The Pharmacist's Daughter

Pets, Inc. bake sale

2010-10-15T12:06:00.000-04:00

I'm planning to bake for the local animal shelter's annual bake sale today and I'm having a hard time deciding what to make. I emailed this guy Alex at my favorite cooking blog and asked for his suggestions. He hasn't written me back yet and he probably won't because he's not very nice sometimes. But that's his prerogative and I don't hold it against him because his blog is really entertaining. It will be interesting to see what he has to say, if anything, and if he answers me maybe I'll post his reply.

Here's what I said in my email:

Dear Cooking Asshole,

I have a request--I need a suggestion for something simple yet fucking amazing to donate to a bake sale fundraiser at the local animal shelter. Last year we made so many goddamm cupcakes I swear I will never make another one as long as I live, so cupcakes are definitely OUT this year. And please don't get sanctimonious on me and ask me if they sold, and say "I think the most logical donation would be whatever sells the best, since the point is to make money for the animal shelter blahblah...." because I have no idea if they sold well (they probably did) because I'm OVER cupcakes and everyone else needs to get over them too. Cupcakes are like the Hello, Kitty backpack of the pastry world and I'm done with their cuteness. Although, on second thought, I'd like to see a trend where cupcakes get even smaller--say, the size of a thimble, yet are filled with chocolate ganache and frosted with salted caramel or something equally labor-intensive. I wouldn't bake thimble-sized cupcakes myself, but I would enjoy following the trend with and attitude of hostility and reproach because I'm sure there are plenty of people who would go to the trouble of specializing in thimble-sized cupcakes if they thought they could make a buck. And honestly, I would totally buy a thimble-sized cupcake filled with chocolate ganache and topped with salted caramel. There is a trendy, over-priced, overrated cupcake bakery in my town that makes tons of money selling small, $3-a piece cupcakes to wealthy, 30-something moms and hipster kids who wear tshirts with Zach Galifianakis or deer or owls screen-printed on them. So let them donate cupcakes to the animal shelter bake sale this year, because I'm beyond that shit.

I am more of a pie and pound cake person.

Obviously my point is, I would much appreciate a suggestion for something to take to the bake sale. Thinking of a good idea is harder than it seems because the parameters are limiting. It needs to be attractive, but it can't be perishable or melty, because the baked items sit out on tables in the sun for several hours. It needs to be something that will hold up fine in a box or ziplock bag or wrapped neatly in a plastic.

The ideas I have are apple pies and small loaves of pumpkin bread and maybe a chocolate pound cake.

No brownies or cookies with M&Ms. Too many of those already.

And the bake sale is tomorrow, so if you have any ideas, please fucking hurry. I really need you to come through for me on this. And I will owe you one big time.

Thank you.

Cooking For Assholes blog-fan,

Libby

Wow.

2010-10-12T15:04:00.000-04:00

This should be kind of interesting.

it's about time for new stuff

2010-10-11T14:17:00.000-04:00

Is it crazy that I've been in hibernation for the last few months--not just from writing journal posts, but from pretty much everything? Just the opposite of a bear--I tend to put on weight and hibernate in the "lovely" summer months and come alive to forage and move around when the weather gets cooler. Winter kicked my ass last year but only because the sun wasn't out very much. Summer here sucks. I've said enough about that subject, but dang, it sucks. And don't say, "But Libby! What about the beach?!" The beach sucks too. All those tanned people everywhere, with their margaritas and their toe-rings, hemp bracelets, shorts, and their happiness. Kidding. I'm kidding. But seriously, fuck summer.

Fall. Time to get back on the happy bus for me. Better clothes, boots, better skin, better music (because music is weather-driven, you heard it here first) and an all around feeling of well-being.

I have a new camera.

The husband and I are planning new fun projects and trips to wonderful places.

I don't have to go to anymore weddings for another year at least.

I love you all, every last one of you. All four of you who read my posts. And I'll write more later on maybe.

Guest Post

2010-07-27T16:43:00.000-04:00

My friend Michael let me contribute a post to his blog this week--you can read it here.

Hairy-Kari: the results

2010-06-09T19:36:00.001-04:00

first, a refresher on the before Keratin Smoothing Complex treatment--my hair in its natural state:

next, a reminder of how my hair looked after it was washed, dried, and brushed by the stylist in preparation for the application:

Scary. But maybe not as scary as this next photo--my hair post-treatment, before I washed it:

I waited the mandatory 72 hours to wash and condition. Afterwards, I put a little dab of salt-free product in it and let it air-dry. I'm pretty happy with the results:

The curls are soft and wavy, versus kinky and frizzy. It's just enough of a change to make my hair easier to deal with, and not so drastic that I don't look like myself:

I can't say yet if the Keratin Smoothing Complex treatment is going to live up to its price tag for me. It's supposed to last 3 to 5 months, but I have a feeling that's a stretch. These "after" shots were taken 4 days after the treatment. Today, (5 days) I already see some frizz and the tell-tale signs that my curls are trying to revert to their natural state--only a little, but still. If it doesn't hold, I don't blame the treatment or the stylist. I suspect if it wears off pre-maturely, it's because some people's curls simply aren't meant to be controlled for very long. They're loners. Rebels. But it was worth a shot. And for the first time in my life, I didn't wake up with an afro, which was a refreshing change. (I have nothing against the fro, really. But they look better on some people than they do on others.)

Hairy-Kari

2010-06-06T14:10:00.009-04:00

This is me just prior to my experimental summer-do. On Friday, I sat in a chair for 4 hours while a very optimistic and patient stylist applied Keratin Complex™ straightening treatment to my hair in an attempt to achieve the impossible: The taming of my unruly curls. "Unruly curls" is putting it mildly. I'm talking about a head of hair so tangled and frizzy a family of weasels could nest and propagate in it undetected (even by me) for several seasons.

The two or three people who read here semi-regularly know that--come early summer--I usually start bitching about the weather and my hair. I offer no apologies. I'm only being honest. But let me get back to the point: the Keratin Complex™ straightening treatment. I've been reading consumer reviews about this process for a year or so. Some users say it has changed their lives. That's a mighty big claim, so I decided to give it a shot. More of a challenge, really, with just a glimmer of hope. The process uses keratin protein and heat to form a bond with the existing protein in the hair. Word on the street is it's safe and non-damaging to the hair and lasts for up to 4 months. If these claims turn out to be true, I'll have relaxed and frizz free hair for the entire summer, and into the early fall, and when it wears off I won't have damage or breakage. I am skeptical of these claims, but I have nothing to lose. Given the heat and humidity in the forecast for the next four months, there is no way any experiment with my hair could make it any worse than it already is. The only drawback: the process costs a fecking fortune. I toyed with an idea of not disclosing the full cost in the interest of good taste during these difficult economic times, but screw it--I'll be tacky. Keratin straightening will run you about $250. Add in a decent post-treatment haircut by a skilled stylist and a modest tip (after four hours they have totally earned it, and how) and you've got yourself a bill somewhere in the neighborhood of $350. Ouch. It's a good thing the cost of treatment includes a supply of Keratin Complex sodium-and-sulfate-free shampoo and conditioner. There's also the issue of a good list of rules for babying and maintaining the life of the treatment. A list that was explained to me by my concerned stylist, and then reiterated on paper and tucked into the bag with my hair care products. I'll paraphrase:

-If I wash it or otherwise get my hair wet within the first 72 hours post-treatment and don't blow-dry and flat-iron it immediately, I'm screwed. The keratin bonds will fail and my hair will puff up again, in the same way Cinderella's coach turned back into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight.

The not-washing doesn't pose a problem for me, because I don't shampoo every day (week-cough cough-week) anyway. But--naturally--it's been pouring rain every afternoon since Friday, forcing me to hide indoors wearing (I shite you not) a home made turban to keep those sinister water molecules called humidity the hell off my do.

-to preserve the life of the treatment, I must not forget that salt is to the keratin relaxing process as Holy Water is to the demon-possessed. So basically, I need to limit contact with the beach (ok by me) and in the event that I am forced by some fun-loving and well-meaning relative or friend come into contact with salt water, I must first wet my hair with tap water, form a protective shield, and hope for the best. This rule applies to sweat and to nearly all hair-care products, because pretty much everything that happens to hair involves salt. So all I have to do is avoid sweating, swimming, sitting anywhere near the ocean, or washing my hair with the cheap stuff. And as long as I only use the patented shampoo and conditioner provided, I might be safe for the summer. All summer. Maybe. I'm exaggerating here, but only a little.

I'd post some after-straightening photos, but last night I had the idea to baby-powder my roots to absorb any tiny bits of moisture that might be creeping in. I put in a little too much, and today my hair looks....weird.

"But did the treatment work?" you ask.

It did. It did indeed. Perhaps a little too well.

I went into that salon with Robert Plant hair. I left looking like Axl Rose. I wish I could think of some female equivalents, because I'm not a dude. But I can't. My hair is so very straight, so entirely devoid of body and curl, that if I put on a do-rag and started singing Welcome to the Jungle, I'd scare you a little bit.

I get to wash my hair this time tomorrow, and I expect with a good scrub and a little air-drying, I'll see at least a bit of body return. I have high hopes. If it doesn't, I can live with it for a while. And there's always the option of just dunking my head into the ocean a few times if I start missing that afro. I'll post photos Tuesday after I wash out the baby powder. Until then, feast your eyes on this additional "before" photo. And go right ahead and take your pot-shots. Just keep in mind I've already been called Cousin It.

Get Down On It, ya'll

2010-06-04T21:45:00.001-04:00

The scene: driving back from Charleston in the rain with John. Radio's on of course. We're channel-surfing. One of life's greatest pleasures. After a couple of only halfway-ironic sing-alongs to Styx and Foreigner, Kool and the Gang comes on. Kool name, kool band, kool song. This is one of my all time favorites. If you're too cool for it, you're not kool.

Wicklow Mountains, Glendalough, Larach

2010-05-30T16:41:00.001-04:00

Dublin details

2010-05-30T16:28:00.000-04:00

photos from trip to Ireland

2010-05-30T16:11:00.001-04:00

(1) Christ Church in Dublin, (2) Malahide Castle, (3) the Gentle Cliffs of Howth, (4) John on a bus, (5) John and some other dudes tucking into serious plates of kabab.

About Ireland

2010-05-26T12:32:00.000-04:00

I'll post something as soon as I can. Haven't had time to sit down for
5 minutes since we returned from Ireland.
It was incredible.
I'm in love with the country, and I just want to sit around listening
to the Bothy Band all the time these days.

Poems by Dragon Dictation Application for iPhone, Parts Two and Three

2010-05-01T12:44:00.003-04:00

A refresher in case you're new to this game:

Dragon Dictation is an application for iPhone--it's your basic dictation tool: you talk into the microphone and the program interprets your voice into corresponding text. My sister Ashley told me about it (thanks Ashley!). And it never works like it's supposed to, especially if you sing into it. Which means only one thing, obviously: endless fun for Ashley and me. So she picks the songs, I sing into Dragon Dictation, and post the best of the resulting poetry for your reading pleasure.

Part 2. Rainbow Connection, (Kermit the Frog)

**potential anthem for the continuing battle for legal recognition of gay unions**

"So maybe they'll find it
the Rainbow Connection,
in matters between marriage and meeee"

Part 3. Another One Bites the Dust, (Queen)

**I love this one. It makes me think of Hanahan High School (Berkeley County, SC for those of you who are wondering) taking a cue from Beverly Hills Cop and pulling a prank against a rival school, using a banana in an (activity bus) tailpipe to get the job done**

"and another one gone
and another one gone
another one bites the dust!
Hey! Banana gets to you
as Hanahan smites the bus."

BANANA TAILPIPE!

Fun Facts about blurting out stupid shit, tunics, and other drivel.

2010-04-30T20:17:00.006-04:00

-The other night I popped into my neighborhood Zippy Mart for a late-night Kit Kat fix and upon handing over my cash for the goods, inexplicably said to the (female, much older than me) cashier, "See ya next time, Little Mama!". WTF?!

-Today in line at Starbucks I saw this and I thought it was worth sharing, for what reason I could not tell you:

-Bear in mind please that I have no right to be critical of anyone's taste in clothes, considering that I am currently wearing this shirt:

and these shoes:

-And I put that outfit together all by myself, and on purpose--believe it or not. I thought it would be jaunty to wear fuchsia kicks with a turquoise, Indian-print, knee-length tunic. I thought the loud, childish Converse sneakers might add a sense of humor and whimsy to a look that might otherwise scream:
"I am about to bend at the waist and bid you 'NAMASTE'!"

You're no doubt snickering right about now, not like in a "what a clever girl she is!" way, but in a "that lady is an idiot and wears fucking ugly clothes!" way.

But hear this:
I got my knee-length, Indian print tunic last year and I LIKE it, ok? even though I have only this week worked up the nerve to wear it in public. I think it might have worked its way out of the recesses of my closet, calling to me, because I have been listening to a lot of hippy folk rock over the last few months. (Long story, don't have time to go into it now.)

And I swear, I didn't like the way it looked on me until I had a EUREKA! moment and paired it with these fuchsia sneakers.

And speaking of sneakers: can we just go ahead and be honest and admit that Converse Chuck Taylors hardly qualify as quality footwear. They barely qualify as footwear. They have negative arch support. They're breathable, but only marginally. They are cheaply-made. They don't keep the feet warm, or cool, or particularly dry if it's raining. They look unattractive on nearly everyone. But they are still cheap, come in a rainbow of colors, and for some reason remind me of Sesame Street and circus clowns. I am much too old to be wearing them, really.

Back to the tunic: While wearing it, I feel less like an ethereal, distracted member of the Incredible String Band (or any number of 60s Beautiful People) and more like the girlfriend character of the Jim Morrison character as interpreted by Val Kilmer in Oliver Stone's visionary feature-film, "The Doors".

A word of advice: when given a compliment on your clothing, no matter how unworthy-yet-flattered you may feel, it is probably best to refrain from blurting out, "Thanks! I got it from TJMaxx for like $10.99!!!!!" Trust me. Just be cool.

Having said that, I want you to know I received no less than three separate compliments on my sneaker/tunic/blue jeans ensemble today.

"ORNAMENT!"

Namaste.

Love is....

2010-04-30T18:07:00.004-04:00

I'd really, really like to share more about my husband John because he's way more interesting than I am. And sooner or later I may start doing that, but for now I'll respect his privacy.

(stares at blinking cursor, taps fingers together)

Can I just say, though, that he does a hilarious impersonation of University Of South Carolina head football coach Steve Spurrier? Especially for a man who has nary a whiff of interest in college football (thank you Jesus!) and especially since his impersonations of Coach Spurrier usually arrive when I least expect them. Like, for example, when we are standing in line at the deli waiting for our sliced Boar's Head Baby Swiss cheese, or when John is putting on his socks in the morning and I am still half-asleep. The gist of the words might or might not be football-related, but when delivered--by my husband and wholly out of context--are the MOST HILARIOUS non sequiturs of all time. I DIE, ya'll.

And to think: most of what I do to deserve this level of entertainment involves keeping my husband in a steady supply of Snyder's of Hanover sourdough pretzels and Cholula hot sauce. And since those are pretty much the only two items in my larder at a given time, other than a solitary mottled brown lime....

Honey, I am not worthy.

that's cool and all, but can we please talk about ME for a minute?

2010-04-30T17:10:00.002-04:00

There's nothing more cock-a-hoop than keeping a personal blog and secretly hoping all one's friends and family check it routinely and leave comments--to the extent that one periodically sends links to said friends and family regarding new posts. If I have done this to you, please forgive my self-promotion.

Just wanted to get that off my chest because I am (sort of) guilty of this, but hope you will take the following under consideration:

(A) while I enjoy keeping a (semi) public journal about myself and my inconsequential interests, I am still kind of embarrassed to admit that I like for people to actually read it but

(B) if I may defend myself, I can only write about what I know (myself, my life) because I live in a bubble (the abridged version of which is this online journal) and I enjoy talking and sharing but I don't see any of you as often as I would like; however, I am absolutely aware that I am no master of prose (as evidenced by gratuitous use of parenthetical asides, among other things) and finally

(C) because I am generally unambitious (career-challenged and lazy) and only part-time creative and inspired, I am non-committal even about journal-writing, probably because I am busy doing something else like watching some true crime shows or re-runs of The Office on the tv, or reading dlisted.com. Which means that large chunks of time go by when I don't post. I am working on this, but I also do not expect you to wait, holding your breath, for my next burst of wordy inspiration. I do hope you will comment, though. Because that makes me feel good.

So what have we learned today, kids?

(1)We have learned that Libby's post today, while sincere, is really just filler material until she can think of something better to write about.

(2) there is nothing gayer than using the word "cock-a-hoop" and other old-English slang.

6 days and counting until Ireland. YAY!

Be glad, for the song has no ending.

2010-04-25T23:07:00.034-04:00

A dedication--to my brother-in-law, Lee Wilson "Buddy" Furr. I never met Buddy. He died young, in 1976, way before I crossed paths with any of the Furrs. He was well-loved. This I know. I know a few more things about him too. Just a few things I've gleaned from family lore and loving stories and photographs. He was happy and tremendously handsome. He traveled around Europe, rented an apartment in France in his late teens/early 20s, and he eventually moved back to the states and married a pretty girl from the American south, named Tweety.

(from left: Jim Furr, Buddy Furr, Betsey Furr Bell, Bob Furr)

And one more thing: Buddy Furr was a fan of the Incredible String Band.

How does a fellow born in a small, conservative North Carolina town find his way to a sonic kinship with the trippiest group of hippies ever to sit cross-legged on a filthy Persian run with a sitar, guitars, castanets, bongos, harpsichord, and chimes while making songs about nature, folklore, light, mysticism, and looking within.....oh, I DON'T KNOW! That's what makes it so curious! Even if his taste in music was the least significant thing about him.....by God, it's endlessly fascinating. In any case, the hows and whys are lost to history. Or are perhaps archived within the vast memory of Buddy's brother, Dan--the family record-keeper. Perhaps Dan Furr will weigh-in on this someday.

So, Buddy Furr: brother, son, husband, racer of catamarans, builder of wooden furniture and model sailboats, and fan of Incredible String Band--oh, man I wish I could've known him in this life. I imagine the sensitive souls, like Buddy--with eyes and ears for beautiful things-- only stay here as long as they need to, and leave so they can continue their fantastic groove somewhere else forever. I can't prove it, but I believe it more and more every day. It's a nice thing to imagine anyway.

If you've been reading any of these recent folk music posts but you haven't yet felt the impulse to smack me with a flute and an acoustic guitar, well, get ready because this post might send you over the edge.

I wonder where the cosmic divergence occurred that turned one group of hard-core hippies into the Incredible String Band, and another into the Manson Family--at roughly the same time. I wonder--what were the variables? The Manson Family was a cult, and the Incredible String Band ran off and joined the Christian Scientists--according to legend--but as far as I know, the two groups were not associated AT ALL. I do no not mean to engage you in comparisons between them. Any similarities between the two groups begin and end at their shared distaste for wearing shoes and their fondness for long hair and way-out clothes. Though to be fair, the String Band had the eyes for richer-hued fabrics and the means for finer tailoring, at least until they started giving all their money to L. Ron Hubbard. I really only mention the two groups in the same paragraph because once I saw a photo on someone's social-networking page, in the days before Facebook, and I thought it was a photo of members of the Incredible String Band, so I made some comment to that effect. Turns out, it wasn't ISB at all, but a photo of the Manson family women. It was soon explained to me that the easiest way to tell the difference between the two groups in photos is to look closely at their teeth. If there is ever any confusion, and there might be just the tiniest bit of physical resemblance, here's your fool-proof tell: the Manson women had all their teeth.

Periodic checking of ISB's Wikipedia entry reveals an ever-expanding body of information, with enough name-dropping of pedigreed associates and admirers to boggle the mind. Same for the history of the band and where they've all ended-up. But I can't vouch for the truth of any of it. There is precious-little concrete information about the band that I can find.

There is a book which contains a couple chapters-worth of information but even so, falls a little short of painting a full picture. Most of the band information found online seems to come straight from this book, including direct quotes from the book on wikipedia which are not attributed to the author, or weren't last time I looked.

There is a little film, which is interesting but really full of tight shots, poetry, snippets of flakey interviews, and costumed theatrics--but kind of light on footage of the band playing their signature wild, melodic music.

But there is a good collection of their recorded work available, if you've never heard them and feel like getting all trippy and gaye.

My own questionably accurate and very abridged version of Incredible String Band, who were:

Robin Williamson: the blonde, one of the founders of the band, multi-instrumentalist, poet. Scottish. Still living and making music and spoken-word albums. Really into Scottish folklore and Bardic mysteries.

Mike Heron: ditto above, except he was brunette, came on as a third member after the first record and not as good a singer as Robin in my opinion, but still an all-around groovy dude.

Clive Palmer: English, played banjo and stuff on the first ISB album, founding member, still rocking solo.

Rose Simpson: former girlfriend of Robin Williamson. Former girlfriend of Mike Heron. Not sure in which order. I think it involved hopping bed rolls until she decided which one of them had the fluffier sleeping bag. Turned out she preferred Mike's. Not that she was a slut. Don't judge her. It was the 1960s. And after all, she was English, not Scottish. Played bass guitar and sang some on later ISB albums. Had short flings with a few notable 60s dudes. Quit music to settle down, raise a family, live in a little cottage, stroke her lambs, and tend her herb garden. Currently the Mayor of some picturesque Welsh town.

Licorice McKechnie: Scottish 60s coffee-house poet, rarely spoke but when she did it was often in rhyme and always "in a squeaky voice with the thickest of Scots accents", former girlfriend of Robin Williamson, contributed to some ISB recordings as a percussionist (namely tamborine, thumb piano, chimes, and those little hand-drums with the ribbons the Krishnas are so fond of) and sometime backing vocalist (said the words "Amoebas are very small" on the album "The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter", and generally warbled in a shrill way on the later albums). Broke up with Robin. Left the band. Played some Scientology benefits. Disappeared in California sometime in the 90s. Whereabouts unknown.

Is there some mystical fairy pee pee or ancient Druid bone dust in the water over there (Scotland, England, Ireland, etc) that nourished Europe's most dedicated bohemes into the Incredible String Band? If so, I wish they would pipe some into the American water system and share the magic. Maybe we could work out a trade. They could pipe in some of their unicorn tear fortified water to the U.S., and we could return the favor by sharing our fluoride. Superior teeth aside, America has got to do a better job with our hippies than Charles Manson, the Grateful Dead, and Dvendra Banhart.

Seriously though. This song is gorgeous.

and this one, from the film "Be Glad, for the Song has no Ending"

it's funny how I have to put it to rest, and how one day I will join it.

2010-04-23T21:56:00.008-04:00

A couple of people I know have written off the Avett Brothers. I suspect they (who will remain nameless, but maybe just maybe I'm talkin' to YOU) can't imagine that any band who rubs shoulders with Dave Matthews and Widespread Panic--and the Avetts have toured with both--could possibly have anything relevant to contribute to the complex territory of hip, evolved music. And yet the very same people claim to worship at the altar of Gram Parsons, Neil Young, Bonnie Prince Billy, etc. Hmmmmm. Maybe the Avett Brothers aren't cool because they're too young and wholesome. Maybe it's because none of them have been found floating face down in a Hollywood swimming pool, dead from too much partying. The rules of hipsterism are as mysterious as they are elite. I love the Avett Brothers.

Here they are, cutting right down to the heart of love and loss.

It's just that the Avett Brothers say it so much better than the rest of us.

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and they look better than regular people when they say it:

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I saw a life and I called it mine.

2010-04-22T19:41:00.004-04:00

"Our nature does not change by will.
In the winter around the ruined mill the creek is lying,
flat and still.
It is water, though it's frozen."

Purtiest song I've heard in ages.

Poems by Dragon Dictation Application for iPhone, Part One

2010-04-19T23:54:00.002-04:00

Here's how it works. I sing the actual song lyrics into Dragon Dictation and post the best of the resulting "poetry" as interpreted by the program.

"Waiting Room" by Fugazi

Sitting in LA again
highway highway highway highway.

Idumæa

2010-04-19T15:41:00.025-04:00

I admit I am not the world's biggest Will Oldham fan (his is the second version here), but the song is undeniably haunting and beautiful. The mysterious Clodagh Simonds (accompanying herself on harmonium), the Irish vocalist here on the first of three versions of Idumæa--lifting her ever-so-slightly prog cloak to reveal the folk knickers underneath--is the real reason for this post. Once again, a fan was born thanks to the gift of a mix-tape that included Mellow Candle. (Thanks again, Jim Dingy.)

Love the gorgeous and simple long camera shot with just a few weeds swaying in the wind--an appropriate dance to an 18th century dirge, don't you think?

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still one of the loveliest things ever

2010-04-19T10:30:00.003-04:00

Temple Bar, anyone? No thanks....

2010-04-16T15:50:00.011-04:00

First Ireland trip post. We don't leave for Ireland until the 7th of May, but I'm excited.

From TripAdvisor.com I booked us a hotel that seemed to meet our basic needs:

(1) close to the Grand Canal Theatre

(2) clean and affordable, with breakfast included.

But I got ahead of myself and didn't research the neighborhood. Turns out the hotel we reserved is in the Temple Bar area of Dublin. On a street that is largely populated by youth hostels, one of which is attached to our hotel.

NNOOOOOOOO!!! (say this next part real fast with me: OH-HELL-NO). Mothersheepshagger, this is not going to work.

I tossed and turned last night with nightmare visions of dodging groups of Irish frat boys on the sidewalk while walking through a minefield of Guinness-vomit puddles. Or trying to catch some shut-eye while the neighbors in the adjoining youth hostel play all-night drinking games and listen to Black Metal, or worse, house-music. Guess I'm getting old or something, but none of that appeals to me. If you know me at all, you know my desire to avoid groups of blind-drunk people runs very, very deep. I imagine Dublin is a drinking town and that I will eventually have to make an exception. And I will. But Temple Bar is not happening. No way.

Not to worry. It was easy to cancel our reservation and re-book on a quiet street away from Temple Bar.

I'm breathing easier knowing a potential disaster has been averted. Whew.

p.s. I love saying "sheepshagger". It's my new favorite cuss word, and you might be hearing it again. I stole it from Craig Ferguson.

(personal to whoever: does "sheepshagger" sound too much like something Tarvé would say? You know who I'm talking to. And you know what I mean.)

Surrender

2010-04-09T13:54:00.010-04:00

The pollen dropped like nuclear fallout last weekend, but last night it rained and washed us nearly clean. Today the sun's out, and things are a little bit clearer. My heart is feeling lighter than it has in many weeks.

First of all, John and I have always said we'd celebrate our 10th anniversary in a special way. Our anniversary isn't until October but we've decided to start the celebration early. 10 happy years is due cause for a celebration in my book. Meeting John Furr is the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm sure that's more information than you need, but I'm sharing it because it is absolutely true.

Secondly, winter was a mean bitch this year. It showed up early and stayed late: cold, dreary, wet, and long--and ended on a cruel note with the death of a cherished friend in February. The loss only recently started to seem real, but the first bits of stinging acceptance are unexpectedly welcome. There is nothing fair or logical about tragedy and loss. There are no answers. There just aren't. But this loss has the mysterious effect of opening me up in a more honest way and making me feel closer to the people I love who remain, and to those who have passed. I am vulnerable and so are the people close to me. Knowing this is unnerving, but surrendering to it is also soothing in a way I cannot explain. Feeling a great loss, just like experiencing great joy, is maybe the only evidence we'll ever get that it all means something, that we're here for a reason, and that it's not just a random, cosmic accident.

In celebration of 10 years of marriage, we're going to Ireland in three weeks. We will spend two days in Dublin, see Ray Davies in concert, and spend the remainder of the week exploring the countryside near a place called Glendalough. There is a national park in that area with hills, moors, lakes, forest--where we can hike and ride around and just take it all in. We were hoping for a trip to the west coast of Ireland but time doesn't permit. We'll have to do that next time. I have been told, however, that Glendalough is ideal--in the country, but also a convenient distance from Dublin. This trip has been a quick-plan and an impulsive decision, and it's going to be great fun. A big trip is something we've needed to do for a long time. We've talked about it but have until now kept the urge at bay with a thousand excuses. Now it's time to let our hair down a bit. Surrender.

We have rented a little car to get around in and I get nervous when I think about about driving on the wrong side, but otherwise I'm totally down with the unknowns of the experience. Our plans are loosely organized. I just want to treat it like I'm on vacation in a magic place and let the adventure unfold however it unfolds. We won't see everything there is to see in Ireland, but we'll see everything we need to see.

for Toby

2010-03-23T12:30:00.007-04:00

Sad today. I just remembered us driving around in my car in the rain listening to Beta Band, neither of us saying much, dropping you off at your bike over by Cool Beans, and you giving me one of your legendary, all-the-way-down-to-the-spine hugs---the last time I saw you. Dry the rain, indeed. Some things I understand. Other things are less clear. You are missed and always will be, my friend.

"There was a boy
A very strange enchanted boy
They say he wandered very far, very far
Over land and sea
A little shy
And sad of eye
But very wise
Was he

And then one day
A magic day he passed my way
And while we spoke of many things, fools and kings
This he said to me
"The greatest thing
You'll ever learn
Is just to love
And be loved
In return"

from "Nature Boy" by Eden Ahbez

Told my dad and now I'm telling you.

2010-03-18T15:56:00.042-04:00

The great Alex Chilton--powerful songwriter, guitarist, moody tenor, and a founder of Big Star--died last night in New Orleans at the age of 59.

I should leave it to people hipper, cooler, and more qualified than me to expound--and there will be no shortage of that because Alex's influence was widespread, even if it was understated. In one way or another, Big Star inspired a number of young musicians to write songs and pick up their instruments and rock. There might not be an R.E.M. if not for Big Star. There might not be a Wilco. A Cheap Trick. Maybe no Replacements. And who knows who-all and what-all else? And furthermore, blah blah blah. I can't help but think about how often Alex Chilton must've heard this type of blubbering fan-shit while he was alive. If he could be around tonight to read this completely inadequate tribute, I imagine he'd roll his eyes at least a little.

But still...

I never met him, though I had a couple of chances--I just didn't have the confidence to approach the man. I don't regret that, though. What on earth would I have said to him? I think I was all of 20 years old. I don't play an instrument, and I don't write music. I just listen. But his music was something special to me anyway.

I have worn out more than one Big Star album in my life. I had a bunch of albums stolen from me once. The Big Stars were the only ones I really missed, and I cussed and pissed and moaned about them a lot, as anyone in my inner circle can attest. But I replaced them eventually, of course. (--personal to thief, see bottom of post)

I can sing the leads, the harmonies, the background vocals, and hum (but not play) the guitar parts on all three Big Star albums...I'm not saying I can hum them well, and it's usually in the shower or my car, but I can do it, because they're so familiar to me. I don't think I can say that for any other album in my stack, and there might never be another band that has such a long-term and deep effect on me emotionally or sonically. Records by the Kinks come mighty close, and I could never choose between Alex Chilton and Ray Davies, but simply in terms of context and timing and number of listens by my ears, Big Star takes the blue ribbon.

Introduced to me by a hip high school friend (who had an older brother in college kind enough to share his musical discoveries and insights--at least that's where I *think* it originated-- I've tried to trace it back and can't really remember) around the same time that R.E.M., the DBs, the Bangles, the Replacements and others started dropping Alex's name and covering his songs, Big Star was the band that rescued me from the shrink-wrapped classrooms of the Columbia Record and Tape Club, and Big Star was my first real love affair with pop music that wasn't readily available on the radio. I was besotted from the very first note. The recordings that come to mind immediately: the song "Don't Lie To Me", off of #1 Record, and the entire 3rd album, "Sister Lovers". Big Star resonated with me at a time when I was an open book, and will forever be the soundtrack to my particular flavor of sweet, free, and ever-so-slightly discontented youth.

The songs on Big Star's #1 Record and Radio City are so rich and vivid I can smell them. And in case you're wondering what those two smell like, I can tell you they smell something like freshly cut grass, motor oil on a garage floor, cheap beer, a smouldering charcoal grill, and Finesse shampoo.

Ya'll can have your synth-punk, new wave, prog, or whatever else lights up your night. For me it was, and is, a little Big Star.

this sounds a bit like goodbye. In a way it is, I guess.

Night, Alex.

(personal to the thief who stole my records: I never forget. Still enjoying them? No? Oh well, easy come easy go, right? Rock and roll is here to stay. Come inside where it's okay.)

I grouse

2010-02-24T16:16:00.000-05:00

I grouse and I chide because it's fun sometimes. I mean nothing by it, and it's generally for my own entertainment. It's human nature to collect pet peeves, isn't it? As much as it's natural to list things we love. I also do that from time to time.

in honor of a great American past time...

2010-02-23T13:33:00.001-05:00

No, not baseball.

I'm referring to the great American "search" for the world's best chili recipe.

I saw a post somewhere today about looking for the world's best vegetarian chili recipe. It had an entry called:

"Vegetarian Black Bean Espresso Chili".

Good God.

I'm obviously out of the loop on something. I always assume people who cook already know that their own chili recipe is probably the best.

Honestly, making good chili isn't that difficult. It can be easily made with a minimum of ordinary ingredients, and doesn't necessarily need to simmer for hours. I'm going out on a limb here and I'm going to tell you that adding espresso to chili probably won't suck, but it probably won't blow your mind with its amazing-ness either.

I'm not posting a recipe, because you already have one you like and you know it.

I'm not saying that vegetarian black bean espresso chili wouldn't be good. Maybe it is. But I'll probably never make it, because it is the kind of thing that annoys me.

Thanks for letting me vent.

I've been kicked by the wind, robbed by the sleet, had my head stoved in and I'm still on my feet..

2010-02-09T17:20:00.017-05:00

Time for a puff piece about some things I've been loving lately.

(1) I recently dropped my favorite coffee mug--a gift from my sister--and broke it. It's funny how attached we can get to certain objects. I was pretty bummed about losing my favorite mug, but I found a replacement:

(2) Today I was stopped in my tracks twice by two different songs I heard while driving around running errands. The first was "All in Love is Fair" by Stevie Wonder. I don't always remember that this is such a great song until I happen to hear it, usually by chance. Not sure why that is, but it is. I get around to playing the album it's on--"Inner Visions"--about once every two years--it's amazing, but a nice juicy dose of it once in awhile seems to be sufficient. It's maybe one of those sweet pop albums I could overdose on if I'm not careful, and I don't want to spoil it for myself. I remember hearing "All in Love is Fair" once when I was a wee teenager--interpreted by a young black man wearing a tuxedo and a fade hair-do. It was probably at a high school choral concert, and I have a feeling his name was Curtis. I don't really remember the circumstances exactly. But I do remember falling in love with the song then and there. It's real pretty, maybe too pretty (for the weak and cynical). It's a break-up ballad, full of lyrical clichés involving fate, time, love, and war. I think it's written in a minor key. When "Curtis" the high school tenor sang it, the ladies swooned. Whatever. It's lovely. It breaks my heart into tiny pieces to hear it, and it hurts so good. The entire album is one of the warmest-sounding works of music you'll ever be lucky enough to hear. GO. LISTEN. NOW.

(disclaimer: there is a little bit of John Popper-esque harmonica playing on this album. Just go with it. It was a sign of the times. Plus Stevie Wonder, when he was "Little Stevie Wonder", was a harmonica virtuoso. Also, clear your mind of that prejudice you have about Stevie Wonder being one of the worst-dressed people in music, because that was in the 80s. We were all wearing questionably-appointed fashion in the 1980s. Yes, you too. And besides, the man is blind, for Christ's sake. What's your excuse? You have to over-look these things sometimes. Just like you have to over-look the sax-playing on the Rolling Stones records. Sorry, my friends. I don't make the rules.)

The second song that warmed me up today was "Willin' ", by Little Feat. I want this song played on a mixed tape at my funeral. (That's an inside joke I might share in a future post). The original Lowell George version, not that re-mastered crap. Not that I'm a truck-driver who gobbles "weed, whites, and wine"---but because I just adore the song, and I adore the delivery. It's such a simple song, not particularly ambitious. And sometimes, plain is fine. I remember a version of it from a Linda Ronstadt album my father used to really dig. I prefer the Lowell George version, all apologies to my father. But, heck, why wait for my funeral? There is a blog post right here where you can grab some Little Feat songs, including "Willin", if you're interested.

the grocery experiment...

2010-02-01T13:30:00.005-05:00

Well, I almost made it a whole week without a trip to the market. I was forced to bend my rules only once--to buy celery, an onion, and a quart of milk. I'm still into this idea: eat what I have, buy what I need. It isn't about denying myself the pleasure of eating. It's really an attempt at being resourceful. An attempt at being less of an impulse-shopper. Groceries can get expensive.

I did some coupon shopping today, and made my grocery list according to available coupons combined with sale items. I won't bore you with too many details, but I did buy $71.00 worth of groceries for $48.00 after coupons. It's a great way to save on products that come in cans, boxes, and bottles. Unfortunately, I don't see many coupons for fresh food like produce. Fresh fruits and vegetables are luxurious and necessary, and the best way to save money on them short of growing your own: buy what's in season, buy only what you need, and buy from local farmers if possible. And in Columbia it's not only possible, it's easy. We have a great all-locals farmer's market every Saturday. I know all this, but I haven't been very good about dragging myself out on any of our recent cold Saturday mornings to shop the farmer's market--I plan to remedy this---soon.

thrift

2010-01-25T13:59:00.003-05:00

I'm on a thrift kick and I have a new project.

My rules:

I vow to avoid all impulse-buys at the grocery store for the next seven days. I am allowed to use only the current contents of my cupboard and refrigerator to create meals. I will not eat out. Except for popcorn at the movies tonight. If I need extra ingredients to complete a dish, I must attempt to barter with friends and family for things like onions, cheese, celery (and other bits of produce) or any other ingredient I only need in a small amount--before I give in and make a trip to the grocery store.

I took inventory last night and noticed I have a bit of this and a handful of that--namely pasta, rice, beans, ingredients for sauces, condiments, spices...I have a bag of fresh-frozen collards, some broccoli, two dozen eggs, two packages of organic frozen spinach, and four cans of tuna. I have corn meal. I have heavy cream, but no milk...hmmmm.

I need: cheese. onion. milk. a small amount of all purpose flour.

If you're reading this--Jenna? or Ashley?--and you have any extra stuff and want to trade...call me. I'll trade goods or services. Need a ride? A batch of cookies?

If I can stay out of the grocery store for the next week, I'll cut about $50 off of my average monthly spending. I already save a lot of money on food thanks to this blog. And I'm serious about cutting down on consuming and unnecessary spending. If I succeed this week I'll feel bolstered to continue, and who knows..maybe I can whittle my grocery bill down to next-to-nothing. If I do, I can feel better about dropping some cash on some home-improvements and a couple of trips I want to take--like going to Holland to visit Sarah.

Tonight: pintos and rice with tomatoes and green chilis, (and corn muffins--if I can score some milk)

Can you make cornbread with heavy cream? I'll give it a try.

swamp and other very nice things

2010-01-25T12:19:00.003-05:00

A couple of favorites from our latest batch of photos. The first one was taken by my husband using a long exposure. We are babies in the universe of photography, with much to learn. But it's kind of nice to be a blank slate (or nearly so, anyway) and occasionally get that little electric thrill of experimentation and discovery.

The second photo is one of several I took on a recent hike around the Congaree Swamp National Monument. The conditions there are nearly perfect for getting stunning photographs--thousands of willing models (trees) and naturally filtered light reflecting off of water. Hard to go wrong there. Just point your camera at virtually anything and snap. The subject does most of the work for you.

I feel so lucky to live so close to such a fantastic place. South Carolina gets an awful lot of bad press. Some of the cretins who run our state government deserve the national ridicule, but the land itself is spectacular. And though you wouldn't know it from reading the news, there are tons of decent, intelligent people here in South Carolina. I love it. It's the kind of place everybody loves to complain about, and the kind of place everybody would miss if it suddenly became cool and trendy to live here.

which reminds me...I'm going to the Nickelodeon theatre tonight. God bless 'em, I adore that place. My friend and I have an unofficial routine of seeing a movie there every couple of weeks. It is one of my favorite places in Columbia. I love that I can drink a beer there if I choose, but it's a far-cry from being a bar---there's not enough time to get drunk while watching a film, and so I never have to worry about drunk people getting up in my face. They have the best popcorn. The best movies. It's small, dark, and imperfect. The Nickelodeon has been running a Capital Campaign to raise money for their new, larger, and no-doubt better location. I look forward to it--because it's time--but I know I'll miss the old location when it's gone.

Two things I saw today:

(1) hundreds of tiny bits of grass in the floor board of my car--from my niece's soccer cleats. Think I'll let them stay for awhile. I am an aunt, and this is my life.

(2) milk being poured into a big cup of black iced coffee is a lovely sight to behold.

Christmas Monkey

2009-12-19T01:15:00.004-05:00

Last night I dreamed I went Christmas shopping with Beck Hansen and his wife.

I think I dreamed about Beck because my husband and I watched "Breaking Away" this week and observed that the guy who plays Dave is a dead-ringer for the pop-star Beck. I'm serious. Check that noise out next time you're updating your netflix queue.

In the dream, we were shopping in this tiny, crazy store that was crammed from floor to ceiling and in every possible nook and cranny with holiday decorations and gift items. The space to move and walk was narrow and cramped, but the array of gifts and ephemera boggled the mind. Everything offered for sale was exotic, unique, and fascinating. It was like a curiosity shop from a Harry Potter movie.

Beck's wife had a pet monkey on a collar which was attached to her finger by a delicate, bejeweled leash--allowing the monkey to move freely up and down her arm and sit on her shoulder or head without escaping.

The monkey was very small--about the size of a Barbie doll and fully mature. He was trained to dance on command. He was the most magnificent and talented creature I have ever seen.

In the store, she bought him a hand-crafted holiday costume made of felted wool, cream-colored with bits of fur and bells and ribbons and colorful embroidered accents. His suit was accessorized with a tiny, felt elf hat held in place by a strap that ran under his chin. The hat had a fur pom pom on its point.

She dressed her monkey in his new suit while we were still shopping, and the monkey performed an incredible and complex dance right in the palm of her hand.

I was more jealous than I have ever been in my entire life.

I pointed to the monkey and turned to my husband (who was suddenly standing there) and said,

"THAT is exactly what I want for Christmas."

a few updates

2009-12-02T13:00:00.006-05:00

How to make West Columbia look pretty 101:

Take a photo in low light of the intersection of Meeting and Hwy 378. Use a shutter speed that requires a tri-pod, but don't use a tri-pod. Additionally, do not focus the camera. Finally, use iPhoto to vignette the image. Ta-da! West Columbia looks pretty.

1. My husband got me an awesome new camera. I love photography and have been interested for years, but I have never owned anything other than a point-and-shoot...until now. It's a Nikon D40--the entry-level digital SLR. I'm being tutored in the basics by my friends Michael and Toby, two different dudes with totally different methods. I'm very fortunate. I'm also reading books and just taking photos. Experimenting really. But also trying to apply some of the things I'm learning. Most of the photos I take are average, but at least they're not awful anymore. And occasionally I get it right. The photo above is not exactly what I mean by "right". I just put that in for fun.

2. I was feeling pretty grinchy about Christmas this year until this week. Christmas tends to stress me out. Also I miss my Dad at Christmas. Well, I miss him all the time obviously, but Christmas can be rough. He was very good at it, for a man of ordinary means. Man could throw together a family Christmas Eve party like nobody's business. I despise shopping and times are lean, but my heart is thawing since folks around town have started hanging Christmas lights. I'll be decking the halls of my modest ranch house this weekend. I have a collection of old Christmas decorations that I'm quite proud of. They are kitschy and silly, but the kids in our family seem to like them. One of my nieces asked me about when I was going to pull out the big plastic illuminated snowman the other day, and that made me feel pretty good.

3. I will do holiday cooking and baking for you and your family--great stuff for less $$ than your local caterer. Just email me if you have any requests. Last-minute cake or appetizer for that Christmas party you're attending? I'm your girl! Seriously, I do this for people---but you need to get in touch so we can talk about it before December 22nd. After the 22nd, I'm booked up---my sweet sister Leslie and her family will be in town from Texas.

UPDATE: I've got two "orders" already!

Turkey

2009-11-24T14:39:00.003-05:00

For those of you who may be (like me):

-in need of a change of scenery, but just a temporary one

-stunned by the cynicism of someone a lot younger than you, but maybe getting over it...

-reeling at the thought of the coming holidays with a mixture of emotions

-finding that all you really need right now is a little more money in your pocket....and maybe that stuffed javelina you saw at the Charlotte antique show

-boondoggling

-kind of hungry in a remote way and unable to think of what it is you'd really like to eat

I wish you, and all the rest of you, a very happy Thanksgiving.

Calling all subjects...

2009-11-06T11:05:00.003-05:00

Armed with a new camera and a burning desire to get a few choice photographs, I'm seeking volunteers to let me intrude upon their lives.

I'm interested in getting shots of friends, family, or strangers. If you are anywhere in SC and don't mind being photographed, please contact me at the email address listed on my profile page here.

No photos taken of you will be posted to the web without your permission, and I will provide you with digital prints upon request.

Ray

2009-10-27T11:54:00.005-04:00

It is very rainy and chilly here today, and I have the day to myself. No work, no babysitting, nowhere pressing to be.

For some reason I woke up thinking about an old friend--a guy who was the chef at a restaurant where I worked for many years. I guess it's the weather, because I'm specifically thinking about comfort food--mostly because that was his specialty.

He impressed me with delicious food many times--as did his wife--also a chef, whose enchilada sauce was sublime and impossible to duplicate. I think about that enchilada sauce all the time.

One rainy, chilly day several years ago, we were at work and the kitchen was closing. I was starving but reluctant to request anything, when my friend appeared from the kitchen and placed a bowl in front of me at the bar. Wild mushroom stroganoff. Dear lord.

I don't have the recipe to share. Perhaps what makes this meal so alive in my mind is some combination of weather, context, and nostalgia. Not sure, but it was one of the best meals I've ever had in my life--just a bowl of egg noodles with a a creamy, wild-mushroomy, red winey sauce that appeared (unrequested but much appreciated) when I really needed something hearty to eat. And to have someone cook something just for me. That's a true gift, and it doesn't happen often enough--to any of us.

I sort of hate to tug the old heart strings and bring this up, but this friend passed away a few years ago. The mushroom stroganoff should be the least of what I miss about him, and in a way it is. But in a way, it isn't. It's very difficult to refine and describe memories of the deceased. The loss of tangible things, like a holy dish of noodles and mushrooms, is about the extent of my ability today. He wasn't the easiest person to love sometimes, but he was always interesting, and occasionally even brilliant.

No. Just....no.

2009-09-06T15:49:00.002-04:00

This kind of lame shit really pisses me off.

and what have YOU been thinking about lately?

2009-07-01T07:59:00.008-04:00

I've been slacking off again on posting, which is really no big deal, but does make it a bit embarrassing that I'm about to jump back upon the wagon with a post about another dream I had.

I've said before, and will now repeat: it is not always a good idea to (1) tell others, particularly publicly, about one's dreams or (2) to read prose about another person's dreams, even if you're bored at work or just trying to be polite.

If you're the dreamer, chances are pretty good your dream is not as fascinating or funny to other people as it is to you.

If you're the reader, reading the details about someone else's dream might be--best case scenario-- mildly disturbing or amusing. Worst case scenario: excrutiatingly dull. Usually it's worst case scenario.

Be that as it may, the good thing about reading a blog is that you're probably by yourself and there is no reason, if you're bored, to keep it up. Just move on.

A week or so ago, I saw a commercial for a new movie called "Public Enemies", featuring Johnny Depp and Christian Bale.

It's a good guy/bad guy movie.

In any case, I mention the commercial because I'm pretty certain it's what prompted my unconscious mind to make its own little movie, starring Johnny Depp and Christian Bale. And co-starring me.

You might think a dream about Johnny Depp and Christian Bale would be relatively pleasant.

You'd be wrong.

You might find one or both of these actors uninteresting or unattractive, but even if you do, there's no denying that you are in the minority of the consuming public. Most people like Johnny Depp. People who don't like him are probably just jealous of him. It's not even a matter of his relative talent or looks. He's Johnny Depp, for Christ's sake. He's larger than life. He is burned into our collective unconscious. He's the Lone Ranger of my generation.

Christian Bale is another matter, but not entirely. He played Batman, if you care about that kind of thing. His charisma originates from a darker place than Johnny's. Playing a lovable bad guy does not appear to be his gift. He is not cuddly onscreen, and he's not warm. I've seen him in movies where he's supposed to be playing a basically decent guy, and in these movies, his performances are wooden and unbelievable. But given a vehicle or character that allows his black heart to take center stage and it's a very different scenario. The man can give evil a face and make my blood run cold. Obviously, I don't know what Christian Bale--the man--is like in real life. All I know, and the only fact relevant to the rest of my story here, is that he played Patrick Bateman. And I have a vivid imagination.

(If you don't know who Patrick Bateman is, you're probably better off. You could look him up I guess, cause lord knows I don't have time to go into that right now.)

moving right along...

It's nighttime.

I'm riding in the cab of a black pickup truck. To my left--the driver--is Johnny Depp. To my right, Christian Bale. At least he looks like Christian Bale. He might be Patrick Bateman. I can't tell if it's Christian Bale or Patrick Bateman. I'm nervous. I really hope it's not Patrick Bateman. This is all I can think about. There is no conversation between the three of us, and I have no idea where we are headed.

Christian, or Patrick, or whoever he is, is making a list of the greatest movie actors of all time. He is writing on a piece of motel stationary. He is chewing on the tip of his pen, and pulling on his hair with his other hand. The list says:

1. Christian Bale

2. Johnny Depp

3. Judy Garland

4.Robert DeNiro

I am so tongue-tied and ordinary and nervous, I can't come up with one interesting thing to say to either of them. There is much awkward silence. My palms are sweating.

I look at the stationary again and notice that Christian/Patrick is now drawing a pen-sketch of the Columbia skyline.

I suddenly know the three of us are headed to a bar.

The first conversation in the dream happens at this point.

Christian/Patrick (to Johnny): "Hey, do you have any cash?"

Johnny (to C/P): "I have a ten."

I think to myself, I hope they have more than ten dollars between them, because I have no cash and I can't use my debit card until I deposit my paycheck.

In the bar I realize he's Patrick Bateman, not Christian Bale. It becomes obvious to me. In the bar I look him in the eyes for the first time, and I can see that he's Patrick Bateman, and he's been pretending to be Christian Bale. There's something a little too tight and shiny about his cheekbones, and nothing, no light at all, in his eyes. Johnny Depp has gone to the jukebox, and I am alone at the bar with Patrick Bateman. I mean to tell you, and this is so ridiculous, "Sleepwalk" by Santo and Johnny starts playing on the jukebox. Patrick is going to do horrible, vile, unimaginable things to me later. I know this, and I am terrified.

Now were are in a motel. JD goes to the bathroom. He thinks everything is normal. He has no idea what I know, because Patrick is still pretending to be Christian.

Now Patrick and I are alone together in the motel. He pushes me down on the bed and shakes me violently, by the shoulders. He rips at my clothes and slaps me around, and he's laughing the whole time.

But it turns out, all he wants are the two quarters I have in my pocket. Which he takes.

He stomps over to the mini bar and slams the coins down on the counter. He gets an orange soda out of the little refrigerator, pops the top, takes an enormous gulp, swallows loudly, and throws the can at me. Orange soda splashes out all over me.

He tucks in his shirt, turns on his sock-heels, calls me a "filthy f*#king whore" and walks out the door.

And that, my friends, is all I remember about the dream.

Interpretations? Anyone?

It's not easy being green.

2009-05-27T16:47:00.016-04:00

I read something unintentionally amusing on a blog today. In case you aren't in the mood to click the link, allow me to paraphrase the article:

{Hi readers. There is a small plastic grocery bag stuck in the big majestic tree outside our window. It's distracting us and it's causing us some distress because we can't figure out what to do. What an eyesore! Garbage in a tree! We're scared! What should we do? Help! It's tainting our view. See? Everybody needs to use cloth shopping bags so that no one has to go through this.}

Yes, I took some liberties and exaggerated the tone of the post a little bit. I admit it.

And I'm going to refrain from any further judgement or harsh criticism, because I love the Apartment Therapy blog and read it pretty much every day. But sometimes it's over-the-top and ridiculous. Like NPR. Like anything, really, if you think about it. Like my blog.

I have changed with my peers and other fellow humans over the last few years and started recycling more, shopping locally whenever possible, and generally consuming less. We bought a smaller, more fuel efficient car last year. I take my own bags to the grocery store. I make my own all natural cleaning products. Last summer I even recycled all my bath water and used it to water my flower beds. I'm not patting myself on the back for it, but none of this was a huge change for me. My grandmother used to carefully wash her aluminum foil and hang it over the sink to dry--with clothespins, no less--so that she could re-use it. She also canned her own food after growing it in the garden. Many of us had some very early lessons in reducing, re-using, and recycling. It was no big deal. It only made good sense.

Having said that, I don't kid myself that I'm doing any of these things in order to "Save the Planet". Saying I'm saving the planet is a little bit like bragging, not to mention it smacks of delusions of grandeur. My grandmother wasn't saving the planet when she washed her soiled aluminum foil along with the dishes. She was pinching pennies and avoiding wastefulness. I'm sure she took for granted that the planet would do what it has always done: orbit the sun, ambivalent to the minor nuisance of human progress.

With that whole "Save the Planet" thing, I think the basic idea and the intentions behind it are most excellent and decent and well-intended and necessary. It's the language and some of the trappings of "Green Movement" that ring a little silly to my ears. But every movement comes with its own pretensions, and I am as susceptible as anybody else.

Except that I will never, ever say the word "gastro-pub" and even pretend to take myself seriously.

Or "green", as in, "I've gone green". Thrifty I can handle. Practical. Cheap, even. But only Kermit the Frog can call himself green and be taken seriously by me.

With all due respect to the polite language of the "green movement", perhaps we should revise the phrases "save the planet" and "protect the environment" to "Don't shit where you eat". Pardon me for being uncouth, but it means pretty much the same thing--doesn't it? If nothing else, perhaps "Don't shit where you eat" would discourage people from using the term "gastro-pub".

I am very excited that Mike Judge's new cartoon comedy, The Goode Family, debuts tonight. I like Mike. His comedy is usually pretty solid.

The Goode Family is about a modern-age family of "greenies" who take themselves very seriously, apparently.

Mike Judge is not beyond reproach. NPR has already criticized The Goode Family.

(What a surprise!)

So has The New York Times.

(Another shocker.)

Maybe we aren't ready to laugh at ourselves yet.

Well, maybe ya'll aren't. But I am. Bring it on.

(Obviously, I do hope the show is funny. I fear, though, that it will fall short. And that it will not stay around for long. I am cynical, you see. Plus, I saw Idiocracy.)

on the west side.

2009-05-06T14:47:00.005-04:00

Lost somewhere in Georgia.

2009-05-05T18:00:00.002-04:00

More William Eggleston

2009-05-01T22:54:00.006-04:00

Just got a book I've been waiting impatiently for--"William Eggleston: Democratic Camera--Photographs and Video 1961-2008". It was worth the wait. Heaven.

one unnamed "contemporary companion" of Eggleston says of the man:

"Bill was always wearing a real severe suit. It was like he was the fucking count. Voluptuous and corrupt. It was unreal; what an image."

Channeling my inner Fred Sanford

2009-04-30T21:09:00.006-04:00

You never know what you might find if you keep your eyes open. Or what might find you when you didn't even realize you were searching. Once in a lifetime you might find a six foot rabbit costume, pay $2 for it, and loan it to an antique mall for an Easter display. And after Easter you will be the only one on the block with a giant rabbit in your attic. I'm thinking "Harvey" for Halloween.

The chair was a SCORE. I'm not sure what to do with it. Maybe the question I should be asking is WWFSD? (What would Fred Sanford do?)

Things I see

2009-04-30T20:58:00.005-04:00

A couple of details from a series of strange murals I saw painted on the back of a mostly-abandoned strip mall. Folly Road. James Island. No idea who the artist is.

Hilarity...... and then some.

2009-04-21T23:22:00.004-04:00

Whoever said "Brevity is the soul of wit" obviously never read GoodSandlapper's blog.

Possibly the funniest wordy minimalist in all the land.

Read him here for FREE while you still can. You might be paying for his books one day.

You're welcome.

Question:

2009-04-21T17:40:00.005-04:00

Does anyone have any technical advice or theories on why the videos in the previous post have that big black area on the side?

Is it a flaw in the video or something I did wrong while editing my post?

The videos appeared normal on youtube. Now they're messed up.

Any help would be most appreciated. I am so clumsy with stuff like this.

UPDATE!!

My husband, who is smart and capable of anything and savvy--and quite different from me, incidentally--says the problem is my blogger template. Something about parameters and column width, and, er, um, something else I forgot, and something else I don't understand. Ah well, never mind. I like my blogger template, so the screwed-up video stays.

Craig Ferguson is not really my boyfriend.

2009-04-21T15:34:00.017-04:00

He just plays my boyfriend on t.v.

Disclaimer: I'm married, and I love my husband more than I like Craig Ferguson. But I am a really, really big Craig-fan. I officially like him even better than my other television boyfriend, Jim Halpert from The Office, but maybe just slightly less than my first television boyfriend, Adrian Edmondson.

He's cute. He's funny. He's Scottish. He's kind of a bad boy. He's fascinated with Michael Caine. *dainty sigh*

Dear Santa,

2009-04-20T12:47:00.014-04:00

I know Christmas is 8 months away and you're probably on a cruise to Jamaica at the moment, but, I've already started my Christmas shopping, so I figured it'd be okay to make one tiny request. I would like to have this bullet planter. I've been stalking these online for a few years and they never go on sale, and they never appear on Craigslist, and they never ever show up in thrift stores. I'd like the largest one please, either in Rattan, Black or Chartreuse. If this is beyond the capabilities of your talented crafts-elves, or if you prefer not to work with fiberglass, the planters are available here.

I recently saw a Philippe Starck stool like this listed for $50 on Craigslist, thanks to some eagle-eyed scout on the Apartment Therapy blog:

I could use this stool as a plant stand, if necessary, because I personally think it's love-sexy, but my split leaf philodendron (Seymore) prefers the more expensive bullet planter. And I don't want you to feel pressured or anything, but Seymore is quite large and has been making demands on me lately to accessorize him stylishly. He's a bully, if you must know the truth, and I'm pretty sure he once ate a kitten.

Thank you for your time, have fun in Jamaica, "Mon", and don't do anything I wouldn't do (wink wink, nudge nudge).

p.s. I lied. I haven't really started my Christmas shopping yet.

Changes

2009-04-20T10:45:00.003-04:00

yep, I refreshed the "look" of the blog. You like the blue better than the green?

Tribute bands are funny.

2009-04-19T17:43:00.038-04:00

The band in the picture at the bottom of this post is Beatallica. The picture is the property of Scott Harrison.

I've never seen them in person, but I admire them. From afar. John stumbled upon this website which features several hilariously-named tribute bands from all over the place (scroll down and pay special attention to "Mini Kiss"). Check it out HERE.

I lack any musical talent whatsoever, but sometimes I like to make up band names. I have to live in my imagination because (a) I wasn't born a guy, and guys seem to have cornered the market on stuff like this and (b) I'm not a particularly cool female, like the women in "Lez Zeppelin" for example. I especially enjoy thinking up tribute-band names. I may have previously mentioned "Big Finger", my imaginary Big Star/ Badfinger tribute band. Well, our friend CT, who is pretty much a genius at this game of naming bands, suggested I re-name the band "Star Finger". I can't decide which one I prefer. But it's okay because the band isn't real anyway so I have plenty of time to weigh the pros-vs-cons.

CT is so talented at this he once made up the best band name of all time. I'd love to tell you, but it's so good I can't even publish it on my blog (my cautiousness, not CT's) because, rumor has it, he might see the band to fruition some day and, well.......you know how people can be. If people get wind of a great idea prematurely, they sometimes try to take credit. And that can be annoying. It's crazy, but what can you do? I'm sure when this happens there's no intended malice, but still, people often act out of self-interest. Some ideas are just so good, there's always one grifter who wants a piece of them. And sometimes an idea is so clever, some people will just insist they thought of it first. Think I'm exaggerating? I think this scene from the so-called mockumentary, "The Rutles", demonstrates this odd and often amusing human characteristic and drives the point home better than anything I could ever say. (Pay attention to Ruttling Orange Peel's better-half, that old naggin' ball and chain, at around 1:10):

We have to be careful with these things, and fly under the radar until it's time to unleash the power. Just between you and me, I've been waiting for 10 years for the debut of CT's next project, and I'm getting impatient. But trust me, when it hits, it'll be big. Bigger, even, than Big Finger. Meanwhile, I'll just have to be happy, living vicariously, through bands like this:

BEATALLICA:

Effing up, and fessing up.

2009-04-18T21:00:00.019-04:00

Kind of an add-on to the previous post.

Far be it for me to get all preachy about stealing. I stole a mood ring from Kmart one time when I was about 8. The same year I stole a set of Playdough from the drugstore where my Dad was the pharmacist. Pretty ballsy, huh? I got busted both times by my Mom, and the punishment for the second offense was I had to return to the store accompanied by Mom and confess my crime to the manager--in front of other people--apologize, and pay for the Playdough out of my allowance. It was the most humiliating experience of my life. Had this been the punishment for stealing the mood ring, I wouldn't have stolen the Playdough. It was even more embarrassing than when, in 4th grade, I slipped on a seedless grape in the cafeteria and landed in a full-on straddle/split in front of the whole lunchroom. In a skirt. I had no choice but to think of the Grape Kerfuffle as my punishment for the Mood Ring Incident--a year late, but still very effective.

It was excellent rehabilitation for my thieving ways. I didn't relapse until 8 years later when I "borrowed" my sister's prized, brand new, never worn J. Crew swimsuit (bright-white and turquoise with a kicky, matching twisty belt). She had forbidden me to touch it, but there was this teenagery lake party I had to attend, involving cute boys and other cool people in fashionable swimwear. I intended to sneak it, wear it once, wash it in Woolite, and return it to her drawer as if it had never been touched. Unfortunately, I snagged it on the dock and tore a hole in a conspicuous place (near the posterior) and stained the pristine white fabric a rusty, lake-water brown. The swimsuit thus fouled, I had no choice but to confess and save $40 (a fortune in the 80s, for me anyway) to replace it. My sister, typically gentler and kinder than me, accepted my apology and didn't make me replace it, as I recall. I'm sure I had to perform some low, menial task of retribution but I don't remember what it was. You see, kids? It never, ever pays to steal. So I guess, Ms. T, I still kind of owe you a bathing suit. I'm no angel. I've done my share of lying and scheming, just like everybody else. Well, almost everyone else.

but still, a full-grown adult stealing a whole collection of records? That's just effed up.

Happy Collecting. And Happy Record Store Day.

2009-04-18T20:38:00.068-04:00

(lights rise on empty set. woman enters stage left, dressed in boots, spurs, holster, red bandanna, and cowboy hat, and walks to center stage. woman raises a cap pistol and takes aim, but instead of firing, delivers the following monologue):

"Everybody collects something.

Shoot, based on the way I'm dressed I bet ya'll think I collect relics from the law-less old west.

But no, nothing quite that valuable for this gal.

I once knew a guy who had a dead Bic lighter collection. He had a huge pickle jar full of them, and he palavered me into guessing how many lighters the jar held. It was kind of like a strange twist on the jar of jelly beans contest we all probably played at our grade-school Halloween carnivals, the one where you could win a ticket for a free Sno Cone by coming closest to guessing the number of jelly beans in a big mayonnaise jar. Except, instead of a free Sno Cone, all I got for guessing the number of lighters was a peek at a sheared, six-inch rattail from the early 1980s the guy had formerly sported but now kept in an envelope, stuffed between some old college textbooks on his book shelf. Not a rat tail, as in, from an actual rodent--because that would've been, well, just plain gross--but a rattail, which is slightly less gross, but in my opinion, weirder. I'm sure I didn't guess the right number of Bic lighters in the jar, but he saw fit to show me the rattail anyway. Collectors and hoarders are strange people, but they're full of wonderful surprises.

Just last week, I read a true story about a woman who collected so many nylon umbrella sheaths, she started her own umbrella-sheath museum, open to the public (for a small admission fee).

I know a guy who collects koozies and cardboard boxes, another guy who collects porcelain Staffordshire dogs and Edgefield pottery--he's wealthier than the cardboard/koozie collector--and a woman who collects holiday-themed chocolate molds. I have known fanatical collectors of baseball cards, postcards, bottles, books, vinyl records and....

Records. Ah, yeah! That reminds me. Today is the 2nd annual National Record Store Day. I know this because I got a package in the mail today: a vinyl album and a postcard from my friend who works in a used record store in another town. There was a nice note hand-written in tiny, perfectly blocked letters on the back of the card. The front of the postcard was a promo/advertisement from the store, announcing that Saturday, April 18, 2009 was National Record Store Day, and inviting people to come out and show support and enjoy free refreshments, a record-listening party, and an in-store performance by a local band. It all sounded like a really good time, and if I lived close enough I might've attended--and I certainly would have dropped in to deliver thanks in person for the album, and to buy another album. Or two.

The friend I mentioned is one of those fanatical collectors--the type who works more to feed their collecting habit than to put food on the table. I have some records--but my collection pales in comparison. Mine is paltry. Anemic, really--compared to the crates of albums this nut has amassed over the years. I am but a small-time collector. Speaking of anemic, I have never sold plasma to buy records. But I know people who have.

Getting the package today is significant, besides it being Record Store Day, because it marks the end of an era for me: the era during which I slowly, systematically replaced my original record collection which disappeared under mysterious circumstances (was stolen from me) nearly 16 years ago. I made a list of all the missing records I could remember, spent the last few years re-acquiring, and today I was able to mark off the last one on my list because it arrived in the mail. Don't even ask.

Oh, alright-already! I'll explain to the best of my ability--since you're so insistent.

I didn't have that many records, and it wasn't a priceless collection. There wasn't a single rare record or first-pressing in the stack. Some of them I had inherited from my dad or my grandfather, many had been gifts from friends, roommates, an old flame or two. Others I had purchased from record stores, or pilfered from thrift shops because I liked the covers. A few were down-right embarrassing. With the exception of two Big Star albums on white vinyl, none of the records were particularly unique, really. And even the Big Star records were re-issues. It was a small collection, compared to some, but it was my collection. It meant something to me. A representation, if you will, of my musical fascinations over a few years, and a reminder of some of the people I knew who had shared theirs with me. They stayed with me for a long time, and for a while they were stored at a dear friend's house, and after that--long, discombobulated story short (and details unnecessary)--one day they just disappeared. Poof. Gone. History. As if they never existed. And I've asked around over the years, but nobody seems to know what happened. So eventually, I chalked it up to water-under-the bridge.

But I never forgot. It always bugged me. Sometimes I would hear a certain song and remember (with a little sting) that I used to own the album. Small things served as reminders. And every time, I'd get pissed off all over again. This happened so often that eventually, I just decided to replace the albums to the best of my ability, and to try and let the whole mystery disappearance roll off my back. It's counter-productive to carry baggage like this around.

Think I'm making a big deal out of nothing? Imagine how you'd feel if your collection of Star Wars figurines, old bottles, designer shoes, random human teeth, porn videos, dead Bic lighters, or whatever--suddenly up and disappeared.

So writing about it is rather cathartic, actually. In fact it's only just now that I finally realize how much I have needed to vent.

Maybe the person who "found" (stole) them, or you know, whatever--- eventually put some of them on eBay. And in an ironic twist, unknowingly sold a few of the records back to me--the person they borrowed (stole), or, you know, whatever--them from in the first place.

Or maybe the lucky person (thief) who ended up with my records was just a garden-variety coveter, a dishonest opportunist who seized a chance to take credit for a collection they didn't have the intuition, passion, or ambition to acquire on their own.

Maybe the records now sit gathering dust in some closet, not even displayed or shared since the wrong person might come over and see them. It's a small world after all. It's a helluva lot smaller than it was 16 years ago when my albums disappeared, were lost, or, you know--whatever (were stolen). And as the Internet grows, so the world shrinks more every day. Everybody is related to everybody else somewhere down the line, and eventually, worlds collide. Isn't it only a matter of time before anybody with access to the web will be able to witness crimes being committed in real time, simply by subscribing to the right channel--just like in one of those prescient, futuristic novels?

Isn't it?

Careful, thieves. Your future is almost here. It's so close, we might safely assume "tomorrow's just your future yesterday".

It doesn't even matter anymore. Whoever it was, they may have the records, or the pocket change they made from selling them, but they'll never have the fire or the particular experiences and fortuitous accidents that went into collecting them. Not in a million years. I still have those intangibles, and I have the records too, or most of them anyway--finally--again, after 16 years of collecting--for the second time. Including the Big Star albums on white vinyl, and even that Rutles album with the booklet inside. Maybe I paid twice for some of these records, but it was worth it. Maybe I'll never see another Happy Rain album, but that was collateral damage. I never lost the context, the memories, and the experiences--only the records, temporarily. And records are really just pieces of plastic and can always be replaced. A collector is obsessed. A thief is a just a thief. And a person who boasts a collection they stole from someone else? Well, I'm not sure there's a word for that particular level of desperation. Poseur comes to mind, but I don't think that really begins to describe it. I'm open to suggestions, though. In fact I might run a contest: Make up a word for it. The winner gets a feature post and a copy of Sports, by Huey Lewis and the News. What the Hell, I'll even throw in a dvd of Purple Rain. C'mon people, get crackin'.

(snaps fingers)

>Feel free to leave your submissions in the comments section of this post.<

But enough of my sour Moby Grapes. There was a time when I would've fantasized about exacting a little citizen's arrest on the jackass who ripped me off, ** whoever they are**. But I have since mellowed. People who steal from other people get their come-uppance, eventually. Who am I to try and interfere with the laws of the natural universe? And besides, the pen (computer keyboard) is mightier than the sword." >end monologue<

(woman fires toy cap pistol into the dark, then raises toy cap pistol to her lips, and calmly blows across the smoking barrel. stage lights fade...>cue Ennio Morricone's "Theme from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly"<... credits roll...hey wait, is this supposed to be a play or a film?)

Thank god for friends who work in record stores. And for record stores, thrift stores, the Internet, sympathetic husbands, djs, former roommates (it wasn't your fault, W, and thank you for your help, and for generously storing my stuff all those years without charging me rent), other bloggers and pen-pals who helped me replace some of the albums, and fellow collectors.

Whew! Much better now. Thanks for letting me vent.

(Names of individuals have been omitted so as not to embarrass the innocent. Or the guilty, as the case may be.)

The End.

Freebird!

2009-04-13T23:58:00.007-04:00

Back when I used to go out more, I would sometimes go to concerts, or to see live music in some smallish place sometimes called a "club" but more often referred to as a "bar". It was simple really. The set-up involved a musician or group of musicians performing on a type of raised platform. The instruments and vocals were amplified electronically so that, to be fair, all paying spectators could hear the music and witty banter from the stage. The consumption of various types of beverages containing alcohol was not an unusual practice at these events. These alcohol-laced drinks were always served by a qualified individual hired just for that purpose. This person was commonly referred to as a "bartender". After a few drinks, many people would respond by contorting and tossing their bodies around in a rhythmic and/or spasmodic fashion, a practice that was called--oddly enough--"dancing".

Interesting trivia about this practice--"dancing":

In olden times, the popular expression of dancing involved groups of people--in sets of two, (often a male and a female)--moving and stepping about the floor together in time with the music. Later it became more fashionable to "dance" alone, without a partner--generally in close proximity to the raised platform on which the band performed. And finally, solitary-dancing evolved into an entirely new form of expression known as "shoe-gazing", the object of which was to appear aloof or perhaps ambivalent while listening to the music, barely moving the body and, in effect, gazing at one's shoes. Hence the name.

But back to the subject.

When I used to attend music performances, a popular practice among certain patrons was the yelling of "Freebird!" when there was a short pause between songs. This was a trick invented (in the 1980s) by audience members to produce a comedic effect, as "Freebird" was, specifically, a "power ballad" or "anthem" and was the signature song (in the 1970s, and currently) of redneck southern rock band, Lynyrd Skynyrd. For maximum comedic effect, "Freebird" was ideally shouted as a request at a punk-rock concert or acoustic folk-rock performance--the object being to produce laughter rather than to actually coax the band into playing "Freebird". It is important to note that the snarky yelling of "Freebird!"(while somewhat amusing at a punk rock concert) would not necessarily be considered funny if it were shouted at a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert--and would in fact produce quite a different result. Best case scenario, "Freebird!" would be taken at face value and Skynyrd would oblige. Worst case scenario: I'm fairly surely the guys in Lynyrd Skynyrd know people who could kick your ass for being such a sarcastic hipster twit. Not that most people who would yell "Freebird!" at an Elliot Smith show would ever be caught dead at a Skynyrd concert.

But never mind all that. There was a time in the olden days when yelling "Freebird!" was, for what it's worth, a right-of-passage for many a young cool person.

I'm not sure if people still participate in these types of recreation. Are they still popular forms of entertainment? Somebody let me know because I am a little bit out of the loop.

Seriously though, I always wished--when someone in the audience yelled out "Freebird!"--that the band, instead of just chuckling, would instantly honor the request and play the live album version of the song which I hear is like 15 minutes long. I always thought that would be especially funny at a Morrissey concert, or maybe a Fugazi show.

WFMU on NPR

2009-04-12T20:49:00.007-04:00

The great WFMU just took the cake, yet again, with Henry Krinkle's hilarious and spot-on post about NPR.

Dammit I wish I had thought of this. But I'm also very glad someone finally said it. And I hope I don't lose any friends because I agree with most of this...

so, passing along the negative on Easter, here's a link to "10 Things I hate about NPR"

Happy Easter!

"Wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then."

2009-04-10T13:41:00.034-04:00

An observation for aging hipsters, and anti-hipsters, and music fans of a particular age:

"When you were young, and your heart was an open book..."

Before you were cool.

Before you veered to the left of the status quo. Before you heard the Velvet Underground. Prior to the time your skateboarding buddy/hero casually mentioned Agent Orange, or your vintage trenchcoat-wearing, old-fashioned camera-carrying Governor's School pal loaned you that Joy Division album. In the days before indie-rock, alternative rock, punk rock, hip hop, or anything obscure or "underground" entered your consciousness-- I'm talking, say, a couple of years before the dubbed cassette tape of R.E.M.'s Murmur made the rounds and eventually landed in your hands. Or before that impossibly cool and way-out-of-your league (or so you thought at the time) high school crush sneered at your humble record collection and suggested you to check out Mission of Burma or Gang of Four or the Dead Kennedys or whatever it was...and speaking of the Dead...even before the old hippy who lived next door in his mother's basement got you high for the first time and turned you onto the Grateful Dead and on the same day unleashed upon your brain all manner of 60s art/flute rock...

Whatever it was for you--the catalyst that blew your mind and gave you your first glimpse of anything cool or counter-culture and enhanced you and evolved into whatever your current taste in music happens to be...

There is a very good chance that for a short, glorious period in your young life, you:

- listened to the radio. American Top Forty. Or at the very least, a popular rock station that played Van Halen, AC/DC, The Steve Miller Band, Lynyrd Skynyrd, AND Paul McCartney and Wings, before any of those bands became known as "Classic Rock".

-watched Phil Collins (solo era) and Michael Jackson videos on MTV. Or maybe Headbanger's Ball was more your thing, and you loved Metallica.

-got your parents permission to sign up for the Columbia Record and Tape Club, and got 11 albums for a penny. One of the eleven might or might not have been a Foreigner album, and one of the eleven was definitely a Hall and Oates album.

-bought at least one popular 45 rpm record--not from a record store, but from the local variety store (TG&Y? Rose's? Revco Drugs?) Was it Wings or Atlanta Rhythm Section or Kool and the Gang? The Scorpions?

-weren't black, but still beat-boxed along with the Fat Boys or knew all the words to "Rapper's Delight" before--and I stress before-- the 8th grade. (of course, later you probably put that little talent in your back pocket until freshman year of college, when of course it was cool again in a retro, old-school kind of way)

-listened to your Mom or Dad's old albums because...well, because they were there, and you didn't know any better. The Moody Blues? Anne Murray? Emerson, Lake, and Palmer? Ray Conniff? Martin Denny? Starland Vocal Band? Fleetwood Mac?

And you enjoyed it. I mean you really, innocently, truly enjoyed it. Okay, okay, except maybe for Anne Murray and the Ray Conniff Singers. But the rest of it you registered as a pleasurable experience. It was pure and fun, maybe not life-changing, but certainly without the parameters and, let's face it, snootery of an expanded mind. And perhaps most importantly, you knew very little about irony. It was later, when you were conscious of being cool, that you learned to wield irony around like an intellectual Super-Soaker.

"You know you did, you know you did, you know you did."

Unless of course, you were born with the cool gene. Perhaps you were. Maybe you are the offspring of a conceptual artist and an experimental jazz musician. Maybe you have always experienced music on an intellectual level and don't know Winger from Whitney Houston. Maybe you were born in Portland or Athens. If you are pedigreed, I applaud you. And I would love to browse your record collection some day. But not today.

Believe me, I know better than anybody that I have a tendency to stray into the arena of nostalgia when I get the urge to over-share. Yep. Nostalgia and the weather would appear to be my favorite subjects. I don't know what to say about it other than, I can't seem to help myself. One inspires the other in an endless cycle. At least for this portion of my life, changes in weather and memories and feelings of nostalgia and music are subjects I understand. One would think I'm 85 years old. But I'm not. I'm just a girl (woman?? is it possible??) who gets the shivers when the wind blows a certain way-- and not necessarily because it's cold--or when the light is just right, or when a certain song plays. Dumb, I know. But if you're embarrassed for me, remember, you can stop reading at any time.

As I watch my nieces grown into teenagers, and I catch bits and pieces of the music they're paying attention to right now (Lady Ga Ga, Beyonce, Paramour, Pink, and--lately--Metallica for Guitar Hero) I can't help but notice they're already sort of embarrassed about what they listened to less than a year ago. I'm sure it will be the same story when another year has passed. I guess it's part of the process, but it's also sort of a bummer, and I wonder--is it possible to un-learn things? And shouldn't we try once in a while? I just hope they'll discover--if not now, then at some point in the near future--that 13, or what you know at 13, is often closer to "cool" than what you think you know in the years to come. They're smarter than me in lots of ways, so they might even have this all figured out already. I don't even think they use the word "cool". These days I'm pretty sure it's "beast", or "fierce". I hope they can always turn up the radio and love that song, whatever it is, and not care if anyone else thinks it's redneck or ghetto or cheesy or over-produced or under-produced, too simplistic, too indulgent, or God forbid, not cool enough. I hope they'll say, "You're really over-thinking this. Just be quiet and listen."

Obviously, experience and ambition and the influence of peers are all necessary for growth. They force us to challenge ourselves. They raise the bar on our tastes and interests over time. I'm not saying that's a bad thing. I just mean...well, considering we're all a sum of many different parts, maybe we shouldn't take ourselves too seriously all the time.

I mention all of this because last weekend I was driving south out of Charlotte, N.C., towards Rock Hill, S.C., listening to music in my car.

Any self-respecting music fan will tell you that while traveling in a car, there are times when a certain cd or mix tape or "playlist" (or whatever your medium of choice) is just the right thing. But there are other times when nothing sounds as perfect as the plain old radio.

Allegedly, someone famous once said, "Nothing in this world is certain but death and taxes" ...

but you know and I know this quote isn't quite true.

This quote (amended by me) is true:

"Nothing is certain in this world but death and taxes and hearing a Steve Miller Band song within 8.27 minutes on a classic rock station, no matter what part of the U.S. you're in, or what time of the day you turn on the radio."

It's going to happen, friends. Steve might be singing the story of Billy Joe and Bobbie Sue. "Abracadabra" is likely. "Swingtown" and "Jungle Love" are possible--perhaps not as probable as "Fly Like an Eagle", but no matter what, you're definitely going to hear "The Joker" within the first ten minutes of tuning in. And to further illustrate this...phenomenon... if you are traveling cross country in your car, and you flip stations as the signals fade, if you stay within the realm of classic rock you will make it through most of the Steve Miller catalogue before you reach Hattiesburg, Mississippi. I know this to be true. I've done it. I know I'm rambling but the point is, the radio is a good thing sometimes. Even the Steve Miller Band has some pretty great songs. Go ahead. You can admit it, at least to yourself.

Unfortunately, classic rock stations almost never play the greatest Steve Miller Band song of all time: "Serenade".

Because my blogging skills are not tops and I still haven't bothered to learn how to share a music file, here's an audio/video of a Spanish band covering "Serenade". I think you will find the song to be enjoyable. It might change your life. Or not.

Another thing that's certain is that while listening to the radio and traveling through Rock Hill, S.C. simultaneously: I will hear a Van Halen song. It happens every time. Every. Single. Time. I went to high school in that town, and when I visit or drive through it's like I enter a time warp for approximately 3 minutes. Doesn't matter that I didn't even really intentionally listen to Van Halen in high school. No matter that nearly everything else about that town is now changed and unfamiliar to me. Van Halen inevitably comes on, I enter the time warp, and am reminded for a brief moment that, while you can't go home again, neither can you ever completely escape your historical context. And sometimes "Diver Down" and "1984" are, good or bad, part of that context. Just an observation.

On that same trip, I got lucky and heard "Cisco Kid" by War and "Spinning Wheel" by Blood, Sweat, and Tears and "Atomic" by Blondie. And maybe, maybe some people would say I got less lucky and had to sit through "Missed Again" by Phil Collins and "Boys of Summer" by Don Henley and "Jackie Blue" by Ozark Mountain Daredevils and something or another by the Guess Who. Seems like Asia might have been in there, somewhere, too.

But the funny thing is, the windows were down, the sun was warm, and the radio was up and I didn't notice, even for a minute, that any of those songs weren't "cool". In fact, it might be fair to say I had a very nice ride home.

But back to "Serenade".

Here's the Steve Miller Band's version. Since there's not much to watch, maybe you could just play the song while re-reading this post. Maybe it'll give you goose bumps and be all, you know, evocative and shit.

But then again, maybe I'm over-thinking all this.

"Delivery for Mr. Zevon...."

2009-04-08T09:23:00.005-04:00

I know it's boring to be subjected to descriptions of other people's dreams, but this is my blog and I'm still too sleepy and under-caffeinated to make good decisions anyway.

I just had a dream in which my friend K. announced to me that he had offered--and as a result, had been hired--to be Warren Zevon's personal marijuana supplier/courier while Mr. Zevon visited our town to play a concert.

K. would be making his deliveries on a Victorian bicycle much like the one in the picture.

I'm not sure if he was planning to dress like that man in the picture. I didn't get to finish dreaming the dream because the phone rang and woke me up, which really annoyed me. I would've liked to have seen this one through to the conclusion.

Chartreuse as Muse...

2009-03-30T11:59:00.003-04:00

Following through with an urge I've had for some time---

I just bought a gallon of high-gloss chartreuse paint and my plan is to coat every small piece of thrifted furniture in my vicinity, until I run out of paint or drop from exhaustion or paint fumes or lead poisoning. Plant stand, end table, bookshelf...nothing is exempt.

If you stop by while this project is in progress, bring a flower pot or a chair or a stool or your poodle and I will happily share the chartreuse. I'll probably paint you, too, by accident---so keep your distance.

I have a plan for a grouping of chartreuse stuff on the sun porch.

If the project turns out to be photo-worthy, I'll post some pictures. If not, I'll maybe post some pictures anyway.

Don't rhyme for the sake of riddling

2009-03-29T12:27:00.003-04:00

Poor blog, I have been neglecting you.

The two or three people who actually read this blog have long since lost interest, I bet.

When I started this thing I sort of promised myself I would post once a week. Didn't happen.

On the other hand, I also sort of promised myself I wouldn't post unless I had something interesting or relevant to say or share.

Maybe it's the change in seasons. I feel like I'm coming out of hibernation.

Stay tuned if you feel like it.

hi

2009-02-24T15:40:00.007-05:00

It's going on three weeks and I can't think of a thing to post. This happens to me sometimes. Everything is boring and not-funny. Well, everything except for my husband, who is extremely funny and definitely not boring, and my dogs. And a couple of other people. But that's pretty much it. I've been sick for two days and was feeling lousy until last night, when suddenly I realized I didn't have a headache and my nose was not stopped up anymore. I'm grateful. I hate to whine and complain. I really, really do. But I came dangerously close to doing both a couple of times when I was sick, so I am especially glad to be feeling better. The sound of a whiny voice drives me insane when the voice is my own.

I am cooking tonight.

I have calmed down on my Twittering and Facebooking. I wanted to see what they were all about but really... All those constant text updates. Never-ending interruptions. Social networking. Shame on me.

I haven't read a good book lately. Hey wait, that's not true. I read "The Tipping Point" by Malcolm Gladwell recently and it was great. I wouldn't stop talking about it for like three days and my husband really wanted me to talk about something else.

Has anyone noticed a trend John and I like to call "theme cars"? We've seen an Oreo car, a Wrigley's Big Red car, a Holiday Inn car....I'm not talking about promotional stunts either. I'm talking about a weird trend centered around product theme cars. If you've seen this and know what I mean I would appreciate it if you would email me and let's talk. I'm dying to get someone else's take on it. Especially if you are an admirer of the cars, and not a hater. I am an admirer. Let me be perfectly clear: I appreciate the theme car trend. I'm not joking or being facetious or ironic. I admit I'd never have the huevos to go to the expense and trouble to decorate my car like a giant box of Good and Plenty. But I am entertained when I see such a thing on the landscape. It's absurd, and I don't need to understand it. Some theme cars I'd like to see: a Funyuns car, Sweet Sue Chicken and Dumplins, Starbucks, Tabasco, Dots.....

I watched as much of the Oscars as I could stand the other night. I am so thankful I missed Sean Penn. But I was thinking, if being edgy and relevant and cool is important to Angelina--and it certainly appears to be important to her-- she should dump that dull bump-on-a-log Brad and go out with Christian Bale. Then we could call them "Christiang-ity". Just imagine! Except that Christian probably eats posers like Angie for breakfast. Ok, enough of my Hollywood Ya-Ya.

Update:

My friend S, who knows what she's talking about, says Angelina is truly a humanitarian and a great lady so I stand corrected. Forgive my low talk and gossip. Shame on me again.

This is a good idea:

2009-02-02T11:24:00.004-05:00

A shade more clever than your basic wedding video, mine included...

Brian & Eileen's Wedding Music Video. from LOCKDOWN projects on Vimeo.

The Last Rock Star

2009-01-29T20:12:00.009-05:00

They don't make 'em like David Lee Roth anymore. And it's a shame. I love the looks of innuendo he gives to the camera. If you don't have the patience to sit through the videos, just go here for some silliness.

Facebook...

2009-01-28T12:00:00.005-05:00

This is so unimportant in the greater scheme of things that I'm embarrassed to mention it, but I recently deleted my Facebook account.

Well, deleted is a grossly inaccurate term. The official word is deactivated, because it is very difficult to un-do everything--or anything, actually,-- you ever posted on Facebook once you've been sucked in. Although it is tempting, I won't get into the implications of that.

Facebook brings joy to gazillions of people and who am I to judge? Besides, I participated in Facebook for several months. Pointing a finger now would make me sound like one of those ex-smokers who spends a lot of time spewing the rhetoric of strength and willpower to people who still smoke. And what an asshole that guy/gal always is.

I just got to thinking, one day after I posted my umpteenth "status update":

"What if I croak today? What if today is my last day alive on Earth, and I walk out my front door and get hit by a bus or a meteor or something? And the last thing 83 friends and acquaintances remember about me is whatever I posted as my Facebook status update?"

It would, in a way, amount to a techno-age epitaph.

"Libby just burned a pie."

"Libby is eating a handful of Corn Nuts."

"Libby is soooo excited about the meteor shower tonight."

"Libby is taking the bus today to save fuel and minimize her carbon footprint."

For now, I'm still maintaining my Myspace, my Twitter account, two separate email accounts, and obviously this blog. Facebook though, for me, amounts to overkill. Not to mention the potential for poetic irony in the event of my death.

Funniest customer complaint letter EVER

2009-01-28T11:55:00.003-05:00

My husband sent me this link. I decided to participate in the passing around because it is, truly, hilarious.

Read for yourself the most clever consumer complaint ever penned here.

Deputy Dog

2009-01-14T16:30:00.010-05:00

Homer is getting a new hat as a reward for being such a good protector, and ridding the backyard of pests like this (still-quite-warm when I snapped this picture) squirrel he hunted, caught, slaughtered, and brought to me a few weeks ago.

I wonder if Homer thinks I've been wanting a taxidermied animal? The thought actually crossed my mind, until I realized this squirrel was missing his head, and then I thought, "Nah, this one just won't do."

Thanks anyway, Homer.

By the way, if you are a regular reader of this blog (you poor knucklehead) you may have noticed a recurring theme: dead animals. I promise you it is entirely unintentional and I am more than a little embarrassed about it. Having said that, I considered tagging these posts "dead animals", then changed my mind. I don't want to have to sleep with one eye open, or worry about PETA ambushing me in the parking lot of Starbucks or something with a bucket of red paint. That would be very unpleasant, especially if I was sporting my second-hand sheared beaver. Coat.

I'm getting my dog a hat like this.

2009-01-14T16:12:00.016-05:00

I found this picture on this website.

I hope it's available in red, Homer's signature color.

Jeez people, ease up, will you? I can practically hear your thoughts. The hat is feminine. Decorative. Flamboyant even. But I ask you: Are all slovenly, dull-attired males heterosexual? Are all well-appointed males gay? No, and no. For that matter, how do you even know for sure our Homer is a male? It's not fair to stereotype males of any sexual orientation--canines included-- and since it's not fair, it might offend, and if it's potentially offensive, it's also politically incorrect and should be against the law, so just stop it before you get sued by my dog.

I jest.

No, Homer isn't gay--although it would be fine with me if he were--and actually, Homer is a male. As a matter of fact, our dog Schultz is gay. We encourage our pets to be who they are. We are a proud, blended family --- white Anglo-Saxon (me)/Swiss (my husband)/black German (dachshund)/multi-racial Irish-American (Boston terrier) and we nurture a tolerant environment here at home, so the race and sexual orientation of our dogs are of no consequence to us.

But the point is, Homer is more fashion-conscious than the dachshund and therefore better dressed. So he's maybe getting this hat. 'Cause he's a good, cow-eyed, snorty, gassy, cute little guy.

Love this too.

2009-01-13T12:46:00.006-05:00

Teeny tiny chairs made from the champagne tops and corks:

Magnificent bedspread:

little pleasures

2009-01-13T12:22:00.005-05:00

In my neighborhood there is a smaller branch of the county library. I go there often and I sometimes fail to locate whatever book I'm looking for, so I have to request a transfer or an inter-library loan. Which means I have to wait a day or two or three for my books. Sometimes I quietly bitch about this minor inconvenience.

But when I get that phone call from the library, with the robotic voice telling me to come pick up my requested books, I get a little thrill for a second. It's like getting a letter or package in the mail.

Strange.

Love this

2009-01-13T10:34:00.003-05:00

Names

2009-01-09T12:31:00.004-05:00

This is intended as an amateur anthropological study of sorts. Nothing more.

A list of popular children's names I have observed--in and around the Greater Columbia area. This is an incomplete list, and I will add to it from time to time. I hope you will too.

Hunter

Kaylee

Kylie

Mikhaila (sic??)

Madison

Tyler

Austin

Tucker

Jackson

Jolie

Brandon

Brittany

Mackenzie

Kaitlin

Quentin

Jaeden

Marley

versus some names I never hear:

Boris

Homer

Arthur

Archie

Gladys

Ruby

Brenda

Beatrice

Jay Jay

Ritchie

Mavis

Otis

Mitch

Maureen

to be continued

Super-easy rum cake

2008-12-14T13:37:00.022-05:00

Here's a secret every cook needs to know: if you change or alter a minimum of 2 ingredients in someone else's recipe, you have provenance over that recipe.

That is an unofficial rule. I don't remember where I heard it. It's possible that I even made the whole thing up myself. In truth, I suppose you can claim provenance over any recipe you choose. But it's not polite. And more importantly, if you steal a recipe from a famous cook or chef, the people who cook and watch food network and read cookbooks will know you stole it. They won't really care, but they'll know.

It has been a while since I posted a favorite recipe. This Christmas I am making a rum cake I shamelessly ripped off from Paula Deen. By "ripped off" I mean that it is copied word-for-word from one of her cookbooks, except that I use pecans instead of the recommended walnuts. That's only one altered ingredient. Otherwise, believe me I would claim this recipe as my own. It's so easy to make, and nearly everyone who tastes it compliments it in some gushing, extravagant way. Which is kind of interesting. Because the recipe calls for a boxed cake mix and instant pudding. So if you are pretentious at all, you might want to steer clear of Paula Deen, and instead, go dust off your Martha Stewart cookbook and spend three days making your own croissants and puff pastry from scratch. After which people will eat them and think you bought them in a store anyway, and no one will ask you for the recipe like they do for Paula Deen's rum cake. But, you know, do your thing.

I'll get to it in a minute. But first, a word or two about Paula.

check this out:

She's fun-lovin' and smarmy and she lays that southern lady schtick on real heavy. You know. Like in the movie "Steel Magnolias" or something. I can barely stand to watch her on tv because she dips her finger into whatever she's making and licks it and then crosses her eyes and looks all rapturous and orgasmic for the camera. She's always stirrin', fixin', cookin', flirtin' and findin' other ways to drop a g. Sometimes she uses a spatuler. Not a spatula. A spatuler. She has some relative named Bubba and she likes to say his name a lot, cause, you know, "Bubba" is such a cute, southern name. And all the non-southerners in her audience just love the way all of us down here below the Mason-Dixon have a brother or son or uncle or daddy plus two or three other people in our families named Bubba.

She likes to show the audience her diamond rings or whatever new piece of jewelry her husband has given her that week. Paula Deen is like a slightly less feminine and way more southern version of Liberace. Watching her on tv is like watching....well, Liberace for one. Or a train wreck. Or Sex and the City: it's traumatizing to view, but somehow I just can't look away.

She is the antithesis of Martha Stewart. I bet she makes Martha real nervous. I'd love to see them in the kitchen together. I'd pay money to see Paula Deen stick her finger in Martha's cake batter and then lick it. The look on Martha's face would be priceless.

But she is a kitchen goddess and the absolute queen of comfort food, and I admit to you now that I use her recipes--especially around the holidays. I've gotten so many compliments when I've used Paula's recipes that I just can't deny her genius, and I have to stand in awe of her charisma. So here you go:

Rum Cake

1 cup chopped pecans or walnuts

1 18 1/2 ounce package yellow cake mix

1 3 1/2 ounce package instant vanilla pudding mix

4 eggs

1/2 cup buttermilk

1/2 cup vegetable oil

1/2 cup dark rum

Preheat oven to 325. Butter and flour a 10 inch tube pan. Sprinkle the nuts over the bottom of the pan. Mix remaining ingredients together. Pour batter over the nuts. Bake for 1 hour. Cool. Invert onto a serving plate. Prick the top of the cake with a fork. Drizzle and smooth the glaze evenly over the top and sides of cake. Use all the glaze, and allow the cake to absorb it all before slicing.

GLAZE

4 TBS unsalted butter

1/4 cup water

1 cup sugar

1/2 cup dark rum

Melt butter in a saucepan. Stir in water and sugar. Boil for 5 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and stir in the rum.

Addendum to last post

2008-12-13T11:17:00.004-05:00

My friend S. commented and shared her appreciation of the Shriners in their tiny cars and go-carts at her home town Christmas parade. There were Shriners in go carts at my home town parade too--I feel silly for writing a parade blog and not mentioning them, because they are indeed one of my favorite parade attractions.

It's always funny to see a grown man in a tiny car. I have a tiny car, but the Shriners cars are so tiny they put mine to shame. I have tiny car envy.

The expressions on their faces while they drive by are so serious--I guess they have to concentrate and count in order to speed around in formation without crashing.

Christmas cheer

2008-12-08T17:21:00.008-05:00

WARNING: Shameless, nauseating, emotional blubbery ahead.

Last night John and I bundled up-- Midlands-style, in light jackets and scarves--and walked down the street to watch the local Christmas parade. Walking past our neighbors' houses lit up for the holidays, seeing the crowds gathering up ahead, seeing spectators with lawn chairs in the beds of their pick up trucks, people with thermoses of hot chocolate. or coffee, or whiskey and coffee, or just whiskey--this is my official annual initiation and right of passage to the Christmas season. In our neighborhood, most of us erect a live tree at the edge of the yard and dress it with red ribbon and white lights. It's tradition. It gives the 'hood a pretty, coordinated glow, and binds us as neighbors via the unspoken "white lights only" rule. But walking to the parade I see that a few (deviants! iconoclasts! heretics! blasphemers!) folks have defied the norm and dressed their outside tree in multi-colored lights. This act of rebellion elicits a series of raised eyebrows from the traditionalists in the neighborhood, but that's about it. No matter how faithfully one may try to tow the party line and stay true to policy, it's very hard to be critical and negative about holiday lights. Even when they're turquoise and pink.

But getting back to the parade. For all the pomp and circumstance which (I assume) go into preparing for a parade, it satisfies in the simplest way. The parade is the very manifestation of earnestness and good nature, promise and optimism---and for this reason I get a lump in my throat when I see: dancing girls dressed in white satin elf costumes riding on a float, fire trucks decked out in strands of lights and tinsel, a local business man dressed as Elvis standing in the back of a passing convertible Cadillac waving at the crown, high school marching bands and ROTC squads.

Twinkly lights: Although I love star-gazing, sometimes it's hard not to feel as insignificant and temporary as a smaller germ living on a larger germ's ass when I look at the stars from my porch.

Holiday lights and parades, however, remind me that I matter, you matter, we all matter.

Charving Love out of Nothing at All

2008-11-23T12:51:00.022-05:00

There are about 5 people on the planet who can make me fall down laughing with their comic timing and evolved view of the ordinary world. This is a short homage to one of them.

I have this friend, see. I am going to resist the temptation to call her "M." because although she is entitled to the anonymity of the letter "M", I am renaming her "Mariel Cunningway" for this blog.

Mariel is a talented woman with a wicked-sharp mind and a devastating sense of humor.

She once had this idea for a comedy skit involving Mick Jagger dressed as Barney Fife singing the Rolling Stones' "Angie" to someone--I vote Charlie Watts--who is dressed up like Andy Griffith.

When she told me about it, and when I collected myself and could stand up straight again after laughing--I was kind of jealous that it hadn't been my idea. And then I thought about it again and started laughing.

Mick Jagger dressed as Barney Fife singing the Rolling Stones' "Angie" as a love ballad to a guy dressed like Andy Griffith is brilliant on a couple of different levels.

(1) Mick Jagger bears more than a passing resemblance to Don Knotts. Think about it.

(2) Barney Fife often called Andy "Ang" when they were having heart-to-hearts or when they weren't on duty down at the station. So really, Mick-dressed-as-Barney could sing "Angie" or replace "Angie" with "Andy". It works both ways. But since Andy was "Ang" and "Angie" is the name of the song, "Angie" is the better choice.

I know I'm not explaining it very well. There's really no way I can do it justice. It's Mariel Cunningway's gag. It's so much Mariel's gag that if I ever see it on t.v. or read about anywhere and it isn't credited to her, I'll go get a law degree and take the bar exam just so I can sue the crap out of whoever stole her idea.

Another time, years ago, Mariel Cunningway and I were at work and this guy we worked with looked right at me and for some mysterious reason called me "Larry". He was like, "Larry, could you call so-and-so and see about that thing..."

He instantly realized that he had called me "Larry" when he clearly meant to say "Libby". I was standing there with a confused look on my face I'm sure, and this guy started blushing and laughing and falling all over himself apologizing.

I looked over at Mariel, who had witnessed and heard the whole "Larry" episode. I said something like:

"What was he thinking, calling me "Larry"? I've been called "Debbie" before. And "Lilly" I could understand. But Larry? Do I look like a man? I mean, am I mannish?"

Mariel, without missing a beat, replied:

"Maybe he looked at you and was thinking Larry, you know, like Larry from the Three Stooges."

This is especially funny if you know what my hair looks like. If you don't, I'm just saying you'll have to trust me--it's funny.

Anyway, it stands the test of time and makes me laugh even now. The whole episode was absurd, but Mariel's punchline sent it right over the top. And I so enjoy a good laugh, even if the joke's on me.

Most recently I received an email from Mariel that went a little something like this:

"Subject: Thought of you...

I was working at (library) all week and there was a Book Fair. I saw this book that made me think of you and I just have to share it with you. (The book's title) was "Oggie Cooder" for starts and it is about a boy with said name who carves things out of cheese with his teeth. He calls this art form "charving". The cover shows him holding a piece of cheese in the shape of Texas. Apparently this makes him become popular....."

I love my friend Mariel. She gets things other people don't get. Yes, she thinks I look like Larry from the Three Stooges, but more importantly she knows what I like.

Even more important than that, she's a fabulous cook, a painter, a clothing designer, and a couture-trained seamstress. She has lived in New York City and doesn't like the Beatles. She is all these things AND the mother of two beautiful, smart children. One of her children once enthusiastically proclaimed to me: "I love squid!" when he was all of six years old. I love squid too, and a six-year-old who eats squid and announces it to the world is advanced, in my opinion. Plus, it was really, really cute.

While I'm on the subject, I'm going to do you a favor and supply a link to her etsy store. If you're lucky and smart enough to get there before she sells out for Christmas, you can get some serious holiday shopping done from the comfort of your chair. Hands off the coconut painting. I call dibs.

Meanwhile, I'm on the hunt for that book.

666

2008-10-31T08:17:00.007-04:00

Happy Halloween!

Coincidences, Part 2

2008-10-22T19:43:00.014-04:00

It certainly isn't necessary to read this ordinary woman's blog to learn about William Eggleston. You can type his name into your search engine of choice and find lots of results, because he is a famous photographer. I am not a photographer, nor am I a great follower of photography-as-art. Though I'd like to be, 'cause I like pitures. But I couldn't name more than three famous photographers even under the threat of torture, I'm afraid.

But William Eggleston is, of the three I might be able to name, the one I whose photos I most admire. I only know of him by happy accident, and I have lived most of my life not knowing his name.

On a day a few months ago, I picked up an old magazine in an junk store and flipped through it, semi-interested--until I saw an article about a photographer, and saw his disarming pictures of ordinary objects and people, some of them over-exposed just a tiny bit, and saturated with color. A kid's tricycle in front of a plain ranch-style house. In another, a young man-- with a rumpled suit and a cowlick--reclining on a chair. Ordinary things. Things you might see anywhere, any day, and never really notice them. And yet, here they were, captured by some guy's camera, and somehow transformed--elevated--into something dark, strange, remarkable and beautiful. It's maybe not so different than what most people are capable of doing with their own cameras by accident. What most of us regular people refer to as "snapshots". It's just that I don't think Eggleston's photos happen in exactly the same way. I think he sees beneath the surface, right before he takes the picture. Beneath the surface, and also around, on the periphery. That was my impression, anyway.

I didn't buy the magazine, but I did go home thinking about those photographs. I mentioned the article--and the pictures--to my husband. I thought about them a lot, and wished I had purchased the magazine. I went back to the store with the intention of buying it, but of course--just my luck-- it was gone. Now I can't even remember the name of the magazine.

A few days later, I was making a cd for my friend M--part of an on-going disc swap. I wanted to make him a Big Star cd, and the files on my computer come from a split reissue of "#1 Record" and "Radio City". It was hard for me to remember where one ended and the other began, and although we own the albums, looking the information up online was easier and faster than digging through the closet where we store our old records. So that's what I did: took the good old instant gratification route.

Here is the picture that accompanied the wikipedia entry for the band, Big Star. It is the cover shot for their album, "Radio City", and it is an image I've seen many times. It is familiar to me, but I never knew who actually took the picture, never thought about it, really--until I read the information in the wikipedia entry.

The photographer: William Eggleston.

Badfinger is to Ringo is to Caveman as Quaid is to Leprechaun.

2008-10-16T19:23:00.029-04:00

Everything is connected to everything else. Even the stoopid things.

(1) In a recent blog post, ostensibly about the Beatles, I wrote a wordy little essay about Ringo Starr's rise to esteem in my mind when I was a kid, and his subsequent fall from grace during my teens, which put him in last place in my personal heap of Beatles. A few days later, a friend sent me this article. My friend's message said,

"Strange timing. Turns out, Ringo doesn't care anymore anyway." Funny!

(2)Two days later, Ringo STILL won't go away. And one of us has conjured leprechauns and the Quaid brothers, just to keep it interesting:

-John and I were on our way back from dinner. For no apparent reason, in a moment of seat-dancing inspiration, John started singing that leprechaun song from that leprechaun video--the one that spread virally over the internet a couple of years ago--the song that goes "I want the gold, give me the/give me the/give me the....gold." I joined in. Later, at home, this episode gives rise to some internet searching by John about the general subject of leprechauns.

24 hours later we were with some friends in a bar having a beer and playing trivia. The final question of the night is an all-or-nothing: get them all correct and get lots of points. Miss even one of them, subtract lots of points...

"From the following list of movies, name the Quaid brother (Randy or Dennis) who appeared in each":

--"Caveman" (ok. of course the first movie on the list would feature Ringo Starr. Of course.)

--"Inner Space"

--"Christmas Vacation"

--"The Day After Tomorrow"

--"Days of Thunder"

etc, etc...

Our trivia team got them all correct, except for "Caveman". And it was my fault. I insisted it was Randy Quaid. My mistake. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure we would have made it into second place and won the $20 bar tab prize..

At home, a couple hours after our painful trivia loss (to a group of 20-year-olds who knew all the sports trivia questions but were probably cheating using an iphone anyway): John looks up from his computer and tells me:

"Hey, look here! There's a 1999 movie called "The Magical Legend of the Leprechauns"! Guess who starred in it! Randy Quaid!".

To sum-up:

Ringo Starr---->leprechaun---->Ringo Starr---->Randy Quaid---->leprechaun---->Randy Quaid.

(3) At work we always listen to a radio station which plays the "Hits of the 60s and 70s", and lately they've been playing Badfinger songs twice--sometimes three times--during the day--rotating between "Baby Blue", "No Matter What", "Day After Day" and "Come and Get It". The repetition takes a positive subliminal toll: I need to listen to Badfinger records at home. So I do, for a couple of days.

Also I rent the movie "The Magic Christian", specifically because of its connection to Badfinger. The movie also happens to feature Ringo Starr. This is not a coincidence, exactly.

But THIS is:

One day last week I decided I really wanted to read the Badfinger biography, "Without You: The Tragic Story of Badfinger". First I checked the local libraries. They didn't have the book. The closest library with the book is in Atlanta. (Thanks, T.)

I decided, then, to buy the book. I shopped online. I found the book on Amazon. The book is out of print and rare and the seller wants $150.00 for it. That's more costly than what I was anticipating, by about $135.00.

Next, I decided to email a friend who (I think) is likely to have a copy of the book and will (I'm hoping) be happy to loan it to me. My friend replies quickly. Turns out he doesn't own the book. Turns out he is also in the market for it, and is, in fact--that very day--trying to buy it.

I type an email reply to my friend, and hit "send". Before my email will "send" I must do one of those number/letter cryptogram word-verification security things. I honestly don't know what those things are called, but you know what I mean--when you have to copy the provided numbers and letters into a little text box before you can leave a comment or send a message. This time it's odd, because I've never had to do that when I've emailed this friend before. Maybe it is because I'm emailing from my cell phone?

I copy/type the numbers and letters into the little box. They are:" 79PeT4hAM".

Without the numbers, it would be "PeThAM".

Peter Ham was the leader of the band Badfinger.

Quando para mucho mi amore de felice corazón

2008-10-08T18:48:00.055-04:00

Flipping radio stations in the car last weekend, I settled on an oldies station featuring a sydicated retrospective in honor of the October, 1969 release of The Beatles' "Abbey Road".

The broadcast of each song was followed by well-executed bits of trivia, and pieces of interviews with Ringo Starr, Paul McCartney, George Martin and other lesser, though still Beatle-y, insiders. It hit me at the right time--mainly, I guess, because I haven't listened to "Abbey Road" in ages, so it was a little like hearing the album with a fresh pair of ears. But also because I was just in the perfect mood for it. I'm not sure how to describe that mood, and I'm not sure if it will ever strike me again in the same way. I drove home, parked the car, ran inside to tune into the last part of the show, and when I couldn't get it on the stereo, I went back to my car and finished listening in the driveway with the windows down. But not before I missed the first half of the song "Because", one of the most sonically delicious pieces of music ever recorded, in my humble estimation. That song is like the really tasty, rich dessert you order that turns out to be just a little bit too small, and leaves you kind of sad you didn't get just one more bite. I mean this in the context of all-time-great-songs, although it's not necessarily my favorite song on "Abbey Road". I don't have a favorite "Abbey Road" song. I do like some of them better than others. I like all of the other songs on the album a lot better than I like "Something" or "Octopus's Garden".

But more on that, later.

I've been listening to the album for a week now, pretty much non-stop.

(STORY BREAK)

If you are still with me at this point, I mean, if:

-you haven't haven't fallen asleep or rolled your eyes more than once or twice while reading thus far or,

-you aren't one of the many soulless cynics and too-cool-for-this-fodder detractors of the Beatles so fashionable on music-blogs these days...

.....I hope you will keep reading.

I can't stop this nagging voice in my head that says "Writing about the loving the Beatles is about as original as stating, "Kids these days are really proficient with computers.".

So help me God, as much as I try to follow the tenet "To thine own self, be true", as much as I want to write about that record and what it means to me, I am--even now--nagging myself with doubt, and with the fear that perhaps, in writing about the Beatles, I am committing the one sin that is perhaps the worst enemy to any kind of creativity: the cliché. Which is why I need to say that I promise, from this point on, I will not compare Beatles albums. I will not bore you with Beatle minutiae/trivia. I will not write about how the Beatles altered popular culture. I won't even touch the subject of the Paul is Dead myths surrounding "Abbey Road". I won't mention how John Lennon can be heard whispering "shoot me" during the opening strains of "Come Together", and what it means or doesn't mean. I won't attempt to tackle the subject of whether or not the Beatles' influence on pop music is still relevant today. I won't pick a favorite Beatle. I won't do any of these things because I couldn't possibly add one more original thing, in light of everything other human beings have already spoken, thought, or written about the most recognized musical group on the face of the earth.

Well...okay....maybe just one more thing. Or two. Just one--or two--more things about the Beatles. Three, tops. I swear. And then I'm done.

(END STORY BREAK)

I said I wouldn't pick a favorite Beatle, but I never said I wouldn't subject you to the story of how my once-favorite Beatle toppled from the throne and became my least-favorite Beatle.

But, again, more on that later.

I was probably too young to be hanging out with teenagers when I was 8, but in my defense, the teenagers in question were the family babysitter, a wise 16-year-old girl named Tracy Dodson, her feckless friend Candy, and Tracy's boyfriend, the only person I've ever met who managed to be both 16 and named Bill at the same time. In Tracy's defense, she probably had my parents' permission to take me to the radio station-sponsored Halloween House of Horrors in the parking lot of the local mall on a Friday night. And in my parents' defense, the year was 1976. In the 70s, not even cigarettes were dangerous. Parents routinely drove their children around in cars without strapping them into car seats. Leash laws for pets did not even exist, or if they did exist, nobody obeyed them. Actual dogs roamed neighborhoods, free and untethered. My point being: permission for an 8-year-old to attend big scary Halloween House of Horrors with group of rowdy teenagers? Permission granted. It's 1976. Compared to today's attitudes about child-safety, the 70s were....different.

All I remember about the Halloween House of Horrors is this: the smiling child-that-was-me who went into that Hell hole (with the grabbing ghouls, chainsaw-wielding maniacs, levitating demon-possessed Exorcist movie re-enactments, and disorienting, strobe-lit corridors) was a cowering, sobbing mess when she came out. My teen-aged chaperones giggled, and made feeble attempts to comfort me, chucking me on the chin, tousling my hair, and only succeeded in making me feel more like what I was: 8 years old and totally out of my league.

My saving grace: The Halloween House of Horrors exited onto a makeshift wooden deck, where complimentary sodas and cookies were served to me, and to the throngs of teenagers who congregated, doing the things that 70s teenagers did in mall parking lots back then: groovin', doing the Bump, flirting in their brown corduroy bell bottoms and brown and orange striped turtlenecks (the 70s were very.....brown and orange, were they not?) and combing their hair, making sure their parts were straight down the middle....and there was a disc jockey....and he was spinning "Abbey Road", right there on the deck. Up to this point, I was still feeling very much like a mere observer, and very inferior to the phenomena I was observing. But then I remember hearing "Maxwell's Silver Hammer". I remember that the cavalier, bouncy mood of the song was familiar and comforting to me after the trauma I had just experienced. I got a Pepsi and a cookie, and started to regain my confidence and feel like myself again. (It would be years before I realized the song's "Maxwell" was a savage, skull-smashing psychopath, and only after I saw Steve Martin perform it in that bizarre atrocity of a film, "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band". Starring the Bee Gees.) I also remember listening to, and loving, "Octopus's Garden", appreciating it in a whole new way. By the time "Octopus's Garden" faded away, I was feeling pretty good. Loving life. Loving how the worst of the evening was behind me. Loving the Beatles for making me feel better. Later that night, on the way home, I declared to Tracy Dodson how Ringo was the Best Beatle.

Jumping ahead 8 years, to 1984:

I am 16 years old in 1984. I am So. Cool. I now have my very own copy of "Abbey Road". Have in fact, owned it for over....3 whole months. I have finally figured out that "Come Together" was not originally a song by Aerosmith. I always skip "I Want You/She's So Heavy" and flip the record over prematurely, because I don't like that song as much as the prettier ones. It's too long, too jammy. It's the same thing over and over: "I want you! I want you so bad it's driving me mad it's driving me mad. She's so heavy..." (It will later, after a couple of heartbreaks and the discovery of the seemingly bottomless pit of passion, longing and vague dissatisfaction that sometimes accompanies early adulthood, become one of my favorite songs.) But I haven't tapped into my dark side quite yet. I am only now, at 16, starting to feel the pangs of conflict about which Beatle is the Best Beatle. In due time, the moody teenager will emerge fully, and the obvious choice will be John. (Thanks, J.) But the child beneath the surface is reluctant to reject Ringo just yet.

And then it happened.

I see the movie "200 Motels"--the one with Frank Zappa. Keith Moon from the Who is in the movie, but I don't care because I'm not a Who fan. I don't really like Frank Zappa that much either. I don't "get" him, or whatever. Are there girls who like Keith Moon and Frank Zappa, or do they strictly appeal to guys? I don't know. I wonder about these things. I'm 16. I also don't know why I'm watching the movie. I'm curious, I guess. Trying to be cool. Don't remember the circumstances exactly. Ringo has a part in the movie. So it must be okay. Then mustachioed Ringo, freaky-haired, ex-Beatle Ringo, arrives onscreen.

And says the word "pu*sy".

Not the kitty-cat kind of "pu*sy". No. The other kind.

Don't remember the context of the scene. Only remember the horrible word issuing forth from the mouth of Ringo Starr. And how I was so utterly unprepared for that.

I'm not a prude. I'm a teenager in the 80s. "Pu*sy" isn't part of my daily lexicon, but I'm familiar with the term because I go to public school and because I've been sneaking around and listening to my dad's Richard Pryor albums for years.

But still....Ringo? I just can't bear it. Worlds collide. Image shattered in the blink of an eye. And as for that song on "Abbey Road"? I can't get it out of my head. Ringo has put a new spin on "Octopus's Garden".

Hey, Ringo, in the zillion-to-one chance you ever read this, allow me make a suggestion: sexual innuendo is always more tasteful and interesting than blatant profanity. For example, your friend Paul, when describing "Joan", the quizzical, pataphysical scientific scholar in "Maxwell's Silver Hammer", simply used the phrase "...late nights all alone with a test tube. Oh, Oh, Oh. Oh." He managed to allude to something naughty and maintain his dignity.

Update: 2008. I have since gotten over it, and forgiven Ringo. Looking back, it really doesn't seem that big of a deal. But I will never, ever forget. Because hearing Ringo Starr refer to someone's "pu*sy" is, well, unforgettable.

Happy 39th birthday to "Abbey Road". I love it as much as I did when I was 8. Perhaps it is more accurate to say I appreciate it even more now that I am older and have a couple of (small) scars on my otherwise-rosy heart. I love it when Paul snickers on "Maxwell's Silver Hammer", I love it for the motif on side 2 that I, not being a musician, am at a loss to describe. I love it for the way the guitar sounds on "Oh! Darling". I love it for the crickets. And for 101 other reasons I promise never to write about. Since I'm, alas, not a moody teenager anymore, John is no longer my favorite Beatle. But I promised I wouldn't disclose my favorite Beatle.

It's late. Gotta go. Golden slumbers everyone. For those of you who "get it", you already know that I mean "sleep well". And for those of you who don't "get it", and especially for those of you who are too punk-rock for the Beatles, "Golden slumbers" means "may you wet your bed tonight".

The Passage of Time: An Observation

2008-10-07T14:25:00.010-04:00

I went to the DMV and got my driver's license renewed today, to the tune of $25. Seems like a lot of money for such a little thing.

I tried to renew online and through the mail, but there's some rule that says if I did this the last time, I must this time visit the DMV in person. I try to stay out of the place if I can. Although they have made great strides in the past few years in terms of moving the lines along, the DMV still attracts at least one entire family who arrives together and clogs the waiting area. I've always wondered why grandma, daughter, son-in-law, and two small children, for example, are inclined to attend to such a mundane errand in a group. It doesn't really bother me or anything, but it does make me wonder. Probably, though, no more than you are wondering, right now, why anybody would take the time to write about anything so dull as going to the DMV.

I've noticed that if I think of time as the period between driver's license renewals, it is one of the many ideas that make time appear to fly. Four years ago I renewed my license and I specifically remember thinking "Wow---this doesn't expire for four whole years." And now, my four years are abruptly up. Wow.

The slightly disconcerting thing is that nowadays, the state has extended the period between renewals to ten years. So am I to think, "Wow. This doesn't expire for ten whole years. It doesn't expire until I am fifty", and consider, even for a second, that the time between forty and fifty is an eternity? Or do I think: "Wow. In no time at all, I will be fifty, and it will be time to renew my license again." ?

What would seem longer? Wouldn't it seem longer if ten years was broken down into three sets: Four years (renewal) plus four more years (renewal) plus two years (two more years til renewal!) equals ten years......versus ten years in one fell swoop? Does it matter? Why am I even thinking about this?

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

2008-10-03T22:38:00.022-04:00

In my neighborhood:

(1)

On certain Saturday (and sometimes Sunday) mornings, bagpipers practice in a field a few blocks from my house. It seems like bagpipe music is either much-maligned or much-appreciated, depending on who you talk to--assuming the subject of bagpipes happens to come up in casual conversation. Come to think of it, I can't really recall in detail any bagpipe-related conversations I've ever had, but I must have had them. I guess I never had any strong feelings either way about it until I moved here and the bagpipers became part of the soundtrack to my weekends, but now it's something I look forward to, and I miss them when they skip a week. I've never actually seen them because I prefer to, you know, just listen from a distance.

(2)

Our house is close to the Brookland-Cayce High School football field. Since it is now football season, I will sit out on the porch for the next several Friday evenings and read and listen to the BC band play their jams during the games. It's like a little concert, and I can hear every linear and (mostly) perfectly-executed note, although I'm a few blocks away. The absence of improvisation (absolutely NO deviation from the sheet of music in front of you, kids!!) of any kind in high-school marching band music is youthful, crisp, and kind of sweet. Last night they played Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger". And just when I thought it couldn't get any better, they broke into Chicago's "25 or 6 to 4". They played these two songs last year, too. You haven't lived until you've heard those particular songs played by a high school marching band over a distance of about 8 blocks. I'm thinking I might write a fan letter to the band.

Dear Brookland-Cayce High School Band,

I am a neighbor and a fan. I have never been to a football game, but you better believe I never miss a Friday night "concert". Keep up the good work!

Best,

Anonymous Front-Porch Listener

p.s. Will you please play "Pick Up The Pieces" next week?

p.p.s Though I love you, I guess I am kind of glad I don't live next door to the field.

(3)

If the wind is just right, I can smell Krispy Kreme doughnuts frying in hot oil if I go outside between 9 and 11 pm on a Monday, Wednesday, or Friday.

(4)

I am so close to downtown (or as it's fondly known in these parts--the Vista), I could walk there in 15 minutes. I could drive there in less than 5. But I'm far enough away to feel just a little bit removed from the Vista. I like knowing I could be there, if I wanted to, in no time at all, but usually choosing not to. I think am one of 10.3 people of a particular age-group in town who isn't in love with the nightlife in....the Vista. I am, however, in the Vista every morning for coffee.....so I better get down off my high horse.

(5)

I can see the corona of lights and the tip of the ferris wheel from the State Fair every October from my porch, and I can smell the cotton candy and corn dogs on the wind. Once every 5 years I get a wild hair and actually go to the fair. I mostly go for the fried mushrooms and the Zipper. Mostly.

(6)

There are two fantastic non-chain grocery stores, and my all-time favorite antiques store. I spend hours at Old Mill Antique Mall sifting through old dishes and linens. And chairs. I love chairs. At the grocery stores, in addition to food, I could buy cowboy boots in any color including turquoise, or any soccer jersey my heart desired, as long as I was a fan of Uruguay, Mexico, Colombia, Ecuador, Argentina, Peru, Bolivia, Brazil, Venezuela, Chile, or Paraguay. Not being a big cowboy-boots-and soccer-person, I usually make a less-daring purchase: canned chipotle peppers and corn tortillas. And once in a while, I splurge for those Mexican bottled Coca-Colas, because they are made with pure cane syrup and taste like a slightly sweeter and thicker version of the American ones.

Babies

2008-09-30T15:52:00.012-04:00

These are the feet of my beautiful new niece, who was born one week ago today. She is, of course, perfect in every way. The rest of her is just as pretty as her feet, but I will not post a picture without my sister's permission, because my sister is more protective than a mother grizzly bear. She would take my head off, without blinking, with one swipe of her paw, if I so much as thought about over-sharing with the public this early in the game. She is wisely distrustful of the internet and of blog culture in general. But I just had to share a little bit.

I met the new niece last weekend, after she had a few days to unfold and settle in to her new environment a bit. It's early yet, but she seems to be a satisfied and dainty child. And as I mentioned before, she's just gorgeous to behold--looks nothing at all like a wrinkled, crotchety old man--the way I apparently looked when I was born. Legend has it I was black-eyed and bald as an onion, and would wrinkle my forehead and furrow my brows and peer, piercing the soul of any stranger bold enough to enter my orbit. My mother, especially, derives great pleasure from this memory. It is lucky for me that she loves me in spite of it all. Then, and now.

I confess that I have spent a lot of time thinking about the often-disenchanting state of the world and how child-bearing fits into that puzzle. When this is on my mind, I sometimes find a corner, wrap myself in a blankie, suck my thumb, and try to find a happy place where I can temporarily escape existential malaise.

I'm kidding. Sort of.

Here's how I really feel, today:

Every time I have the honor of being in the presence of one of my siblings' or one of my friends' children (and there are now 4 little children and two medium-sized ones in my family, in total, so I am an aunt 6 times over, 12 times over counting the now-grown nieces and nephews on my husband's side) I am humbled and in awe. And I totally get why some people choose to be parents. And I am so happy that smart, brave, decent people are having children.

Dry spell. Fried fish. Antiques.

2008-09-17T01:19:00.013-04:00

For the moment I am tired of reading my own writing, which is convenient, since I have been low on topics of interest over the last few weeks anyway. Maybe each obstacle feeds the other, or maybe I am just temporarily not feeling it, and would rather sit around in my spare time and listen to records or watch youtube or email/call my friends or drive around.

Seriously, what kind of a blogger writes blogs about how they don't feel like blogging?

I'm not bored, and in fact have been full of energy and busy.

In the last two weeks alone I have been to picturesque (depending on your preferred aesthetic) Lockhart, SC and to the lovely city of Indianapolis, Indiana. Lockhart might be the smallest town in South Carolina, but it packs a visual punch quite unlike any other place in the state. When I have more time, maybe I will elaborate. For now I will only say that perhaps "The Blair Witch Project" would have been scarier had it been filmed in or near Lockhart. Or "Roger and Me". And it would have certainly been more factual and realistic. In both cases.

But near Lockhart, in a "junk-tique" shop, I did find an old Heywood-Wakefield bedroom set for an obscenely low price. It's times like these when I am so grateful to live in plain-old, "backwards" South Carolina that I could just stoop down and kiss the sandy-ass dirt beneath my feet. Take that, Austin. In your face, Portland. Boo-ya, Asheville and San Francisco.

Indianapolis, on the other hand, really is a beautiful place, in the more traditional sense of the word "beautiful". It is a city full of knock-out old buildings and signage, statues, and houses big and small. It feels like the nebulous/grey area of America---not quite the south, not quite the north, and not quite the midwest. It has a strange energy, probably due in part to the partnering of some particular elements: the decay of shabbier parts of Memphis, a bit of the industrial grime of Detroit combined with some blue-blood......Louisville or Birmingham. Or something. But with a lot more fried fish restaurants. Lots of those. Lots and lots. Many. That is to say, alternate-universe many. More than Murrell's Inlet and Calabash, NC combined. Pretty strange for a land-locked city. The fried fish and okra I ate was served by a woman wearing a bright blue burka which matched her eyes. Interesting place, Indianapolis.

G'night friends.

Spicy Seafood/Rainy Friday

2008-08-22T22:54:00.016-04:00

A view from the windshield just prior to picking up Thai takeout:

Dinner:

I got my wish today when it started pouring down rain, right about dinner time. I suddenly had this very big craving for spicy Thai noodles. Nothing else would do. As it happens, there is a new-ish Thai place near my house, so with a few dollars burning a hole in my pocket, I donned my trusty rain boots and headed out.

I'm not in the business of reviewing restaurants or predicting weather, but I will say: the forecast calls for a few fall and winter rainy nights (hopefully very soon) when I will be perched on my sofa eating Three Buddies Green Curry and/or Tom Ka Gai with seafood, freshly purchased from that Thai place close to my neighborhood. Probably right out of the takeout box. Or in the case of the soup--drinking it straight from the pint container. I know, I know: it's more civilized and mature to eat at the table with proper utensils. So, hey, if you're civilized and mature within whiffing distance of a container of Thai soup---knock yourself out. I'm not that patient. Or that civilized. Or that mature.

Eating this takes me back to the good times I had working at a restaurant downtown some time ago. For a few years, the restaurant had a Thai chef who would cook the most fantastic meals for us schleps. It was my first introduction to Thai food, and after my first bite I was an absolute fiend for it. Sunday night was "Thai Night"--and the restaurant's menu would change hats temporarily--deviating from the usual "New American Bistro" standards, and replacing them with specials like Dancing Crab with Rice Noodles, Gold Coin Fish Cakes, Chicken Galanga Soup, Red Curry Mussels---my mouth waters just thinking about it. I ate well in those days. If I wasn't scheduled to work on Sunday night, I still found myself in the restaurant for dinner. Couldn't stay away. Sigh. Hard to believe that was nearly 20 years ago.

And thinking about Nick Thai and Sunday nights way-back-when also makes me realize that sooner or later, "those days" (including the comedy of errors of restaurant work, et al) require a lengthy post all their own.

Give me a rainy day almost any day...

2008-08-22T13:12:00.010-04:00

Today is good. There's not a thing to complain about. The only thing I'd change about today is that if I could, I would lower the outside temperature about 15 degrees, and make it rain just a little bit harder--not much. And I'd make it blustery outside too. Just a little. But I'm not complaining. Really.

It's just that I like wearing rubber rain boots so much. They are so comfortable. They are extremely liberating. I can splash right through puddles if I want to, and my feet stay nice and dry. It's not that I go to great lengths to find water to walk through. I just like knowing that if I accidentally stepped into a puddle, or if I had to walk a few blocks in the rain, or even if I chose to run in the gutter, my feet would still be dry---if I'm wearing my rain boots.

I've been outside on rainy days when I've forgotten to wear rain boots, and I've felt annoyed with myself for carelessly missing an opportunity to wear them.

And once, I ran some water in the bathtub and put on my boots and just stood around in the tub for a little while, just because I could. Okay that was a lie. But I would do it. I swear I would do it.

They look much cuter with cotton or wool tights and a skirt than they do in the picture (with the ugly black pants I'm wearing) but it's not cold enough yet for tights, and I'm not dressing to impress anyone but myself today.

I love small, ordinary comforts like rain boots.

If I lived in a place that had lots of hurricanes or floods, I would probably appreciate rubber boots even more. But I probably wouldn't post a blog about how I feel about the simple pleasure of rain boots, because that might make me seem crazy. Or tacky or something. Or shallow, like I wasn't seeing the bigger picture.

But as it stands, I'm just thankful for plain old ordinary rain.

So I'm wearing them all day today. I might even take a nap without taking them off.

Stereotype me. Go ahead. You know you want to.

2008-08-14T19:20:00.009-04:00

Attention tender souls: The following might be offensive to you. I certainly don't mean to be crass. I'm a tender soul myself sometimes.

But it's like this: I was reading over an old post, the one where I said I might re-do my kitchen floors in "vintage linoleum", and I realized that according to this website, I am such a honky! And with regards to my decorating leanings, I might be a flamboyantly gay man in a woman's body too! And it's all fine and dandy by me. What I mean is, I'm okay with it. I have friends who happen to be gay. I also have heterosexual friends who are--in many ways--gayer than my gay friends.

"What's wrong with being sexy?"

I have no idea why I just wrote that.

Besides, I like the word "honky". I wouldn't go out of my way to teach it to my kids or anything (if I had any kids) but it is kind of a loaded and funny word.

Okay that's all for now.

The Mountain Trip

2008-08-02T22:37:00.013-04:00

Today we drove up into the Blue Ridge Mountains. I'm too exhausted to write much. We had so much fun with our nieces hiking, swimming, sliding, driving---too much fun---John and I are both beat. But I'd gladly wake up in the morning and drive back up there and do it all over again if I could. On the way home we stopped in downtown Brevard, NC at a 1950s-style ice cream shop. Whoever owns the business has done such a great job of restoring this former pharmacy's soda fountain---it's really something to see. I had a strawberry ice cream soda, while admiring their old, green Formica tables and faded red and green Linoleum tile floor. How come modern ice cream stores don't make ice cream sodas anymore? Ice cream, seltzer water, splash of syrup, and whipped cream if you're feeling entitled. I was.

In the first picture, the nieces and I hang our dogs over a mountain gap and ponder the meaning of life (yeah, right) after a hike to the top. Calm down, PETA. By "dogs" I meant "feet".

2nd picture: O scoots down Sliding Rock, possibly one of the biggest entertainment bangs-for-your buck in the southeast. Literally. The cost of admission here is $1 per person.

3rd picture: Three people I love, with Looking Glass Falls in the background. Two of us went swimming in the pool beneath the waterfall. This picture was taken before the swim. It's easy to tell because O's lips aren't blue here, like they were after swimming in that icy water.

It's such an easy, short trip from Columbia. I bet I've made this same trip more than a dozen times in my life, and I never get tired of it.

Brevard is a really nice town. I wish we lived in the mountains.

You got yer ears on?

2008-07-30T23:13:00.008-04:00

There it was, in a box full of old books, marked "FREE". It was right on top, like it had a mind of its own and was just waiting for me to come along. I picked it up of course. Took it home, settled on the couch, and began an emotional and unlikely journey into the heart of the American south. To a special place. A place for which I had been nostalgic--not even recognizing this feeling as nostalgia until I open her pages, yellowed with age and stained with.........Crisco? And is that a diesel grease fingerprint there on page 3?

Yes, the Fates smiled on me this week and put me on a collision course with my new used cookbook:

"What's Cookin" Good Buddies: The East Rowan C.B. Radio Club

(Salisbury, N.C. 1980)

See if you can contain your jealousy when I lay this one on you: the members of the E.R.C.B.R.C. were exclusively female. Lady Truckers. Yep. And yes, the recipes are all embellished with the club-members' c.b. handles. (That means their code names, for all you rookies out there.)

And here's a sampling of what's inside. My favorite recipe so far, courtesy of Betty Gaither (aka Patch Lady):

this is copied verbatim from the book......

Oven Fried Chicken

1 frying chicken, cut up

salt and pepper

1 stick oleomargerine (sic. no, make that double-sic)

Corn flakes

Melt oleomargerine in baking dish in the oven. Make sure dish is large enough to hold a whole Chicken. Put corn flakes in the blender and grind until flakes look like coarse flour. Salt and pepper chicken pieces. Dip chicken pieces into melted oleomargerine, then into corn flakes. Place chicken into dish oleomargerine was melted in. Bake in 350 degree oven one hour. Bake uncovered. Best Chicken you ever ate.

Jesus, I love this damn country. How can you not love it?

In conclusion, I would like to shout a big 10-4 to--not only Ed's Editions Used Book Store---but all the Bucket Mouths and Professional Modulators who contributed to and compiled this humble and fantastic cookbook and who, in one way or another, utilized and cared for it and passed it along until---like a message in a bottle---it wound up in my grateful hands:

Sign Lady, Mother Goose, Big Mama, Misty Dawn, Penny Pincher, Granite Lady, Angry Betty, Sweet Polly, Red Riding Hood, Goose Bumps, Patch Lady, Squaw Lady, Lady King's Messenger, Calamity Jane, Skinny Biddy, and my favorite, Flaming Shag.

a kitchen quandry, part 2

2008-07-29T20:06:00.014-04:00

I tried to upload a couple more pictures, but either blogger doesn't like my photography or my computer is on a lunch break or something, because it didn't work for me this time. John frequently blames something he calls "a loose screw behind the keyboard", whatever that means. He's probably right, but since I have no idea what he's talking about I'm moving on.....

I want to redecorate my kitchen. Notice I said "redecorate" and not "remodel". I am soon going to have a new gas range, hood, and oven, new floor, new counter tops, and a new sink and fixtures, probably blowing the bulk of my budget on the range/oven/hood and the sink and fixtures because, well, those are the areas I've chosen to be snotty and picky about. The kitchen as it exists right now is very conducive to cooking, especially if you like to cook using recipes and suggestions from the backs of Campbell's soup cans, Bisquick boxes, and Baptist church Ladies Auxilliary cookbooks circa 1972-1980. As convenient as that may be, my long-term plan is to update it a little so that I can, oh, I don't know, cook something that involves crazy stuff like prepping fresh vegetables, broiling meat without setting off the fire detectors, or using the oven in the summertime without raising the temperature inside the house to 98 degrees.

Question: Who builds houses in the south without ventilated kitchens?

Answer: the people who built my house!

On the other hand, my house was built in the Atomic Age. It is mid-20th century modern Americana at its most basic, and when it was built, a busy housewife probably made quick work of stuff like tuna casserole (with sliced Spanish olives) on top of the stove, courtesy of a recipe on the back of a can of cream of mushroom soup (for which a range vent hood was unnecessary), and her husband probably playfully tweaked her fanny while she stood behind that vent-less range, just before they sat down to eat. On their Russel Wright Residential Melmac dishes. With the strains of Martin Denny's Quiet Village oozing softly from the hi-fi. I have no idea if any of that actually happened, but that's what I think when I imagine who might have cooked in my kitchen in 1959. I have nothing against tuna casserole, and I certainly have nothing against affectionate spousal butt-tweaking but, hey, maybe a girl needs something fancier than tuna casserole sometimes. All I'm saying is that my kitchen needs a little up-dating and some fresh paint on the walls, but most definitely not on the cabinets. I already have the correct dishes and a copy of Quiet Village, because I am a goofy white girl. It's seeming more and more like I should use those items to guide me.

My kitchen cabinets span the length of one wall of the kitchen, on the top and bottom. As I've mentioned before, I'm aware they are not the hippest or coolest cabinets on the block but I am nonetheless reluctant to part with them. And really, that's kind of why I want to keep them. Removing old cabinets and having new ones installed means spending more money than I care to think about. Sanding and repainting them involves removing fixtures and doors, then...well...sanding and repainting. But these reasons are not even the main reasons I want to work with my existing cabinets. Believe it or not, I have come to appreciate the cabinets and all their quirky, countrified/fake Scandinavian charms.

But what to do? What to do? How do I preserve the integrity of the original kitchen cabinets and spruce up the kitchen at the same time?

I posed this question to one of my favorite blogs, which was passed along to me thanks to the fabulous J.H.-- and to my delight they actually posted my picture and my question on an open reader forum. This is very cool and I'm excited, because now I can get perhaps a dozen or more different perspectives from complete strangers. Like blog reader Chzplz, who commented, upon seeing the picture of my cabinets:

"Nothing a good bonfire couldn't fix."

Ah, the INTERNETS. The WORLDWIDE WEB. The global exchange of ideas and information, and all that jazz.

Actually I really do appreciate Chzplz's comment, because that's exactly how I felt when I first laid eyes on those cabinets 6 years ago. But I have amended my opinion of the cabinets and fallen under their spell with the passage of time.

So, some ideas please, if you don't mind too much.

Should I play up the Alpine/Scandinavian-ness, or would that be--as one acquaintance put it--too "twee"? Twee. That's an interesting and amusing word. Say it with me now...."TWEE".

**I like the idea of using a vintage linoleum pattern on the floor. Maybe dark green, maybe a combination of green, oxblood red, and pale yellow.

Any suggestions of colors for the walls?

Any ideas on decorative accents like art, curtains, etc?

a kitchen quandry

2008-07-29T16:14:00.005-04:00

This one has nothing to do with food, but if you leave a comment, while you're at it, tell me what to cook for dinner tonight. Extra points for making me laugh. I need a good laugh today. Hopefully I can figure out how to post a series of pictures that will give some idea of how my kitchen actually looks.

I have these bold heart of pine kitchen cabinets with carved "Black Forest" decorative accents. A more forgiving and generous person might call the style "Scandinavian", while a fan of clean-line modernism might recoil in disgust and think of them as something like "Paw Paw and Maw Maw Country Cute". When I look at them, I can justify both perspectives.

But for the record, I prefer "Scandinavian".

Moving into this house 6 years ago, I imagined taking an ax to these kitchen cabinets and replacing them with something more modern and sleek. But a strange thing has happened. I've...well.... I've grown fond of them, and I can no longer bear the idea of sending them to the scrap heap.

stay tuned and I will post some pictures, and finally get to the gist of my problem.

A little science to go with my sugar...

2008-07-23T21:39:00.013-04:00

Shopping for a present for a relative who has an unusual sense of humor, I found this great print by artist Jason Freeny:

Things I just gotta have, maybe...

2008-07-17T09:27:00.026-04:00

I'm putting a few of these in my eternally-growing, imaginary shopping basket. I think they would look great in a little stack of three (or five) on the bed in the guest room, especially in the winter.

My imaginary shopping basket is full of ridiculous and impractical things, like log pillows made of felt, a cuckoo clock, an Easter Island carved tiki, a goat, a donkey, a lamb, and a baby elephant. It's big enough to hold all of this stuff, and there's still plenty of room for more. It never gets too heavy to push, and the wheels never squeak. I guess it is more of a cart---the kind found in a grocery store. The kind my grandmother would call a buggy.

Having an imaginary shopping basket is very practical, because since it isn't real, you aren't really making any financial commitments, unless you want to. It helps you cut down on impulse-buying, and the buyer's remorse that often follows if you spent too much when you knew better. Unless an item is something I really, really covet, chances are I'll forget I put it in the imaginary basket. If it's not in the basket when I do inventory, that just means it was obviously something I can live without. And there's no coveter's remorse, because if I have really forgotten about something that I imagined into a basket that only exists as an idea in the first place, then, I mean, there's nothing to regret. What's left is, in a way, like the thrifty shopper's version of the sound of one hand clapping. Or the sound a tree makes when it falls in the forest and the thrifty shopper isn't there to hear it. You know what I mean?

Speaking of hypothetical trees,

Here is a link to the Etsy store where you can buy the felt log pillows, in case you appreciate them as much as I do and wish to purchase them for yourself or for........................someone else.

And by "someone else" I mean another person, other than me of course. Did you think I meant me? I would never, never passive-aggressively try to persuade blog readers like my mom to buy me stuff, because that would just be wrong. Wouldn't it, Mom?

The store is called "My Imaginary Boyfriend". Since I have had an imaginary shopping buggy for a long time, when I saw her online store I felt an instant kinship with the crafty lady who makes and sells the pillows. Thanks for the inspiration, crafty log lady.

I wuv oka, bacon, potato chips, and beans....

2008-07-15T16:51:00.020-04:00

I'm thinking about summer and supper, and when these two paths cross, my thoughts often turn to okra. Because I love okra.

Or, in the words of my brother-in-law, "I wuv oka." His mother told me that was the first full sentence he spoke. These days he's all grown up and can say "okra" properly, plus he is a wizard in the kitchen, and lends his cooking talents to one of Columbia's finest restaurants. Go figure.

To the people out there who don't love okra, let me just say that while I respect your right to turn your nose up at it, I am also inherently suspicious that you might be just a smidge......delicate.

I assume this is probably old news to most people, but okra is indigenous to West Africa. I mention this elementary school-era piece of trivia because when I think about it, I remember also learning that African slaves hid okra seeds in their hair, smuggled them onto the ships, and planted the seeds in the dirt when they arrived in North and South America, where they proliferated and eventually became synonymous with "southern cuisine". Now that is a vegetable with a rich history. A vegetable deserving of respect. It's no secret that many of the foods we now think of as "southern" have similarly historic backgrounds, but it's just that I distinctly recall learning this about okra. It's a piece of lore that is forever etched into my brain with images that give the lowly okra pod a lot of serious presence and significance. Little did my 4th grade teacher know that she would capture my imagination with this random piece of information, and that for the rest of my life, I would think about it every okra season.

Some useful information about okra:

buy pods that are tender and green, and preferably small-ish. Larger pods are older, and tougher, and can be stringy.

if you hate the slimy-ness of okra, try cooking it quickly (a saute, or flash-fry method)--because stewing it sometimes brings out the slick, especially if the pods are large. I don't mind the texture, but some people hate it. I think the slimy texture thing is the main reason some people prefer not to eat okra. But it's funny, most people--even okra haters--will eat fried okra.

I cook okra like this:

saute some finely chopped onions and minced garlic in a little olive oil or peanut oil for a few minutes. Add 2 big handfuls of okra, chopped or whole, and two fresh, minced chiles. Stir and cook for about 5 more minutes. Add some chopped tomatoes and salt to taste, then cover and simmer the whole thing for about 30 minutes.

Some crispy, crumbled bacon would be a fantastic topping for the finished okra dish. I don't have any bacon in the house, but if I did, that's how I would serve it. I love bacon. I don't buy bacon usually, because if I did I would fry and eat like 10 pieces at a time, and I wouldn't share with John. Well, I would, but I would do it reluctantly. Also, I would put bacon in just about everything because bacon makes stuff taste good. So anyway, I don't buy it because it's not exactly the healthiest food you can eat in quantity. A little bit won't hurt, but unfortunately I have no will power, so for me eating one piece of bacon is about as easy as eating one potato chip. I don't buy salt-n-vinegar potato chips for more or less the same reason--because I am helpless in their presence, and I will eat the whole bag in one day. Speaking of potato chips, my sister brought me a bag of Zapp's Spicy Creole Tomato-flavored potato chips yesterday. Have you ever had a bag of Zapp's? Let me just tell you this: they have a flavor called "Cajun Crawtator". If you want more information than that, you're on your own. I refuse to be an enabler. In any case, the Spicy Cajun Tomato potato chips are long gone, and I know that for certain because I pretty much licked the inside of the bag clean before I could bring myself to throw it away. I didn't share them with John, either. I didn't think about him at the time, but I feel pretty guilty now. Addict's remorse. Typical. It's all my sister's fault, tempting me like that when she knows I have a problem.

What I am, honestly, truly going to serve with the okra tonight is easy to explain and I have to tell you about it because it's fantastic and tasty and so simple, it's hard to believe I spent my whole life not eating baby lima beans this way. I've done this with baby limas, Ford Hook limas, and fresh butter beans--with equal success. Same thing for frozen-vs-fresh, although anytime you can get your hands on fresh butter beans, you should grab as many as you can carry. The season is short and the crop is small, so they seem to disappear off the shelves as soon as they arrive. Buy more than you think you can eat, and then invite me over, and I will eat them for you.

I'll assume you have about one pound of beans. Exact measurements are not required in this case. See? I told you it was easy.

Cover your beans in salted water and cook them until they are tender. At a simmer, this usually takes about 20 minutes, sometimes a little longer. Then drain off the water and--while they are still hot--drizzle kind of a lot of extra virgin olive oil over them. At least a quarter cup, maybe even half a cup. Trust me on this. The object of the extra virgin olive oil is to make the whole dish silky and rich. Squeeze the juice of one and a half lemons over the beans, then add one or two cloves of finely crushed garlic. And I mean crushed, as in, to a paste. Add more salt and some black pepper if you like. Stir it up, and let it cool to room temperature. You add the other ingredients while the beans are still hot because as they cool, they take on all the flavors. They are best at room temperature, but they are also great cold or hot. This is sort of the way my friend Rose's mom makes her lima beans. I have maybe taken a few liberties, but the idea is more or less the same. Both Rose and her mom are passionate, talented cooks. When they say something tastes good if you do it a certain way, I have learned to pay attention.

Soap, laundry detergent, sherbet, the doldrums, and a contest winner!

2008-07-15T13:39:00.016-04:00

If you've been checking back for new posts I thank you from the bottom of my heart and I apologize for my lack of good material recently. Summertime finds me in the dumps sometimes, and my brain hasn't been particularly fired-up for a couple of weeks. My summertime blues are nothing serious--just a general blah feeling I get every year around this time when I have too much time on my hands. I have a tendency to want to place the blame squarely on the shoulders of my physical location combined with the heat, but I know those things are only a small part of what ails me. For one thing, it hasn't really been that hot here so far this summer. Hard to believe. Or maybe it has been hot, but I have finally acclimated. Or evolved. Or I am turning into a reptile. Could be any of those things.

Speaking of too much time on my hands:

Yesterday I made two quarts of strawberry buttermilk sherbet and three gallons of homemade laundry detergent. The sherbet turned out great--I made it because I had a bunch of berries in the fridge and I was craving something sweet, but not too sweet. It's kind of sweet, but it's also pleasantly tart--perfect.

The laundry detergent is interesting. It's interesting because the recipe made such a huge quantity, and it contains about $2 worth of ingredients. The ingredients gelled up in a weird, rather unattractive way, but it smells heavenly and works great. How attractive does laundry soap need to be anyway? But three gallons? Wow. You only need a quarter cup per load of clothes. I probably don't wash three gallon's worth of laundry in a whole year. So if anybody out there runs out of laundry soap, call me. I have plenty to share.

So have I been bored? Well, I am making my own laundry liquid and offering to share it with my friends. You figure it out.

I really like making stuff though. Seriously.

Oh, I almost forgot! Congratulations to blog reader Mr. B who correctly identified the locations of two out of three paintings on my post from a couple weeks ago. Mr. B is the lucky winner of a gift box containing:

(1) a bar of hand-crafted goat's milk soap from "Backcountry Skin Care Products" out of Blythewood, S.C.
I happened upon this nice lady selling soap and lotions at the local farmer's market, and I've been buying her products ever since. I am especially fond of the mint-scented bar soap shaped like a goat's head. That's right. She has a goat-shaped soap mold, and I am forever a loyal customer. I have a bar of this soap by every sink in my house. I love it. And now Mr B can love it too. All-natural skin care isn't just for girls, you know.

(2) a bag of Rap Snacks sour cream and onion flavored potato chips, endorsed by Rock-a-Fella/Def Jam recording artist Dirt McGuirt. I am not sure if you're aware of this Mr. B, but Rap Snacks are the "official snack of Hip Hop". They are also featured on this fabulous website for the National African American Culinary Arts and Hospitality Association, as part of their Soul Food Museum.
***please don't eat them though, because they were on display in my kitchen for the last two years, so they are probably stale. Rap Snacks, however, make a lovely conversation piece for your kitchen knick-knack shelf. Enjoy.

(3) a large bottle of Tabasco, the world's finest hot sauce.

(4) a pocket-sized copy of the Tao Te Ching. Because you just never know when you might need to whip out a Chinese proverb.

So for the rest of you readers who didn't even try---see what you missed??!!

The answers to the contest questions:

picture #1 is the mural on the side of His House charity thrift store, Meeting St. in West Columbia

picture#2 is located at the old Anderson Quarry in Winnsboro, S.C.--this was a tricky one

picture#3 is the mural under the N. Main Street train trestle

French Disko

2008-07-02T14:09:00.005-04:00

J and I were looking at this video last night and we decided we love it. Band sounds good, singer sounds right even when she's sharp or flat plus there is a guy gyrating in an erotic gladiator get-up at around 1:49 or so, which for me, was good for a giggle.

Untitled art.

2008-07-01T19:33:00.009-04:00

Columbia and her surrounding towns are lively with color and paint, including the spray-can variety. If you know where to look and are flexible in your definition of what constitutes art, you may have seen and appreciated some of these works. Or not.

And so, just for fun...a contest!! The first person who can identify the approximate locations of any two of the three paintings above will receive a fabulous prize package in the mail.
If you can i.d. all three, there will be a bonus surprise in the box. If you would like to play along, you can email your answers, along with a mailing address, to libbypettit@hotmail.com.

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder...

2008-06-30T22:23:00.011-04:00

then this is one of the many examples of why I have deep and complicated feelings for my city.

The things I did today.

2008-06-30T20:29:00.007-04:00

(1) Read a short story in a women's publication that made me want to puke because I hate--and cannot relate to--what I see as contrived, "Sex and the City" pop feminism. Grumbled to myself about it for a couple of minutes, then felt guilty.

(2) Feeling petty and small for being so sanctimonious and critical, I made a secret pact with myself (for the millionth time) that, starting today, I will attempt to be gentler, less cynical, and less judgmental.

(3) Went to the farmer's market for the first time in forever. Not the clean, fancy, Starbucks bohemian All Local Farmer's Market--which is very nice, don't misunderstand me--but the original farmer's market. The one in the skankier part of town. The one that smells like fly-blown cantaloupe, and feels more like a third world country. I like it every bit as much as the nicer farmer's market, but in a different way. I was looking for butter beans, but everybody was sold out until Thursday. I got lucky though. I met a guy named Cadillac who traded me 10 beautiful John's Island tomatoes for about 5 minutes of conversation. The truth is I was out of cash and he didn't take debit cards, so he told me to just "go on and take some tomatoes". He said he thought I was a "real nice lady" and wanted to show me "there's still good people in the world". At first I hesitated, but he insisted and said I could pay him next time I came around, which I plan to do tomorrow. It was a rare display of trust and generosity. He was the nicest stranger I've met in a really long time, and it made me feel good.

(4) Went home and made a gallon of fresh tomato sauce.

Ben and the Art of Smoker Cycle Maintenance

2008-06-24T23:15:00.021-04:00

Wouldn't you know it, now that June is almost over I discover that every Friday in June, the courtyard at the Columbia Museum of Art is the location of a local vendor's market. I saw scarves, jewelry, exotic soaps, incense, and most importantly, this man selling smoked pulled pork sandwiches and ribs with an array of sides: macaroni and cheese, beans, bread, and cole slaw---all tinged with a faint smoke essence from their proximity to the meat, and all delicious.

The smoke from this guy's mobile barbecue grill permeated the air and my hair and my clothes and has inspired me to ponder barbecue for the last few days.

There are different traditions of barbecue in the south, and I am sure you already know this because volumes have been written on the subject. I will spare you my input, because I doubt I have any new light to shed on the subject. I am not a barbecue expert or a food critic, but I do like to pick things apart and offer slice-of-life observations, mostly because I enjoy phoning and harassing my family by quizzing them on the details, and catching them in a lie when they claim they've been keeping up with my blog.

Let's assume for a minute that the man in the picture represents all that is good and holy about southern barbecue. His charred pans tell a tale of fevered attention to the practices of his craft. His is the face of someone who cares about smoked pork, and he wants you to buy from him and enjoy your meal. It takes a passionate cook to stand around a grill on a hot summer day and not complain. It's the proverbial labor of love. Sour feelings, gripes and frowns transfer directly into the food, and make it taste bad. Ben, of Ben's Barbque Place, must be one contented man and he must smile a lot while cooking, because his food was gooooooood. And I was grateful, because I was weary, and hungry. If you'll do me a favor and keep reading, I'll explain.

Since I'm on the subject of barbecue, summertime, and labor, I must mention that last week in addition to visiting Ben's Barbque cart, I spent a lot of time at my friends' lake house. I was housesitting, watering plants, and feeding cats, which loosely translates to "swimming and goofing off while drinking free rum". That probably seems like a lot to do all at the same time, but lucky for my friends I am a whiz at multi-tasking.

Maybe I can blame one of those primitive return-to-the-womb fantasies I've heard that all humans unconsciously harbor. One minute I was lying on a towel in the sun, comforted into a trance-like state by the undulating dock beneath my body, and the next minute I decided I wanted to close my eyes and roll off the dock--directly into the lake--propelled by nothing more than the action of curling up into a fetal position and shifting slightly to the left. It seemed like a good idea. It seemed, at the time, like the height of luxury and carefree pleasure. Just curl, roll, splash. It might have been utterly fulfilling, had I not picked up a splinter in the second before I met the water. It wasn't painful, just uncomfortable enough to be mildly disappointing. A little more disquieting was the fact that my bathing suit bottoms caught a nail on the way down too, resulting in a tear and revealing a glimpse of my fishbelly white butt cheek to an amorous catfish who, mistaking me for a lover, promptly goosed me.

Out of the water in seconds flat, I was suddenly as hungry as......a.....newborn......infant, newly wrenched from the temporary security of....warm....amniotic fluid....and thrust into the brittle and permanent....light of reality.

One brief towel-off, an application of Neo-Sporin, and a change of pants later, I hopped into the car and drove down the road to a picturesque barbecue shack I had passed earlier on my way to the lake. Although there was a distinct absence of smokey aroma in the vicinity of the building, I chose to ignore this fact because there were other perks, leading the chow-hound in me to believe I had discovered a diamond in the rough: A gravel parking lot. A porch with a single picnic table. An uncomplicated, rustic sign out front advertising All-You-Can-Eat Catfish Fridays, Smoked Sausage Saturdays, and BBQ Buffet Sunday Brunch. Inside the restaurant, my hopes turned to fright when I realized the reason there was no smokey aroma was because there was no smoke. There was no smoke because was no smoker, and certainly no pit. Not even a charcoal grill. It was dark inside. There was a refrigerated glass case by the cash register, the kind other places might use to display desserts. Instead of desserts, this case featured nothing more than an industrial-sized can of "Brown Gravy", loosely capped with a piece of crumpled aluminum foil. Behind the counter, a very tan woman--who looked at least 48 but was probably no older than 19--dipped barbecue pork from a crock pot and slopped it onto a paper plate along with some white bread. After garnishing the plate with a single dill pickle chip, she passed it (with a sneer) over the counter to the waitress--a very tan woman who was dressed like she was no older than 19 but was probably at least 48--who then delivered the plate to the only other customer in the building besides me. I deduced that this place was a family affair. I also figured out that the lone customer was related to both the waitress and the cook, since all three had the same pinched, hard facial features hinting not only at their shared genes, but at their mutual secrets and pain. Well, that, and the fact that they were all smoking the same brand of cigarettes. I asked for a take-out menu (which they did not have), tucked my catfish-nibbled tail, and left.

Between getting a splinter, being fondled by a catfish, and witnessing the dark despair of the lake people and their crock pot, I worked up quite an appetite. I needed something comforting. With vinegar sauce. And a hickory smoke flavor. I needed for this day to end well. And lo and behold, I bumped into Ben. Look, if I want crock pot barbecue, I can make that at home. It's not quite the same, but I've done it.

I bet Ben makes gravy from scratch.

In Search of.....

2008-06-24T16:13:00.012-04:00

I was recently in scenic Cayce, South Carolina, where I saw this mural painted on the side of a bait and tackle building. I thought for a minute about driving to the Congaree Swamp and setting up to stake out the Lizard Woman. But I decided instead to go home and water the last remaining patch of living grass on what used to be my lawn.

I was barefooted. A couple times, I used the hose to drown the fire ants that crawled up my feet and ankles. I watched my own feet with an apathetic stare, waiting for those ants. Other than this minor diversion, I stayed the course and watered that patch of grass for a really long time. Maybe an hour. Or it could have been two minutes. I'm not sure. Because it was so exciting, I guess I lost all track of time.

After this, I decided to make a sandwich, even though I wasn't hungry. I think I made a tomato sandwich with mayonnaise, salt, and pepper. I honestly don't remember. I might have eaten while standing over the kitchen sink, letting the juice just drip into the basin rather than pointlessly soiling a plate. Or maybe I ate standing in front of the open refrigerator, chewing, reading labels on jars of condiments and pickles.

At some point, I thought again about my trip to Cayce, and the Lizard Woman. I tried to imagine what song might make a good soundtrack, if I should get lucky and actually catch a glimpse. I can't decide between "Amos Moses" by Jerry Reed and "Funk#49" by the James Gang. Either one would be great. Don't ask me to explain these choices. Sometimes you just have to trust me.

When I'm bored, one thing that always makes me feel good is to take a long drive and listen to music. A car stereo is the best way to enjoy music. There is no quadraphonic, hi-fi, technologically-advanced, cushy, clear-as-a-bell or what-have-you stereo system on the planet that can convince me otherwise. Music sounds better to me when it becomes the soundtrack to a long drive down an unfamiliar road. And almost better than that when it redefines an ordinary landscape I have passed by a hundred times or more. It punctuates, in a singularly extravagant way, strange and/or ordinary things I see:

An entire family having a barbeque in the front yard, rather than the backyard.
A blimp. Anywhere, any time, under any circumstance, is there a flying craft freakier than a blimp?
Some little kids playing on a bare mattress, which has been suspended from a tree and converted into a swing. Yes. A mattress swing.
An old man wearing a Mountain Dew t-shirt and riding a child's pink bicycle.
A bird, which I'm willing to swear to God was a peacock, strutting by the road near the Blossom Street bridge.

On these trips, destination is not the point, but it's often a win/win scenario. Because whether I drive around aimlessly lost in the music, or I accidentally stumble upon something interesting, either way, I end up refreshed and not bored anymore.

Sometimes, but not always. Take the day I saw the Lizard Woman mural, for example. Had I actually spotted the Lizard Woman, in the flesh, it would have been a great day. But an artist's rendering of the she-beast? Compared to an old man in a Mountain Dew t-shirt riding a child's pink bicycle, that's just a tease.

Bored. And possibly radioactive.

2008-06-20T15:38:00.041-04:00

"Vaseline glass is not harmful, as the emissions from the glass are just slightly stronger than normal background radiation that we are all exposed to on a daily basis." (according to the**nerd alert** VGCI--Vaseline Glass Collector's, Inc.--website)

Today I was bored, so I went exploring by myself. I drove around for awhile and ended up in a junk shop. In my area, junk shops are ubiquitous. If you live here too, or anywhere nearby, it's possible you may not have noticed these common little emporiums, because they are often advertised as "antique stores" or "vintage boutiques". I like old stuff, and I am an idealist. And a sucker. So I sometimes forget that I am not in a different city, and I get lured in to these "antique stores" with their fancy airs and claims of "vintage" and "mid-century", only to leave empty-handed after perusing the aisles and booths full of porcelain baby dolls, Jesus paintings, rusty cast iron pans, 70s lamps minus their shades, giant wooden spoon and fork-shaped wall-hangings, and ceramic cats. Places like this used to be called "thrift stores" and sometimes "garage sales", and there wasn't a damn thing wrong with 'em. But now I guess we live in a much more savvy day and age, which forces me to pose the question: If the merchandise formerly found at yard sales and thrift stores is now considered "vintage", what's left at modern yard sales and thrift stores?

Thanks, eBay!

Thanks, lame (awesome) blogs about Danish modern furniture and swag lamps! (which I read habitually, and guiltily, like the dirty dirty little online porno magazines they are, crying myself to sleep afterwards. Not really. Okay, yes really. In a good way. Don't ask. )

For the record, I love where I live, even if I have to wade through oceans of ceramic figurines and wicker baskets with gingham bows to find something interesting. God knows Columbia gets enough of a bad rap without me jumping on the band wagon and attacking her junk shops. Excuse me. Antique stores.

So today, I did see something I like.

Vaseline glass was once used to produce decorative household dishes, but its production dwindled during the height of the Cold War. It's called Vaseline glass because under normal light, it is the color of ordinary petroleum jelly. The kick is, it contains uranium. Yes. The naturally occurring metal which can be converted to plutonium in a nuclear reactor. Under ultraviolet light, the uranium is illuminated and the Vaseline glass glows a fantastic, alien-landscape, nuclear, radioactive green. Dishes that would register on a geiger counter may not be everyone's cup of tea, but in my opinion, they're more interesting (and prettier, actually, in their own special way) than, say, Wedgwood china. I leaned in really close to get a good look at these, but don't worry: all sources indicate that there is only a very small chance of my developing radiation poisoning.

My friends M. and K. are the only people I know who actually own any Vaseline glass. M. is a neon engineer. Seriously. He knows everything about neon gas, neon sign making, and all sorts of neon-related things that are very complicated, things I cannot describe to you because I don't have the vocabulary. The best I can do is tell you he likes things that contain particles that glow when exposed to light and variants of light. In his work he has been exposed to lots of weird and potentially dangerous things: neon gas (weird but not dangerous by itself), blow-torches (dangerous, but not especially weird), molten glass (weird AND dangerous), mercury (incredibly weird AND dangerous). Then he goes home and gets to admire his collection of Vaseline glass. And he's still alive and kickin'. So I'm not worried.

The picture above really does it no justice. Illuminated Vaseline glass looks like something Uncle Fester and Grandmama from the Adams Family---they were a couple, right?---might use as their every day dishware. It would be very, very attractive displayed in a black china cabinet, enhanced by an ordinary black light, of course. Or picture a Halloween party for grown-ups: 1950's-era/Betty Crocker cookbook-style appetizers (the kind that usually include pineapple tidbits, maraschino cherries, pistachios, and coconut-encrusted jumbo shrimp) and mixed drinks with grotesque fruit garnishes, all served up on this absurd nuclear glassware. I adore the cake pedestal. I would love to bake a coconut cake and frost it with chartreuse or magenta-tinted buttercream icing and display it proudly on that pedestal. Or why not just use white frosting? Then the whole unit would glow under the black light. Even if nobody was brave enough to eat it, it would make a great centerpiece. But I only had enough money to buy a salt shaker. I'm hoping to get a couple more pieces of this stuff the next time I have a little money to blow on something ridiculous. Or, if you're really my friend, you'll buy it for me. It's not my birthday or anything, but, come on now. You don't need a reason to buy me a present and you know it. Look, all I'm saying is that once, just once, I'd like to be able to serve salmon puffs from a mysteriously glowing platter to an unsuspecting house guest. I'm easy to please.

And I promise I'll act surprised.

S.A.D.: Summer Affective Disorder

2008-06-16T16:23:00.004-04:00

I get weird in the summertime. I go a little stir crazy, my energy wanes, then briefly peaks, then wanes. Not sure why this happens to me.

I have lots of friends and family who feel the same way (or even worse) in the winter, but for me it's just the opposite. I feel more creative and happier in the fall and winter. There is something very attractive and comforting about the "cold and ugly outside/warm and candle-lit inside" dichotomy. The air is crisp. Trees without their leaves look stark. Stripped of their foliage, they take on the simple lines of pencil sketches. The landscape is temporarily sculptural: a little bit lean, a little bit sad, a little bit lonely-looking, and to my eyes, absolutely stunning.

Cooking is more fun in winter. Roasted chicken and mashed potatoes! Clothes are prettier. Sweaters! Coats! Boots come out of the closet, and I LOVE boots. Winter is the time for campfires and wood smoke. I LOVE the smell of wood smoke. I like to nest and play house and be cozy. For me, these are cold-weather specific comforts. Break out the Fairport Convention records, and I feel like a yeasty-bun in a good oven. To put it another way, in the winter I feel like this, and in the summer I feel more like this. So bring on the goblets of mead and set thy feet by the fire to thaw, bar the door, for the cold north wind doth blow and........no? Too much? Okay.

But probably the real reason I prefer cool, dry weather has more to do with selfishness and ego than the blathering above would lead you to believe.

Humidity is not my friend, friend, for I am curly-headed. More specifically, I am a curly-haired South Carolinian. For approximately 4.2 days of the year here in South Carolina when the humidity is low, my curls fall in feminine, pre-Raphaelite ringlets, and I am the envy of many of my straight-haired girlfriends. For the remaining 361+ days of the year, my scalp is host to something that looks like the mutant offspring of Robert Plant and Weird Al and murder-trial era Phil Spector, which has crawled onto my head to die. During this time, my fickle friends--once (albeit briefly) so generous with praise and flattery--laugh and whisper behind my back, thanking the Gods they were born with any hair but mine. And ex-boyfriends, secretly happy they didn't get stuck with me permanently, are polite to my face, but when I'm out of earshot it's: "Jesus! Can you imagine the offspring of such a freak?!"

The only thing pre-Raphaelite about me in the summer is my body. No matter what I weigh, I always feel like I'm 30 pounds fleshier when I'm covered in sweat and don't feel like moving. I tried moving around once in the summer, but I didn't like it much. So I turned around at the edge of the driveway with an expression on my face much like the Lady of Shalott, went back inside the house, and made a michelada. After that I had another. If you're feeling heavy and lethargic anyway, you might as well have more than one. That's just one of the nice things about drinking beer. And what's better for bloat and low energy than a salty Mexican beer over ice? Not much! Here's the recipe:

Salt the rim of a pint glass with kosher salt. Then put ice in the glass. There's a reason I mentioned salting the glass before you put in the ice. It's hard to do it the other way around. I mean, without the ice falling out. Not that I've ever done that........... But moving on.....take a cold beer, preferably a Dos Equis (or a canned Tecate or a Bohemia but, please, not a Corona**) pour it over the ice and add two dashes of Tabasco and a splash of plain tomato juice. Squeeze of half a lime on top. Stir it with a spoon, and drink it. **I have nothing against Corona, really, it's just that Tecate, Dos Equis, or Bohemia still taste like beer even after you add other ingredients. Corona tends to taste a bit weak.

The only reason I don't shave my head every summer is my husband's implied threat of divorce if I do. I imagine my bald self as a tree in winter: stark, chiseled, tragically hip. He imagines my stubbled cue ball head, and shudders. That he prefers his wife with over-grown foliage resembling Brillo on her head--rather than bald--proves something. I'm not sure what. But something. I guess one man's freak is another man's treasure. Say what you will. Draw your own conclusions. I think it's sweet.