Monday, December 04, 2006

Things You Learn On Your 31st Birthday

1) The day goes by much quicker when you aren't forced out of bed by a blaring alarm clock at 6am.

2) Mimosas taste good ANY time.

3) Cats do not care if it's your birthday. They still want their litter box cleaned.

4) Funny e-cards come from (Thank you Kristina. And no, you weren't really an ugly baby. OK, maybe for a couple of weeks there.)

5) Waterworld? Still a bad movie.

Back to mimosa drinking.

Ta Ta for Now.
Happy Birthday to me!

And Happy Birthday to Cousin Kristina Tomorrow.
The strawberry shortcake is in the mail.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Pasting Down Reality

In the early months of 1999 I began clipping things out of newspapers: headlines, pieces of articles and pictures. At the time I was working as a news monitor. It sounds like an interesting job - most of the jobs I've had sound interesting (that's why I take them after all.)- but really it was brain-numbingly dull. I watched a tape of local news programming and kept notes on what commercials were mentioned at what times.

Hrm. With some perspective I think actually I was a commercial monitor and a hell of a lot closer to my current job than I ever put together just this very second.

Anyhow. So I sat at a computer all day. On the television next to me the news played. Five hours of news. And all day long I would watch the television news and type out short descriptions of each commercial. As you may guess, I did not last very long at this job. It was depressing. News all day, every day. If you subject yourself to that sort of thing for long enough, you begin to lose hope. Everything becomes ugly and mean. This is when I started cutting up the newspapers.

I don't remember having any plan for these clippings when I first started collecting them. I kept them piled together in one of those two-pocket folders - you know the ones in rainbow packs that you used to buy as part of back-to-school supplies. There weren't many of them. Just a few, at the beginning. When I fled from that monitoring job I wound up working as the de facto office manager and receptionist at a non-profit organization. Part of THAT job was to go through the morning papers and cut out any articles mentioning the companies that belonged to our organization.

So there I was, paid to sit at a desk and cut up newspapers. It was strange timing on the universe's part because what had once been just a slight interest became a fixation. All of a sudden I had little bits of newspaper falling out of everywhere. I don't remember when, or where, I got the sketch book that they came to be pasted in but I do remember spending a lot of hours on the floor of my living room cutting and pasting. And there's a date on the bottom of the last page. The day I decided I was done. There was a rush towards the end. I got tired of the labor of it all, so I filled the last pages very quickly just to wash my hands of the whole thing.

I pull it off the bookshelf occasionally and you can't really blame me for wanting to get it as far away from myself as possible once it was done. There is really very little goodness in it at all. It begins with pages of short articles about foreign wars and atrocities. Afghanistan, Guatemala, Cambodia. A New York Times headline reads "Eight Tourists, Including a U.S. Couple, Hacked or Bludgeoned to Death in Uganda." I forget that happened. All of the time, I forget about how that was news for at least a week. It was, it is, horrifying.

One page only has 2 headlines, pasted perpendicular to each other, about racism in the London Police force.

Ha. Here's a good one:
"War leaves Clinton feeling dispirited and boxed in."

Who wrote that? Why did that make it into 16 point font?

2 whole pages of NATO and UN forces in The Balkans. Kosovo. Serbia. "NATO apologizes for bombing residential area." A full page, black and white photo of Kosovar refugees in a camp.

There's very little organization to this whole project. The next few pages are all Chicago violence. Gunfire, children killed, women stabbed, officer slain on duty. 12 hurt by acid on a carousel in Indiana. Someone known as "The Naked Bandit" in Allentown, Pa. James Byrd Jr. A Richard Roeper column about fraudulent news stories and liars in journalism. A section about the release of exonerated death row inmates and abuses within the Chicago legal system.

Total shocker, right?

I have captured Columbine, the wreck of the City of New Orleans. Pages and pages of stories about the war on drugs - because there was no terror for us to fight back then. Christians, Catholics, and ex-Mouseketeer Darlene Gillespie was arrested for some dopey, white-collar crime. Gay rights, and the lack thereof.

One of my favorites simply reads "30 years later, and we're still not living like the Jetsons."
(Seriously, where the hell is my fold-up, bubble-topped, flying car already???)

Chicago Sun-Times Friday, July 23, 1999: Front page, full page color memoriam shot of JFK Jr. He was handsome.

The debacle that was Woodstock 1999. (What a bunch of douchebags.) Dana Plato's death by drug overdose. Robert Downey Jr. Sentenced to three years in prison.

And then something completely Monty-Pythonesque: "New Flare-Up in U.S.-European Banana Fight." Or maybe those boys had more fun with Kansas cutting evolution from its science curriculum.

There's a map depicting how many juveniles were executed, or are on death row in each American state.

There are stories about diseases and viruses and cloning and celebrity deaths (RIP Mr. Belvedere). All sorts of stories. Some pages are crowded with overlapping headlines. Some have pages to themselves, or only have a couple of small stories scattered on the clean white sheet. It's an interesting collection. But I am glad I stopped when I did. The date reads August 25, 2001.

I am glad I stopped there because if I hadn't I might never have stopped at all. I might have shelves of sketch books filled with clippings. A catalog. I am glad I got whatever that was out of my system. I think about it now and again. This past week especially. Pedofiles in Congress, rapists attacking Amish girls, consequences of war and politics. I don't know if it is worse, or better or the same and just renewed or if it has sustained itself for all of this time, for all time forever. Maybe I stopped paying attention.

OK, not "maybe." I stopped paying attention soooomewhere around the priest sex scandal. Sure, I relapsed a little with the celebrity "news" and all but I've weaned myself off of that ... Mostly. I signed up for a month of The Tribune to help out some neighborhood kids with a fundraiser. I've been reading the paper on the way to work in the mornings. Now I save the news section for the ride home in the evening. It was too difficult to read about all of the horrible and confusing things going on that early in the morning. I like the funnies. Perhaps a story about different olive oils or a theater review. These are things I can think about at 9am. I save the hard stuff for the ride home. Gotta figure, hard to make a day worse right?

Maybe not.

This compulsion, the reasoning is buried somewhere. I feel like part of My Job is to hold onto these things; keep notes. There's a reason, I just don't know what it is yet. But artists, we artists - those of us who are not merely content to sit and watch. Those of us who feel the need to transform our surroundings and realities, those of us who dissect and lead examined lives - at whatever level and with whatever means - we have a job. I think. Someday, all of the things we have been collecting in our brains: the images and stories, words and songs and sounds and numbers. We're meant to put them to some use you know.

And I know I just put some people off of their lunch by using the dreaded "a" word. Get a grip. I'm,like, the least pretentious person you know. It's not like I capitalized it or anything. I'm just saying. There are those people who are content to get up, go to work, go home, go to bed. Repeat. Then there are those of us who need a little more than that. We bear some responsibility, to take this all and make something of it. Perhaps bring some understanding, or at least a perspective. There are so many people out there afraid, or unwilling, to own up to their opinions. Those of us who have developed methods to our madness need to take the madness and make something of it.
If you live in reality you wind up with a lot of crap stuffed in your brain. You have to do something with it.


Monday, September 11, 2006


Once Upon A Time...

There was a little girl who lived in New York City. All of her life she, and all of her family, lived in this beautiful city. To this little girl, at the time she was growing up, places like Milwaukee, San Francisco and New Orleans seemed to be completely disconnected from the place in which she lived.
As the girl grew older she began to explore all of the wonderful things this city of her birth offered her. Museums, concerts, parks and second hand clothing stores. She vowed in her heart and to her soul that she would never, ever, ever live anywhere besides this fabulous, loud and crazy city.
Then, one day, this little girl grew up. More specifically, she was expected to become a grown up. She had gone through all of her school days and now, armed with a diploma and a minimal sense of entitlement, she was expected to make her way in the world. She looked out onto the city of her home and where once she had seen beauty and wonder and adventure, she now saw high rents, low salaries and garbage piled on the sidewalks. While in her heart and soul a small voice still spoke out in favor of her earlier and earliest promises the other part of her (that would be the part that held the degree in Creative Writing) scoffed and called the dream impossible.
Turning then away from childish dreams and promises the girl packed her bags, grabbed her cats and her bear named Ted and hightailed it for a more promising scene financially agreeable scene in the great, mid-western city of Chicago.
The girl saw this sojourn as a resting point. A way-station of sorts, where she could learn to live and pay bills, perhaps write something off the wall fantastic and return, triumphant to her beloved city of New York.
She never intended to stay away for all that long. But, as it is wont to do, life got in the way. There were many trials and tribulations and dramas of enormous consequence to her life that prevented her from returning, let alone triumphantly.
And then, one day, a horrible, horrible thing happened. A big chunk of the city that she loved and watched from afar was set upon by Terrorists. All she could do was watch the horror unfold from the chair at her office desk as thoughts of everyone and everything she had left behind raced through her mind.
Where was her mother? Was she safe? Had she been hit in the head by falling debris? Had her father made it safely out of mid-town? What about her cousin who had an office near "Ground Zero?" Was she safe? When would the phones work again? Where were her friends and relatives???? How could she get in touch with them to know they were safe?
And what about the city? The city of so many dreams and hopes and promises? What about her city? Would it ever heal?
The girl sat at her desk and wept. Wept for all the people who were lost, all of the buildings that were gone and all of the needs of her city. If it had been possible, she would have been on the next plane/train/bus/slow boat back to New York. She felt as if the city might never forgive her for not being there at its greatest time of need.
For the next week she watched from the safety of her bed in her spacious, yet barrio adjacent, apartment in the mid-west as death tolls rose, speeches were made and plans for war were laid. She wept and wept and wept and wished that she had never left. Wished too that her mettle had been tested along with the rest of New York on that day. Feeling that she had inadvertently forfeit her right to be a New Yorker by being safely tucked away in The Second City on the day when all of New York rallied its resources and muddy good feelings to pull itself out of rubble. She looked at pictures taken by friends and strangers of the place that she still called home and felt that there could be no greater sense of loss than this gaping hole in her heart where those towers had stood as symbol of home and hearth and family.
Time heals all wounds. This is true. To an extent all wounds will heal and do. All wounds leave scars though. Some are visible. Like the way she cries on the plane after visits to New York. Some are more subtle, like the way she cringes with every mention of 9/11; no longer innocent numbers but an indelible mark on the lives of people all over the world. Or the way she handily avoided all news casts and internet news sites today, the fifth anniversary of that day.
But some scars are on her heart. Some of them do not fade with time but only sharpen in contrast. Some of them were reopened when she watched New Orleans wash away. Watched with her boyfriend as his city suffered grief and tragedy and injustice as well. Watched and realized that there is no difference - blown up or blown away. It's still your heart - her heart. His heart. And now they share a personal grief and guilt that they do not discuss and do not acknowledge. But it's there in the way they scoff at elected officials and their officious words. Promises of hope and healing for their cities are filtered through this grief and guilt. Knowing that in a solitary way they failed. Failed to be there when their family, and friends and homes needed them to be close and available - for a heartbeat, for a helping hand. As a daughter or son, cousin and friend. Failed to be there when their homes needed to be claimed as homes.
So now she must reconcile this guilt. She must remember that, although if any city in the world were capable of laying a guilt trip it is New York, there is no guilt. That, despite the length of her time in this city away from her city she is still a New Yorker and still a member of her family - family of blood and family of those that call New York "home." Because, no matter how long she is gone from New York she thinks about it every day. No matter how much changes in her city or with her family all of these people and buildings and walls and water run through her veins and make her heart beat. No matter what vacuous accent she picks up here in the mid-west she still falls into the familiar patois of New-Yorkese five minutes off the plane.
And no matter how hard her boyfriend argues against it, she will be back.
She will be back.

Saturday, September 09, 2006

I don't wanna live in a big old Tomb On Grand Street

I was all set to write about my current fascination with construction sites. Talk about how I want to grow up and be a construction worker.
I was going to tell you about the Caterpillar key I have that belonged to my grandfather. And how it could start any Caterpillar. Any one at all.
I was going to tell you that I keep it on the key chain with the keys to my parents' apartments.
I was going to say that I get a little thrill walking past those machines thinking that maybe the key I have still works and that I could just start her up and drive off down the road.
But, now I just cannot seem to be able to find the damn thing.
It really isn't funny.
I cannot think, for the life of me, where it might be.
It has been on my key chain since I was in High School. The keys may have changed but nothing else has.
So now I'm a little distracted from my plans of dropping out of the rat race to pick up a shovel.
I'm really disappointed in myself for losing that key. I have so few things in my possession as mementos of my grandparents. A rosary, a set of worry beads, a dog tag. Not a lot. There are plenty of pictures though, and memories. On my father's side I remember plenty of weekend afternoons playing with my cousin on the sticky, plastic covered couches. Or underneath the table while Yankee games played on TV. I remember having my nose stolen countless times and sitting at the window, watching the world go by. There was one time, when I was spending the night at their place in The Bronx, around Easter. I was staying up late, watching Jesus of Nazareth from the leather recliner in the dining room. All of the lights in the apartment were off and in the flickering from the television set I watched the silhouette of a mouse running along the baseboards. There was also the time I got myself locked in their bathroom. But that was just ridiculous and I refuse to go into it.
My mom's mother and I were pretty close. I used to spend long weekends at her house. And every summer, almost every Sunday, we would hit the road before dawn and head out to her house in Massapequa. From there, a quick stop for Gertz' buns (and half-and-half cookies for us kids) and straight on to Jones' Beach for a day on the sand. When I stayed at Grandma's house there were always trips to the beauty parlor, meals at Red Lobster and laps around the mall at Roosevelt Field with my great-grandparents. She always had beach towels spread out on the seats of her car. It was big, and silver with black, leather...Or vinyl, I don't even know. I do know that on hot days you could get third degree burns from sitting on the seats in that car. Hers was the house where my cousins and I played at mixing drinks at the dusty bar in the basement. It's where I watch The Natural and almost peed my pants watching The Amityville Horror for the first time.
My grandfather though, there aren't many memories of him. Mostly just impressions, he died when I was very young. I think I remember his hands, but not the missing finger so maybe I don't. There's a portrait of him that my mother painted. It's at my dad's house. We rescued it when she purged herself of all her art. I haven't had it shipped to Chicago yet. Part of me has no idea where we would hang it. The other part of me figures I'll be back in New York soon.
The pictures of me and my grandfather are all with my mother. She has all of the old photos. Including the one of me with the goat grandpa tried to buy from the petting zoo for me (or so the story goes.)

So one last thing of his that I have. Damnit, I wish I knew where that thing went.

I was really looking forward to sneaking out tonight and busting into the construction site down the street to see if it still worked.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

So, As I Was Saying

Remember how when I started writing this blog I was all "wedding wedding blee blah blooh?" Right? And then I ran out of weddings because I went to so damn many in 2005 and 2006?
Right, well after a brief reprive; um mostly because there have been some I just wasn't invited to. (Which, whatever. No gift for you then!)
ANNNNNYWAAAAAAAAY my crazy friends are all at it again.

5 weddings on the calendar for 2007! FIVE!
And, here's the capper. I totally get to be a bridesmaid - for the very, very first time ever in my life - in one of them.
And I swear I will look GORGEOUS in a Tiffany-Box-Blue dress Krista. I'll just, you know, dye my hair something...ish.


That is all.

Do we think my idea to maintain positive outlook at all costs while seated at my work desk is working?
I can't tell. My brain went pretty numb back around 1pm.

Thursday, August 31, 2006

How Did I Get Here?

Which, of course, is a question that leaves itself wide open to many and varied interpretations.

Most of which are best tackled on a day I do not already feel like going on a multi-state killing spree.

So I'll just ask this question: When did we start having to work 9 hour days?
I remember it used to be nine to five. There's even a movie and a song about it.
And now?

Can I get my hour back?

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

"Hear now a curious dream I dreamed last night"

Firstly curious because I knew I had been at the location of my dream before. Only I could not (and still cannot) remember if it was a real place or if I visited in another dream.

Secondly curious because all of the rooms in the mansion I was visiting in this dream kept moving. As in: exit library, enter kitchen, walk back through the door you just came through and it's now a bedroom instead of the library.

Thirdly curious because all of the staircases kept shifting. Not in the fun Hogwarts sort of way. But more in the way that what was once a proper staircase as I ascended was now a rope ladder as I attempted to descend.

There were also a lot of people I attribute to high school in this dream with me. As if we were on a field trip perhaps. Except I was in charge because I had already been there. Thus, everyone expected me to know how to get from room to room and floor to floor. Only, I could never figure it out because everything kept shifting.

I do know that the grounds were exquisitely manicured and there were many beautiful flowers growing outside. There WAS something else, something in the lake. But that's the part I've already forgotten.

I meant to write this all down when I first woke up but started rushing around to get ready for work.

Which is what I suspect this dream was about.
Much anxiety.
I am considering running away with the circus.
Can't be any crazier than working here right now.
Plus, nothing beats calliope music!

Sunday, August 27, 2006

Dear Mr. Fisk

1. What is the middle name of the first person you ever slept with?
I am unaware of any middle name he may have had.

2. What kind of underwear are you wearing and what color?
Little green ones that say "angel" on them in sparkly letters.
What? Shut up.

3. What is the song you want played at your funeral?
"Dear Prudence" by The Beatles.

4. Would you tell your parents if you're gay?
If perhaps it came up.

5. What would your last meal be before getting executed?
Crap, that's tough. I don't know if I want to go out on a full stomach. Probably ziti with meatballs smothered in my grandmothers delicious sauce.

6. Beatles or Stones?

7. If you had to pick one person on earth who should die, who?
Fred Phelps. Deplorable excuse for a member of my species.

8. Beer, wine or hard liquor?

9. What is the thing most important to you about your mate?
Rare moments of unrestrained silliness.

10. What are your plans for the future?
marry, write, publish, make a baby or two...move back to new york. no particular order.

12. Do you walk around the house naked?
nope. never have. never will.

13. How many drinks does it take to get you drunk?
Depends on the situation, and what I'm drinking. Generally about 4 or 5.

14. Where is your best friend?
in here with the rest of us.

15. What hair color do you like on someone you're dating?

16. Would you rather be blind or deaf?

17. Do you have any special talents?
juggling, organizing chaos from other peoples' scribblings,chocolate covered bacon.

20. Favorite hateful thing to do to someone?
2 words: wet willy

21. First movie you can remember seeing as a kid?

22. What do you do as soon as you walk in the house?
announce myself to the cats

23. When's the last time you went on a date?
anniversary dinner 2 nights ago. Does anyone else remember when restaurants used to be quiet?

24. Do you like horror or comedy?
i think horror IS funny.

26. Person you most wish you hadn't made out with?
big. jim. degrassi.

28. If you weren't straight, what person of the same sex would you do it with?
Ha. Ha. Thought you could get me with that one AGAIN? Nope. Not playin that game no more.

29. Where do you want to live when you are old?
somewhere near the beach.

30. Who is the person you can count on most?

31. If you could date any celebrity past or present, who would it be?
Walter Matthau.

32. Where was your first kiss with your mate?
Outside of a party for our friend Jen's birthday.

33. What did you dream last night?
i have no idea.

34. What is your favorite sport to watch?
curling. it always makes for good conversation.

35. When was the last time you got laid?
recent enough. thanks for asking.

36. What is your new obsession?
home decorating.

37. If you could take back one thing in your past, what would it be?
there is a list. i keep it in my heart. not on the internet.

38. Do you have a college degree?
BA Creative Writing for Theater, SUNY New Paltz class of 1998

39. What was the amount of your last electric bill?
$150 or so. stupid utilities monopolies.

40. Do you have life insurance?

41. How many hours per week do you have to work?

42. Have you ever attended a Toastmasters event?
no. i don't actually know what that is. i organized a roast for someone once...does that...? no, i didn't think so.

43. Favorite place to attend Happy Hour?
Snug Harbor, New Paltz New York. Best jukebox evah.

44. How many miles is your commute to work each day (one way)?
not far. close enough to walk it in an hour if i chose to do so.

45. What time do you get up every morning?
if the cats are being wretched jerks, anywhere between 5am and 6am. By choice, 6:45.

46. What is your definition of sleeping in late?

47. Have you found any gray hairs?
for years and years and years. blessed be clairol.

48. Do you check your cholesterol on a yearly basis?

49. How large was your first cellular phone??
not too big but paid for by mom, which made it HUGE!

50. Does your employer provide good health insurance?
not so much.

51. Did you use the internet to write a research paper back in high school or did you do it with encyclopedias and research books in the library?
there was no internet for me in high school. i remember sending emails in college but i don't remember doing any research that didn't actually involve books.

52. What is your earliest memory?
mmmmmh, something involving my scooby-doo wading pool.

53. Have you attended a HS reunion?
went to the 10 year. never going back again.

54. How many jobs have you held in your professional career?
ugh. six if you count helping to run "wing & groove theatre co." and more if you count the temp jobs i've held.

55. Have you ever been fired or laid off from a job?
hells yeah.

56. What is your favorite drink?
iced coffee, a tasty shiraz, or perhaps a nice syrah, fat tire beer, top shelf vodka and soda, mexican hot chocolate.

57. What is the most expensive bottle of wine that you have in your residence?
i gone done and drank them all.

58. How old were you when you stopped getting IDed for alcohol/tobacco etc...?
i still get IDed and i will thank them every time. "why how flattering, thank you so much."

59. Favorite casino?

60. Are you happier now than you were in high school?
it would be impossible for me not to be

61. Did you ever have Hypercolor shirts?
no but i know people who, might still actually.

62. Do you remember when Michael Jackson was black and attracted to older people?
yes because ew, who wants to date Liz Taylor?

63. What music was in your cd / cassette player when you were 16?
the cure, depeche mode, violent femmes, whatever they played on WDRE-FM.

64. Favorite fancy / upscale restaurant?
Coast sushi, right down the street.

65. How long has it been since you attended a kegger?
i believe i still attend one a year - so long as Ben Morphis is throwing 'em.

66. How many major wars have you lived through?
Well, I missed Viet Nam by about half a year. So...the cold war, the war on drugs, both gulf war, i could get really into this but i'm not going to because..yeah, no i'm just not.

67. Where were you when you found out about 9-11?
sitting at my desk in the research dept. annex at Harpo Studios trying to eat breakfast.

68. When's the last time you were at a 7-11?
About four hours ago.

69. Were you a planned baby?:
i have never asked.

70. Were you the first?:
and only.

71. Who was present at your birth?:
well, for sure my mom. that's all i know.

72. Were your parents married when you were born?:
yes. not anymore though.

73. What is your birthdate?

74. Which parent do you get along with best?:
mmmmmmmh my dad i suppose.

75. What do you fight about?:
whaddya got?

76. Do you have step parents?:

77. Do you have more than one best friend?

78.What do you like to do when you are together?
drink, eat good food, make each other laugh

79. Do you share the same interests?:

80. Which friend can you tell anything to?:
the best ones.

81. How high/low is your self esteem?:
historically it's in the toilet.

82. Do you get depressed about things easily?:
some things.

83. Are you an extrovert (outgoing) or an introvert (reserved)?
mostly introverted.

84. Are you happy?:
upon occasion.

85. Do you live life to the fullest?:
i try but it's expensive and takes a lot out of me.

86.Are you comfortable with the way you look?
at this precise moment? yeah, sure.

87. Describe your hair?
brownish-goldish-reddish with which to camouflage the grey.

88. How do you dress?

89. Were you a strange child?:
if i tried to deny it there would be very valid arguments to the contrary.

90. What did you used to love that you no longer do?:
not care about things.

91. Do you have the same friends?:
well, i've still got Tessa.

92. Was there anything in your past that was traumatizing?

93. What is your ambition?:
write, publish and then happily make my living repeating the process as often as possible.

94. Are you scared of growing old?:
no. so far, so good.

95. Do you want to get married?:

96. Do you prefer indoors or outdoors?:
all depends. got a porch?

97. Favorite Season:

98. Do you like walking in the rain?:
depends on the rain

99. Are you a vegetarian?
tried it once. failed when i started dreaming about McDonalds' cheese burgers.

100. What is your favorite food?:
many and varied and sundry and almost all of them.

101. What food makes you want to gag?

102. What is your favorite dessert?
bread pudding.

103. What is your favorite restaurant?:
is it sad that it's Buca Di Bepo? It's just so easy...and the bottles of wine are so big.

104. Are you a fussy eater?
not really.

105. Are you single or taken?:
very taken.

106. If taken who is the lucky guy/girl?:
alberto. he makes me lucky too.

107. Do you think love is the best feeling in the world?:
ain't nuthin better.

108. Do you believe in love at first sight?:

109. What was one of your greatest experiences?:
cross country trip on the Green Tortoise Bus.

110. What was one of the worst?:
Being left by my friends to find my way home alone from junior high on the second day of school.

111. Have you ever done drugs?:

112. Have you ever thought you were going to die?:
a couple of times.

Something Like A Smithereens Song

By request, and a clever one at that Hackimer, here's the virtual tour of our lovely Bucktown apartment. I don't think I actually realized how gentrified the neighborhood was until I was taking pictures on the street today. I stopped for a 50 cent lemonade at a stand run by the neighbor kids. The lemonade looked good; slice of lemon and a couple of fresh mints leaves as garnish. I was equally impressed by the sugar on the rim of the cup until I realized that it was actually Splenda. It made me miss the lemonade stands of the early 80s I gotta tell you.

So, this is the street we live on:

Charleston Street. It's a pleasant street.
Except for the bar across the way. It looks like a nice enough place. We've been in for beers a few times. It is completely overrun by a certain class of people I have come to refer to as "Jazz Jerks." Liking jazz is OK. I have been known to enjoy some jazz. Jazz Jerks though, are the type of folks who turn into insufferable assholes when confronted with philistines who cannot be "down" with their extended xylophone solos.

Screw that. I live in a strictly "no xylophone zone."

This is our building. Standard issue, turn of the century brick. One of the few left in our neighborhood. Slowly but surely all of the other classic buildings are being razed in favor of tacky condos.

Across the street from us live the current bane of our existence. We thought the Jazz Jerks were bad but The Moped Posse across the street is enough to drive you to drink. Their little club rolls out the mopeds a few times a week. They rev the engines in the driveway for about 20 minutes at a time and then roar off. Usually they circle around a few times before taking off to where ever mopeds are acceptable means of confirming coolness.
Below is The Orange Offender. I swear, I am going to do something horrible to that machine one of these days.

I'll spare you the walk up four flights of stairs and just bring you right in the front door:

It's a modest kitchen but, it gets good light. And there's room for the table. I like the openness of the space. I would like to toss the noisy closet full of Goodman model central cooling air conditioner out the F'ing window at that moped. But I shouldn't complain because, no matter how disruptive the noise is to daily life it mostly gets the job done.

Hiding on the other side of the front door is the bathroom.
And hidden it shall remain.

You enter onward into the living room. It's got, um...sofas. And bookshelves. Also a table...Well, two actually. It's the living room.

Oh, and also - it all totally matches the cat perfectly:

We, natch, have an entertainment center set up in the living room. You know, with entertaining stuff? Yeah, we've got all that.

And, as you can tell in this picture, there's a bedroom over that way.
It's Beatrice's bedroom. But, she leases it out to guest at very reasonable rates.
We've come to face the reality that everything we own is covered in a fine sheen of cat hair. So, take your allergy meds before you come over.

But wait, there's more!
This way to the master bedroom, if you please.

That on the floor is our poor, abandoned mini-Weber grill. It's hard to grill out a window I tells ya.
Oh, and this here is General Robert E. Lee. Apparently it was some sort of package deal. Bird wouldn't move without him. So now he watches everything we do.

The entire second floor is one, big room. The only drawback is that the walls are slanty. You know, the kind of space you think sounds really cool when you're reading about the attic-bound heroine in the V.C. Andrews' book. But, in reality means limited vertical space. Not so bad for me. Terrible for the tall boyfriend.

Up here is also where all of the creative stuff happens. Bird has his music and I have my desk nook. I have a nice view of open sky above my computer. It's only distracting when The Air & Water Show is in town. The sky fills with all sorts of airplanes. Bird likes to sit and watch out the window. On a clear day, you can see all the way into downtown.

I guess the last thing left to show you is the closet upstairs. It's very roomy. Yep, lots of room for clothes and shoes and storage and...well, you get the picture.

That's about it folks. You want to see more, you have to come for a visit.
Oh, who am I kidding. Here: I'm a sucker for photos.

Friday, August 25, 2006

'Cause it's FrrriiiiiiDAY!"

Yeah, that's right.
I survived the week.
Tonight my The Boyfriend and I dine fancily to celebrate three years of watching Law & Order together.
I promise posts over the weekend...probably Sunday.

Stay tuned for a virtual tour of our humble (yet duplex) apartment.
And the answers to burning questions! Not questions that burn...just questions that are.

Peace ya'll.
Go find something to do with yourselves.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Insert Evil Maniacal Laughter Here

My evil plan is finally working!

Hey, Tom Cruise, I've got $2.63 in my pocket. Bet ya wanna sell pictures of that fake-baby now!

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Humpday Blues

Snarl.Snarl.Snarl.Snarl. ROAR.
Weep. Weep. Weep.Weep.Weep.Weep.Weep.Weep.Weep.
Bachomp. Bachomp. Bachewy-chomp.
I fart in your general direction.

end transmition.

Friday, August 11, 2006


That's all. Nothing else for now.

Monday, August 07, 2006

Who Am I Kidding?

There's just no getting any writing done while Anthony Bourdain is on the television.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Speaking of Headaches...

I got nothing. Except to insist that you watch this spectacularness all the way through.
God Bless Steve Guttenberg.

**NOTE: This used to contain a link to the YouTube videocast of the title credits sequence to the 1980 movie "Can't Stop The Music," a pseudo-bio-pic about The Village People.

Alas, apparently YouTube didn't actually have the rights to show the clip and have, as such, removed it. So the video link doesn't work.
But, if you are interested in learning more about this film please check THIS out.

I Have A Headache This Big...

And it's got Heat Wave written all over it.
Damn, it's hot.
It's check-on-the-elderly hot.
I don't think I know any elderly...Hell, I don't even know my neighbors (except for the bar across the street...Hi!)

Would someone please turn off the sun? Do a rain dance, cause some sort of eclipse...anything.


Just another reason while my The Boyfriend and I will never be able to live in New Orleans year round.
Also why I am going home tonight and taking a bath in swirly-fun popsicles.


I believe this is a fair representation of the evil, evil sun that continues to pound it's death rays down on us. Haaaaaate.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

What Else Should I Be?

When I was growing up I was taught that it was better to swallow everyone else's hurtful bullshit than to let them know just how much it affected me. I've lived most of my life like that. Hiding things from people because, I was told, if someone knew how upset I was they might not want to be my friend anymore. To that end I have taken the high road when: ditched on my first day of Junior High by the kids I thought were walking home with me; I was rumored to be a lesbian because I was quiet and awkward in High School; when I was made fun of for being fat; when cousins were invited by other relatives on luxurious vacation getaways and I was left at home; My best friend stole my boyfriend...both in college and high school; and, um that unfortunate, five year incident relationship that shall never be spoken of again.
Now, in my adult life, I get told "don't take things so personally." Which, you know, basically amounts to the same thing as far as I am concerned.
I have spent my life picking my way along the proverbial high road. It is slow going. Sometimes it is hard to determine which, of the many roads, is the "high" one. And it's a tiring process, maintaining a steadfast course along this road.

Well, I've gone and abandoned the least for now.
Because really, there is only so much of other people's hangups I can take. I have my own special baggage, thank you very much. I don't really need other people piling theirs ontop. What do I look like? A goddamn bellhop?

There's an issue. Apparently a serious issue. So serious in fact that it was couched in nonsensical drama until today. Sneaky issue, trying to hide behind the banal.

I have been asked to "make things right." Which, I interpret as having been asked to apologize to offended parties. Well, one offended party. THIS offended party probably isn't going to get an apology any time soon. But, I have come to realize that such is life. My life. I am a rude, offensive, unethical creature. And you had best lock up all of your thoughts, good books and sons lest I come and snatch them away in the middle of the night. I'm like Lilith that way.

So I apologize.
I am sorry.
I am sorry you feel like I underreacted to your overreacting.
I am sorry you are so insecure in your writing talent that you feel like you need to clutch every word and phrase you put on paper.
I am sorry that you've never heard this particular euphemism before.As an english major I know it has been bandied about like a shuttlecock.
I am sorry you feel like a phrase that was moth-eaten before you ever put it down on paper is something clever enough that you need to claim it as your own.
I am sorry that you felt the need to create an issue of this that has come between good friends.
I am sorry that there obviously isn't enough going on in your life that your decidedly clever brain feels like it needs to harp on this.
I am sorry that it has gotten to this point.

Mmmmh, yeah. I think those are all of the things I am currently sorry for.
Wait, let me think on that for a moment....

Yep, we're done here.

"...Choking on the ashes of her enemies."

Monday, June 26, 2006

New Game! New Game!...And A Little Metacommentary

So, some lady-friends and I have started a brand spankin new blog.
Capitalizing on all things celebrelated we now bring to you:

So, go there. Post comments. Make us feel witty. Our egos need the boost occasionally.

I would also like to take this opportunity to remind all of the bloggers I know to keep blogging.
It's good for you.
Like milk, but without the hormones.

And if you don't have a blog, you should totally start one. What? It's not like the internet is going to run out of rooom or something.

That's my public service announcement.

And now back to the daily bump and grind of doing whatever possible to avoid working here in my cube in the sky.


Oh - also, I am totally taking Italian lessons. So, you know, in about a year I should be pretty good and if anyone wants to ...say...take me to Italy I will TOTALLY be a great translator and promise not to pick your pocket or steal your purse.

Friday, May 19, 2006

Note To A Guilty Pleasure

Dear Brittney,

Leave the douchebag already. The kid is cute. Find him a new daddy with a stroller.


Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Stream of Blah BlahTotal Bullshit

I have been inundating myself with information lately. Most of it is garbage.
By most I mean, like, 98% of it.

Hi. My name is Jen.
I'm addicted to celebrity gossip.

It's true. I just cannot help myself.

I know more than any self-respecting human should about this whole TomKat/Suri/Bride of Scientology business. I have studied pictures of Bradgelina looking for even a remote crack in that facade of happy, golden couple. I even drove out to the house Vaughinston bought in the burbs.

I'm kidding about that last one. I don't have a driver's license.

My immense wealth of absolutely useless knowledge is not limited to American celebrities. Oh no. Do you know Jordan? No, not THAT Jordan. The famous Jordan. The British one, with the ginormous boobs? THAT Jordan. No? You don't know her? Well, neither do I. But I do know she has a huge rack. She is also married to some ridiculous Ken doll of a guy and one of her kids I'm not sure but the Brits sure do love Harvey.

Can someone tell me why?
NO! Don't tell me.
I don't want to know.
I don't need to know.
Really. I am better off not knowing. Maybe there is a chance I can fit something useful into my brain if I don't learn that fact.

I had a friend in Junior High with a theory that every time you sneeze you make room in your brain to learn something new. It seems really stupid but man, I sort of wish I could do that. I would force a couple of sneezes before a party and then cram in a pile of interesting, useful knowledge. Politics would be handy these days. Like a second language, political discourse requires homework and careful study. Because if you lose track of that conversation it is totally like taking those verbal exams where you're sweating in a chair across from the teacher. And she's speaking in French, REALLY FAST, and all you can do is quietly conjugate irregular verbs under your breath and pray (Notre Pere qui es au cieux/Que ton nom soit sancitfie)

And the thing about political discussions is that they aren't really discussions. Most of the time it seems as though it's each person, taking turns, trying to convince the other (or others) that their opinion is right. Or The Right.

Not THE Right...just in correct...but I was trying to put some reverential importance on it...with the capital...No? OK then, moving on.

Back to my problem.

It's not really my fault. I am not solely responsible for the paparazzi. Or for any of the ridiculous things celebrities are caught doing. (Kiefer, I am looking at you dude.) It is everywhere though. Everywhere. There are entire television channels dedicated to celebrity news. Why are celebrities news? Why do I care so much? And it's not so much that I care what they do or who they do it with or what they are wearing when they do it. The fact is I don't care. I don't care so much I have to go look at pictures of them to prove to them I don't care.

See, that doesn't even make sense. I am sick. It's an illness. I'm trying to rationalize my obsession with celebrity gossip. This is what it has come to. Gah.

Of course, if I were chipping out a meger living putting together a hot, celebrity blog or some dishy website I'd be very proud of myself right now. Alas, just a couple of steps behind the trend and the technology. I'm not jumping on that bandwagon now. The market, she is saturated. Unless I come up with something really cool, like this, I think it might be too late.

Not that I am giving up the whole Dream. I've still got The Dream. It's in here. I am just constantly needing to revise The Dream. Mackerel is now totally out of The Dream. Which is a shame.

No. Not really.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

25 Reasons Not To Be Thin

1. Fried dough, in all of its many guises.

2. Body Thetans.

3. Maintaining a constant level of moral outrage takes a lot of fuel.

4. They are closing the gym in the basement of my office building and expect me to walk EIGHT WHOLE BLOCKS to the closest Ballys.

5. Comfy new queen sized mattress.

6. Fear of death-by-car prevents bike riding or having moving parts strapped to my feet.

7. Scientific fascination with the chemical properties of the chocolate-peanut-butter compound.

8. Bacon.

9. Pizza.

10. Bacon on pizza.

11. Deep appreciation for the art of Peter Paul Rubens.

12. The only available lunch option that costs less than $5 is McDonalds.

13. No matter how hard I try, a piece of fruit just isn't dessert.

14. Sometimes I just can't get the Popeye's Chicken jingle out of my head.

15. My, boyfriend...favors a down home southern style of cooking. Who am I to argue?

16. I'm sold on the platform of "cheese makes everything better."

17. Weakness for pancakes.

18. 50 Cent wasn't around to care about childhood obesity when I was growing up.

19. Exercise at home proves difficult with only very heavy books to use as weights.

20. My clothes would look really silly on a skinny person.

21. Muffin tops are always the best part.

22. There's still 3/4 of a cheesecake in my freezer. Someone has to eat it.

23. Rolling the exercise ball at the cats is way more fun than doing sit-ups on it.

24. Fear of bird flu prevents me from eating light.

25. I'm afraid that if I don't do what he says the Burger King will show up in my bedroom.

Sunday, April 30, 2006

We've Come A Long Way From Boxed Wine, Baby.

It probably comes as no surprise to anyone but myself that after my year of weddings (which you could really stretch out into a five year span of time that pretty much everyone I know has become engaged, wed or with child.) I have found myself a bit awash in memories as of late.

The other night I had a dream that I was back in High School, except it looked like a summer camp I attended when I was in grade school. And the student population was comprised mostly of people I went to college with. The only real memory I have of this dream (aside from the pack of house cats that chased us as if through and episode of Scooby-Doo) is of my asking Seth "Does this mean we have to go to college again too?"
To which he answered with a sly grin and a ruffle of my hair - as he was so wont to do during college (what? really? no.) And say "Well, yes. But only for a little while Jen."
In my dream I was comforted by this. That Seth would be there too. That we would all be there again.

And before you start with your "Aw, Jen's missing her glory days." Let me assure you that there was very little actual glory involved in those days. Mostly, it seems in retrospect, illusions of glory. We all thought things were VERY important back then. "Back then," by which I mean you know, before adulthood. BA. Bah. Who am I trying to kid? I'm still not really an adult but compared to...say 10 years ago...I am a hell of a lot closer these days.

Remember how important every party was? How imperative it seemed that so-and-so thought you were cute? Or handsome? Or at least talked to you once, just once? Remember all of those nights, trying to figure out where to go with no place to go? The seawall, the park, the streets of lower Manhattan? Into the mountains, out into the fields, gulping down pixie stix sludge and running in circles for a couple of hours?

Over the last few years, I have seen many of the people I shared these adolescent pleasures with achive some really adult milestones. Do people "achive" milestones or do they just stumble upon them in the road? I don't know. Probably about 50/50 depending on the size of it, I suppose.
Attending weddings, watching babies be bathed, going out for drinks in a fancy, hotel bar: sharing these relatively brief events with people really makes me nostaligic. Not so much for an age, or a period of time. It makes me nostalgic for the presence of these people in my life. I wonder, what would it be like to be an adult with these people?
Now that we have our own incomes, no longer dependent on an allowance or a curfew or worried about getting kicked out of places we really shouldn't be, what would it be like to spend time with these people?

In my day to day life, with the adults I know...And, uh yeah I know it seems like I am giving us A LOT of credit using that word, guys. But you know, chronologically speaking, we certainly fit the criteria.

Anyway, as I was saying: In my day to day nothing terribly exciting happens. There are occasional dinners out, shows to see, movies to watch, sporting events to rally around. We, for sure, throw a vicious party every now and again. I am not under any expectation that anyone I originally took "The Purity Test" with is doing anything they consider terribly exciting. It's just the change of dynamic I am really interested in.

Now that we are no longer preoccupied by fake IDs, adolescent dramas and insecurities, how much has spending time with these people changed? How much have our dramas and insecurities changed? Me? Mine just don't seem so dramatic anymore. Thank god. Of course, I'm not married. Nor do I have any children. My big drama last month was the cat maybe being sick. And how were we going to take her to the vet and still afford to buy the queen sized bed we had been planning for.
See? Not even NEARLY as dramatic.

It figures now that I feel better equipped to deal with the sort of drama and insecurities there were in high school and college I just don't have them anymore. I have different ones. Ones I maybe never even dreamed of "back then." So I wonder how we would cope.

Remember how important it was that everyone liked your girlfriend? No, I mean YOUR girlfriend. Do you remember how bitchy and obnoxious it was possible for us to be when we didn't like her? Yeah, it's a little different now. We're a lot more subtle with that shit.

Most of the time.

Remember how important it was that every party we threw was The social event of the year? Or how upsetting it was not to be invited to The social event of the year? These days, if there's a grill and a beer it's a good party. No one passes out in the bushes anymore. No one is caught making out with someone else's boyfriend. No one even gets handcuffed to armchairs anymore. Are we still having a good time? Hells yeah! Does it take me two days to fully recover from a good party now? Hells yeah! Do I still know how to party like a rock star? You better believe it. Do I still dance like one? Not on these knees I don't.

A better question: Would I still enjoy spending four hours in a Jones Beach parking lot without tickets to the show, just enjoying the ambiance of the crowd? No, not so much. But we can actually afford tickets to the show now! Even if our parents don't like the group! It's an awesome power.

That's it I think. Adulthood, it IS an awesome power. Making our adulthoods everything we ever dreamed they would be, I don't know if that's possible. I guess that's what the new drama is. Our ideas of pleasure and happiness are more complex now. More sophisticated, if you will. After all of those years feeling and thinking we were adult and sophisticated, I wonder what it would be like to actually be adult and sophisticated with those people.

As long as, you know, it doesn't interfer with The Simpsons.

Friday, March 17, 2006

The Most Powerful Couch Jumper Of All Time

So, apparently Tom Cruise, voted Craziest Man Alive 2005, has welded his star power for the forces of evil once again.

Not content with merely maligning women suffering from post-partum depression, haranguing morning show reporters or keeping a virtual child bride (FREE KATIE!) under lock and key, he has resorted to corporate blackmail to get his way.

Still pouting over the "Trapped In The Closet" episode of South Park that orginially aired back in November he told Comedy Central's parent corporation, Viacom, that he would boycott their press junkets for Mission Impossible 3 unless they prevented the episode from airing again.

If I were Matt and Trey this might make me write MORE episodes lampooning this moron.

Alas, I am neither Matt, nor Trey.

But I have an idea.

I think we should boycott MI3. All of us.

First of all, it can't be THAT good. MI2 was pushing it, if you ask me.

Second of all, the entire world seems to bow down at the feet of this little man. How did this happen? You do realize where this is leading right?

Someday, probably about a week before the offspring gets sprung The Church of Scientology (God, I cannot believe I just capitalized those words) is going to announce the breathtaking discovery that Tom Cruise is indeed the long awaited reincarnation of L. Ron Hubbard.

The baby will be born - we already know from the gossip rags they are expecting a son - and will have some pretentious name thrust upon his wee tiny babiness.

Flash forward 17 years when BabyXCruise, after years of home schooling and vacations on Scientology ranches working out his Thetans, finally meets up with his archnemesis... Kal-El Coppola Cage.

In a meeting more epic than when X-Factor and X-Men battled each other, it will be up to Kal-El Coppola Cage to defeat this meglomaniacal social demi-god. Bearing his mother's pert nose and his father's ego BabyXCruise MIGHT put up a tough fight.

I'm guessing he's going to have a glass jaw or a heel made of spun sugar.

Kal-El Coppola Cage - our future rests in your hands. You will be our last, and best, defense against the impending tyranny of Scientology and Couchjumper Cruise.

So, yeah - Boycott MI3 people. The fight begins here. And now... Or, well May 5th when the movie is released.

Save yourselves. Save our celebrities. Save our celebrity lampooners. Save our world.

Say NO to MI3.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

She II - Morning

She watched the remains of her coffee meander down the drain, staining the steel the color of sunset. Unemployment was beginning to weigh heavy on her soul. As she rinsed the mug and wiped it clean it occured to her that after this - breakfast, cup of coffee, crossword puzzle - there was nothing to do.
She had no money. So, despite the beauty of the late summer day, there was nowhere for her to go.
She had no job. No where to rush off to and no real desire to spend another day walking The Loop from one employment agency to another. Yesterday she had worn herself out bringing her resume around. Lake and Michigan, Jackson and LaSalle, Riverside Plaza. In every elevator she had reapplied powder to mask the sweat from the walk. In every waiting room she drank whatever free beverage they were offering and snacked on whatever candy was in the dish at the reception desk. If she had time, she made a visit to the bathroom and blotted face, underarms and neck with a damp towel before the interview.
It was hot again today. There was no air conditioner in the window. Instead she opened it wide and sat on the sill. It was only 10am. When you have no job and no money there's no reason to stay up late. You wind up waking up as if you were going to work anyway. Now the whole of this long, hot day stretched out before her.
Even if she could go somewhere, had money to take the bus to the beach, had $3 to spend two hours in the second run movie theater's air conditioning or cash enough to do a couple of loads of laundry it would mean leaving the phone. She wanted to be there in case something panned out from the day before. It was an off chance. She had already spent too many days tethered to the phone.
If she had any money she would get herself a cell phone like every other person in the world. If she could just find a job she would ditch the land line and shell out for a nice, simple cell phone plan.
She could spend the whole day sitting in the window, thinking about mightbes and maybes. She could write up on the walls the list of items she needed to get her life in order properly. There was no real point though. She should focus her energy on getting a job.
There was that one interview yesterday. The scary woman with the portraits of herself on various motorcycles on the walls. She had been overwhelmingly serious about finding a position for her. What was her name again?
She pulled her messanger bag up from the floor and into her lap and extracted one of the business cards from the many she had collected over the last month.

Lucille Waters - The Waters Employment Group

Maybe Lucille would come through for her. Somehow, when Lucille had looked into her eyes across the desk, she had believed her when she said "We're going to find a job for you."

Sunday, January 29, 2006


She walks through life with music in her head.
Emitting random squeaks and whistles on her inner up beats.
Her soundtrack is boundless, she makes her own music when left to her own devices.

And even songs she has never heard before are comprised of familiar rhythms and harmonies.

She tends towards easy distraction - both cause and affect - and will find herself afloat in the middle of a conversation without an oar.

She has never been good at summarizing. The big picture has never really been her scene. Minutiae makes her more comfortable.

Life is like a syllogism if you let it.

if good music is meant to be danced to. and this song makes her want to dance. it must be good.
even if only for dancing.

She will not dance to Cher.
Well, maybe just a little. But only in her chair. Or, with just one foot.

And she only sings along to Billy Joel with irony in her throat.

Everything else is pretty fair game.
She is like her mother in this respect. She knows she will grow up to embarrass her own children on road trips with the radio on.

But what is a life on the road without songs to sing along to? The open road is made for music.
Her penchant for speeding has a direct correlation to the practice of this theory.

Sunday, January 22, 2006

Notes From Taos, A Post Script

Christmas Week 2005. Taos, NM

Belated Birthday Poem For A Fearless Wanderer

I would take you to New Mexico,
where we would walk your dogs along the edge of Volcanitos!
Race breathless up El Pilar to view infinite Earth
from sacred earth.

Old Northern New Mexico

A wilderness of trailer homes, rusted trucks and busted fences.
Barbed into the ashram, ostriches strut on languid legs.
They seem out of place here among these lazy, sprawling dogs.
Good wine may not grow in this desert. But casinos do. And roadside shrines.
And graveyards.
Elaborate crusifixes scattered across the landscape.

One State Over

I tried to call you from the top of Pilar.
But my phone had No Service.
And, although I can see clear to Colorado from here,
I cannot phone to tell you.

Moderate To First Marker

Las Minas Trail.
The first snow we've seen.
Following deer tracks, and signs of other creatures
... further east into the hills.
There should be a mine on Las Minas Trail

Mica. Micaceous. Metamorphic. aluminum silicate Mineral.

I dawdle behind Bird's black leather jacket
collecting rocks and other, Shiny, objects in the pockets of my ratty blue jeans.

Damn Birds!
Spend their mornings flitting from woodshed to river
while I run myself ragged.
Chase them from tree to tree with my camera.
Just one shot - blue white wings extended in flight -
before you disappear into the brush.
"They are shy," She tells me.
"They don't like their pictures taken," he agrees.
They nod wisely from the front seat of the car.
Happy with just a glimpse of magpies.

He is

A tall man in a Hobbiton world.
He is a punkrocker.

He is
In hippie hell.

He lumbers through this casita.
He amuses himself at the wood burning stove
in lieu of TV.

I consume books like black grapes
savoring sweet silence.
And then I miss TV too.