s more for me to remember. I’m told: “You and you only stand between your husband’s and your own starvation.” My choice is this: to succumb to the “can-opener method of cooking” (which will allow me more “time at the beauty parlor”) or to “follow a more rewarding path.” This latter option is what (the book tells me) I will decide. Who wouldn’t choose the more rewarding path? After all, “Feeding a husband successfully starts with feeding him the things he likes to eat, for a clever bride cooks to please her man.” It’s kind of like the zoo, but with more attention to flowers floating in saucers and tiny little forks for poking at lemons. And those touches are important, that and the soft background music and “a colorful napkin tied in a knot”—“just to remind your husband how lucky he is to have caught you.” Again with the zoo metaphor.

Finally, here are a few meals that will prove rewarding for both of us:
*Cream of pimento
*Chicken baked in cream
*Creamed Seafood in Casserole
*Puree Mongole which is, as it turns out just cream of pea soup and tomato juice. Just like they have in Mongolia. (Apparently this doesn’t count as a can-opener method, although I suspect that if I made this one, I might have some time to have my toes and my fingers painted.)
*Apple Beef Meat Ring
*Pottage Nivernaise (and all sorts of other things Frenchy sounding, like Duckling a L’Orange or Shrimp a la King. Things are particularly good if they end with “aise” or “oise.”)
*Salads are fine, particularly if they are made with mayonnaise or gelatin or both.
•If you want to get all exotic, you can try “dishes from foreign lands” like Calcutta Curry. (There are only five of these, so use them sparingly. Although Puree Mongole sounds pretty exotic to me.)

Bon Appetit! Let me know if you want recipes.

Everything is sad*

2006-07-19T14:41:00.000-07:00

I say it of things too often: “That is sad. And that is sad. And that and that and that.”
But this really is.

I keep thinking about the bold black line and the words: “No one.” You always read those little articles about lonely widows in nursing homes whose children have abandoned them, about those homeless vets who no longer remember their childhood or their last name. But there’s something about this black line, moving upward, that is so much worse. No one? Really?

Yes, apparently. It is a Trend.

*When dough is heavy from having failed to rise, people call it sad.

(Chart is from The New York Times Magazine, July 16, 2006)

Welcome

2006-06-22T17:16:00.000-07:00

Welcome.