Cocktails with the Noonday Demon

Back Home, remembering Moab

2006-06-13T05:44:00.000-07:00

What is it, like, a month since I've been home from my trip? And still I haven't posted about one of my most favorite stops on the road. Sheesh!

My life is like that. I hop off of one thing, sometimes a hair too soon, and I'm ready to get cracking on another. Of course, the current 'another' is finding a job and settling down into my house. Not quite as alluring as a road trip, unless you've been on one for three months.

I had a choice while back up in Washington state of routes through Utah. One would have taken me to the Northern rim of the Grand Canyon, and for a while that was the plan. Then a friend called and told me she'd be in southern Colorado, and would I be into meeting up in Taos, NM. I said hell yeah, and so my new route would take me through Moab. Oh well, I thought, I'm sure it's pretty there, too.

Oh my God. Am I on Mars? This one's from Canyonlands National Park, a vast landscape of sandstone sculptures, winding riverbeds, buttes and canyons. I went on a six-mile hike in the Needles District on fine day, and it was amazing. Except for those kids...there was this young couple of yups and their two wild boys just ahead of me who all felt that the 'Stay on the Trail' did not apply to children, who were free to stomp up the delicate plant life to their heart's content. Little fuckers.

Now you know how I love my roadside attractions. Just about forty-five minutes south of Moab is Hole 'N The Rock, which delivered all the things I crave: a great story, endless kitsch, and emus. Albert and Gladys Christensen called this 5,000 square foot excavated sandstone home, and both were buried in a little grotto just outside of it (check out the website for photos of the inside.)
Ah, Albert was such a multitalented man: Frankenstein like taxidermy, oil paintings of FDR, Indians and Our Lord, and...well, blowing giant holes in rock. His wife favored beadery and doll collections. The two of them lived inside the rock and ran a cafe in front of the living quarters during the uranium boom. He was working on an elevator shaft that would access a desert rock garden at the top of the rock when he died in 1957. Gladys stayed in the house until her death in '74 and even fashioned herself a rock bathtub. It has since changed hands a couple of times and now belongs to a family from SLC whose youngest son---I'm guessing 13---was the consummate tour guide. Onsite emus will give you dirty looks for free. Don't pass it up if you're ever out there.

Arches National Park is just a hair north of Moab, and was the inspiration for all those Road Runner cartoons. The most famous formation, Delicate Arch, is the shamelessly ubiquitous image on every liscense plate, body shop sign and plastic cup in the city. I was determined to see it right at sunset, when everyone scrambles up a half mile of slickrock to see the play of deep orange light on the sandrock. I was so busy with my dinner at Buck's Grill House (which I recommend) that I lost track of the time and had to haul ass and still missed the Golden Moment. I sat in the waning light and watched an old man walk around the base of this gorgeous formation, and It Was Good.

Oh, man, what else? There was horseback riding and rafting and the German woman who took off her pants. A few of the local servers were surly, and for the love of God, do NOT eat at the Slickrock Cafe. The service will make you feel like killing someone.

T.

Please Stand By (Glass in Hand, Of Course)

2006-05-26T10:11:00.000-07:00

Some dastardly imp has wiggled into my system and taken out my Mobile Technology, dammit. But don't despair. I may even be able to get an adapter and post tonight after a scheduled interview today. To keep your spirits (and interest) aloft, here's a list of Coming Soons:

There are four categories of scenic beauty: Pretty, Beautiful, Gorgeous, and I Just Crapped Myself. Find out where in the world one can find that last category.
Crazy for Americana Roadside? How 'bout paintings of Jesus, blowing holes in sandstone, or taxidermy? Southern Utah's own Hole N The Rock Rules.

...And much, much more.

Now go have a nice glass of Mer-lott and relax. I'll be back soon!

Waitsburg, It's Gonna Happen

2006-05-16T17:58:00.000-07:00

So, you've been to all the wineries in Walla Walla, you've cruised Main Street for hot octogenarians, been to the coffee shops to listen to the teen gossip, and you've tripped on the balloon festival. Now what?

Drive half an hour's worth of east. Seriously. First of all, it's a jaw-dropper drive, especially now in the springtime when the big rolling hills are bright green with new wheat. You'll pass a few teeny picturesque villages with the requisite crumbling barns, then head into what looks like a freaking ghost town. Then you'll be pissed off at me, wondering wtf I made you drive out here for. But you gotta look a little closer.

Ah-hah. There's something. It looks like a cool dive bar. Sure 'nuff, you've found the Lyon's Den, a true specimen of the Renaissance Dive, having all the scruffy edges intact, but with a replenishment of spirit vis a vis a newly built, see-through cooler trimmed in polished wood. There's a good collection of local Washington vino, freshly made pizzas, pool tables for the brave who dare challenge the locals, and a growing list of live music. Really bitchin' tee shirts, too. Gotta have one of those.

So you now have your beer buzz on, and wanna know what else is up in this teeny town. Is it 3pm yet? Good--go on out the door, and jaunt your hungry ass over to the destination place all the Walla Wallans are rightfully screaming about.

The Whoopemup Hollow Cafe is--how do I say this properly?---The Shit. Not since Gramma have I had such tender corn fritters. Scratch that, they're better than hers. But what I really dug was that this place takes the essential ingredients of beloved Southern and Cajun cooking and reinvents them anew. I had a dish that simply blew me away: the sweet potato ravioli served in a tomato sauce with country ham and wilted greens. Familiar flavors rearranged into something completely unique. Excellent work, people.

So now I have to know what dessert's like. The Coca-Cola cake reminded me of all the crazy vintage Better Homes and Gardens magazines I so treasure, so I ordered that.

This is the kind of dessert that widens your eyes like when you were a tot, and the Baskin Robbins 7-scoop Matterhorn was laid before you. It makes you giggle. You dig in and find that the combination of chocolate, cola and super creamy meringue makes this baby way more than a cute presentation. Damn, that's good.

You're not going to find much more out of the ordinary in Waitsburg...yet. But there's a lot of buildings that have been bought up lately by key players like Charles Smith of K Vintners. You'll get the feeling, though, that this is a tiny town on the verge of becoming a bonafide destination. And you can say you were there in the old days, before the Starbucks moved in.

Better visit now.

Judd Cove Oysters

2006-05-11T21:16:00.000-07:00

I couldn't have told you how oysters were farmed, either, until I went to Orcas Island. Yeah, water's obviously involved--the average oyster filters fifty gallons of it through its body a day--but beyond that, I had no idea.

As you head east out of the small village of Eastsound, you turn a bend that suddenly reveals a picturesque cove lined around with a wide band of flotsam, mostly water-bleached tree trunks and abandoned clamshells, with a gull or two pecking around for scraps. You might mistake the oyster beds for sticks peeking out above the water at high tide, but when the tide's out, it's obvious...sort of.

Neat rows of what look like sticks lined with rope kinda look like the rows of vines I've been photographing this whole trip. Several rows seem only to be a single oyster shell attached to the yellow rope, while the others are gnarly, amorphous clumps of shell and barnacle; the individual oyster is hard to pick out. I'm all questions at this point: how many oysters are in that mess? How long do they take to grow? Do I get in a lot of trouble if I eat one?

As if by edict of the Cove God, a big yellow truck rolled up and out stepped Bill Bawden and his assistant Elijah. I'd been advised to look for "the tall fair-haired guy with the huge hands" by my friends at the Inn at Ship Bay. Lo, there he was. I shook one of those big hands, which were every bit as rough as the oyster shells that had rendered them so. "You're gorgeous!" he exclaimed to me with a big boyish grin.

Aw, shucks.

Bill and Elijah rolled gray wheelbarrows out to a lot of rows. Harvesting is done by sawing the oyster-heavy ropes off the pvc that holds them, and is done to-order rather than all at once. Bill names off the amount each restaurant has requested, including the Inn at Ship Bay, which has ordered several dozen. It's an approximate business, since it's difficult to tell exactly how many of the little guys are hiding in one big chunk. After they're harvested, they go to a separate processing plant to be separated, de-barnacled and sorted for delivery.

"See this little guy here? He goes for about thirty dollars a dozen in New York," Bill says as he shucks one open for me. Wow. I had no idea I was in the presence of such oyster greatness. It's only right then that I realize the prestige of the farm I'm standing in: Jude Cove is one of the most beloved of the oyster beds on the Pacific Coast. Bill explains the price tag: these crustaceans are raised the old fashioned way, seeded on a 'mother shell' attached to the rope, rather than in mesh bags. The oysters that grow on the bottom of the clump have much thinner shells, and therefore spend more time growing their own bodies rather than worrying too much about protection. It takes around three years for the oysters to reach maturity, so seeding and harvesting are in constant cycle.

He hands the oyster to me. I knock it back. It tastes like seabreeze and butter. Fantastic.

I wondered why a famous restaurant on the opposite coast would be into buying from somplace so far away. Surely they've got an oyster or two over there. Water quality has a lot to do with the high regard for this farm. "I sent my water in to be tested, and they joked with me that I was cheating, it was so clean," Bill says.

I naturally had to have a dozen after my visit. I must testify: they're oysterlicious. And knowing where they're grown kinda makes me feel special. Like I'm in-the-know. I know the oyster farmer, so there.

I'm easily amused.

*****

I am so very far away from Orcas Island now. On the opposite end of the state, as a matter of fact. Give ya a hint: glowing balloons.

Shh...Don't Tell Anyone: I'm on an Island

2006-05-04T12:35:00.000-07:00

If you follow both this blog and The Cork and Demon wineblog, you're probably assuming I'm somewhere in Oregon still, photographing starfish and winemakers. I actually slipped off last week to Orcas Island, the largest of the San Juans, between the coasts of Victoria, BC and Washington state. It's an hour's ferry ride from Anacortes. I've been posting the wine stories at my leisure, fitting them in between hiking, beachcombing and stuffing my face with some of the best food I've had on this trip. My friend Luke, who I've known since we were eighth-grade troublemakers in Catholic school, is the innkeeper here at the Inn at Ship Bay, which is so very cool that it warrants its very own post which will come up soon.

The first full day I was here I spent the morning exploring the odd and amusing landscape revealed by the extreme low tide in Ship Bay. The first several yards of beach is covered with the ubiquitous barnacle encrusted rocks, creating an unsettling crunch underfoot. Being the softie I am, I'm all worried about what--or whom-- I'm crushing as I walk. But the petrified barnacles and abandoned clamshells are so much sea-junk at this point; the real activity is going on ahead of me in a wide band of green seaweed.

I didn't notice it until my leg got a suprise squirt of salt water. I sat down on a big rock in the middle of the mucky sand and watched as scores of little jets erupted everywhere, sending water in arches as high as several feet in the air. These are horse clams, or geoducks maybe, turns out; expressing their displeasure with the proximity of nosy seagulls.

For a local, the beach and its inhabitants might have already blended into the mundane, but not for me. I'm feeling like a wee tot on her first visit to the ocean, and I stop to inspect anything that moves, has color, or glints in the sunlight. There are dead crabs to turn over, more giddily fascinating purple starfish, and great big oyster shells laying open like expensive glass ashtrays, all usually hidden under the tide.

As I'm inspecting the underside of an ancient piece of metal, a man and his son greet me. He tells me they're searching for 'Captain Vancouver's Cannon', an artifact alleged to be visible at very low tide. He describes it to me before continuing his search, and I tell him I'll keep an eye peeled.

****

Luke wants to make sure I get Moran State Park under my belt a couple of days later, so we leash the collie and head off to a trail that will take us up Mount Constitution for one of the most fantabulous 360 views in the Northwest.

Redwoods are beautiful, and I've hiked through a lot of them on this trip, but there's something about the Washington pines that I love even better. The color palate of this forest is cooler, and I dig the soft, bright green fuzz of skinny saplings. It seems quieter, more remote. Luke tells me there are very few beasties that live in this area; no predators or badgers or snakes, but a few deer and scads of tiny birds. But even these are elusive, and the thickest part of the forest is uncannily still.

At the summit there's a stone tower, built as part of the New Deal/WPA as an observation deck. Closed for intense remodeling recently, it was open for us. I did my usual lazy thing where I skip the obligatory informational displays about Mr Moran and his legacy and blah blah blah and ran right up to the top. You can see all the islands, the shorelines, the Cascade and Olympic Mountains. On a more clear day, you can see Vancouver and Seattle.

****

The shore is irresistible. I went again and found new creatures washed up into the sand: moon jellyfish. Hundreds of them. Hard to spot at first, they look like discs of ice. Later, on my way back from the oyster farm down the beach, I found live purple sand dollars and spotted a juvenile bald eagle perched on a rock. I could stay out there for hours.

And...what's this? I stumbled over an ancient rusted tube about three feet long, covered in the barnacles of the ages. Nearby was a piece that looked like the end of a small cannon. Was it the famed Captain Vancouver's Cannon? Maybe. Or an old pipe, whatever. In the absence of proof, I get to decide.

More to come about this place. It's really amazing.

Random Special Moments in Portland

2006-04-27T11:42:00.000-07:00

Before moving to Portland, B. Deckert got pickled one night and extolled the virtues (read: went on and on) of the city: it was beautiful, it was clean, well placed within an hour's drive either way of stunning scenery, it was tolerant and friendly and intelligent and little faeries of happiness washed your ass for you every single day.

I had no doubt when I got here that I'd like the city a lot. And I really have. So I thought I'd share a few special moments.
The Japanese Garden is one of the most beautiful I've ever seen. Apart from the groundskeeper, a loud guy who looked like he just stepped out of a Kurosawa movie barking at a little kid for running on the grass, it was quite serene. A bit lacking in the koi department, however, which is a drag.

Papa Haydn is a favored spot in the Pearl District for their desserts. It's a great yellow affair of a place, and Mrs. Deckert and I sat out on the patio for a bite. I had an asparagus/goat cheese ravioli with a tangle of pea tendrils on the top. Now, I ask you, can you resist a dish garnished with pea tendrils? I cannot. The ravioli....it was okay. Kinda lackluster. But the lemonade, now that was the stuff right there. Lemonade the way the Lord intended. After lunch we split a banana cream pie, made with a lot of chocolate and coconut and foo-foo. The waitress warned us about the dif in style, to be fair, but ultimately it didn't really scratch the banana cream pie itch. I'm a purist about these things. Maybe they should call it 'Chocolate Coconut Banana Foo-Foo Pie' for clarity. I'm just saying. It's not like you can actually bitch about eating pie in Portland on a sunny afternoon.Now Mother's Bistro's a fun joint, except for the intimidating wait. I had a simple lox bagel for brunch, but it was done as good as one could ask, and went one better by letting me put it together myself. See, I like the capers underneath the salmon, so they stick in the cream cheese and don't roll off. Kudos to Mother's for saving me the trouble of disassembly. I visited later on for a Mexican chopped salad. To the manager, I said, "This reminds me exactly of a salad my mom made when I was a kid." And of course, that's the idea.
Hooray for conveyor belt sushi! It's cheap, it's halfway decent (except for the canned corn roll...wtf???) and if you have no one to talk to, you can zone out on the gentle whir and clink of passing plastic plates.

This is only scratching the surface of my culinary discoveries, let alone the whole of Portland, but hey, I'm here for a few more days. I'll leave you with Multnomah Falls, and the assurance that yeah, Portland is as cool as they say.

Ladies and Gentlemen, The Northern Oregon Coast

2006-04-25T15:13:00.000-07:00

I told B. Deckert, my Oregon host, that I needed Bald Eagle action before I left. He recommended a couple of hiking spots where the elusive raptor flies, but beyond that, it was all about being in the right place at the right time. Fine, I said, then let's hit the coast.

An hour's drive from Portland is the Ecola State Park, where the aquamarine licks black craggies for your viewing pleasure. Except for the requisite Pacific chill, the weather is flawless. Only the slight fogginess keeps distant objects from clear sight. Just beyond the parking lot and before you get to the vistas, there's a grassy picnic area dotted with teeny daisy-like flowers, as if spring could get any lovlier here.

On our way down to the shore, Deckert points out areas where forest clearcutting (you know, that Bush Administration brain child where you strip the trees so they won't burn?) has cut unsightly chunks into the hills. Politics aside, the shit just looks wrong.

We make it to a vista point where a cheery couple in their late forties or so are taking photos with an enormous panoramic lens. I ask them what's the main attraction and the man points to the large viewfinder bolted to the ground and says, "Don't move it, just look straight through."

Far away, on yon big-ass craggy rock, are a pair of bald eagles, sitting pretty as you please.

"They mate for life, don't they?" I asked, wanting in my current personal circumstances to romanticize the birds for it.

"Yup," the man said. We all traded off staring at them through the lens, then passed on the tip to everyone who came up there after us. Its a times like this, in places like this, that people are with each other the way they're effin' supposed to be.

Hunger demanded to know why we didn't bother to bring a damn picnic lunch, so Deckert and I headed off to Cannon Beach. After much inquiry of passers by, we decided on a seafood joint that proved to be precisely what we were looking for: superfresh fish and steamer clams on paper plate for fair prices. Ecola Seafoods Restaurant and Market is the joint. We came back after our adventures and bought our fish for grilling later, and it was even better the second time.

A horrific stench hit us as we decended the steps to the beach, and there seemed to be this strange band of purple gunk running a long length of it. Upon closer inspection, the gunk seemed to be bazillions of tiny purple mollusks who had died en masse and created a thick reeking paste. Weird. We passed over that quickly and headed toward a great big rock down the beach.

"It's called Haystack Rock," Deckert informed me, "And it's the biggest...something or other kinda rock in the Pacific." I think he meant basalt, but who knows what goes on in that boy's mind. He's always eager to boast. What's completely fabulous about it is that, at low tide, it's a Marine tidepool garden brimming with the bizarre and beautiful creatures of the coast.

At this point, I'm giddy like a kid at the candy shop, snapping shots until Deckert assures me that fifteen images of the same anemone is probably enough.

We discovered a group of teens up on the rock beyond the 'CLOSED' sign, passing around some kind of mini bong with their ass cracks facing us like they're invisible. I dissuaded Deckert from messing with their heads, asking him to recall the days when they could've been us. We saw them later walking down the main street in town, their cheeks fat with taffy, looking for the pizza place, and we just about fell the fuck out. Ah, sweet, tolerant, mellow Oregon.

This place is the first that has tempted me to consider leaving Austin. That ain't sayin' I plan on it, 'cause I don't. But for a dyed-in-the-wool Texas gal like myself, that's saying a lot.

And BY THE WAY, if you're one of those annoying-ass people who feel like you just have to make a crack about my home state, please save us both the formalities and kiss my ass. I know damn well that some krazy shit happens in my state, but your preconceived notion of me and everyone who lives in Texas is unwelcome like a hot poker in your ass. Thank you.

T.

Hard Headed Woman Finds Pacific Wonderland

2006-04-20T11:53:00.000-07:00

I hit my head in the shower the day before Easter. And no, I was not liquored up on wine. I was perfectly sober, just dense enough to assume that the bath mat placed over the side of the tub was for Gramma.

I was fine at first, then started to feel nauseated, so I got a ride to the emergency room. A CT scan, three hours and many hundreds of dollars later, I was cheerfully informed that I had a minor concussion and sent about my merry way. What a thing to have happen in the middle of my little dream trip. Damn. C'est la life.

After a day in bed watching Lord of the Rings over and over again in between naps and another dreamily driving to Eureka after an interview, I arose and tried to pull it together Tuesday to make the trip north. I drank my coffee, took my vitamins, stretched and so forth but I could not clear my head. It felt like someone had poured several pounds of sand in it.

Just a few minutes out of town, I found Clam Beach. I shushed the voices in my head urging me to press on, get going, get to Portland before nightfall and stopped the car. I grabbed my Coleman chair, walked to the beach, planted it, and planted my ass, then watched the Pacific lap the land until I felt better. Now I was ready to go, ready to see more. Initially I passed the Trees of Mystery, but my inner brat threw a fit and I turned around. How, she insisted, can you resist a massive statue set of Paul Bunyan and the Blue Ox, especially when such time was taken to make sure the latter is hung in the correct anatomic proportions? Soooo glad I did. For nature fans and those who love roadside cheese, this place is the purest union of both. Nothing makes you feel the sweet flush of insignificance like a cluster of gigantimous redwoods that have grown together to create a 'Cathedral Tree', and nothing drives that feeling home than a soppy, lofty poem and piped in hymns from the fifties.
I took the 101 to 199 through the place where I crossed over the border into Oregon. In Oregon, by the way, you are not permitted to pump your own gas. A guy comes out, takes your card and does it for you, no charge. How sweet is that? Just don't make the mistake of forgetting, 'cause the same guy will jump your shit, as though you'd gone behind the bar and grabbed your own tequila. Anyhoo, the 199 is a stellar drive. The last time I saw a river this color I was on a log-shaped boat-on-a-track headed for the 'Spelunker's Cave' at Six Flags.

I'm in Portland now, where much to the chagrin of my Texas people, is cool and partly cloudy. I've got my game back now, post head trauma, and can't wait to check out Powell's Books and all the streets after which Matt Groenig named the Simpsons crew.

T.

Too much time alone, not enough time alone. Balls, chickenshit. Badass, loudmouth. Brilliant, clueless.

2006-04-14T20:16:00.000-07:00

I left the house knowing I'd have a moment like this. What, you think this whole trip is about wine?

Shee-it.

I'm in the Marie Callender's and the waitress has plunked down a big fucking plate of cold cornbread. I'm looking at this big hunk of cornbread and I'm thinking: what the fuck am I gonna do with that? Who the hell's gonna eat all that? Why did she put all that on my table? Now, because it's on my table, it's mine, and I've gotta deal with it. It'll go to waste if I don't eat it, and all the starving children will know. I could take it to go. Then it will sit in my hotel room and taunt me: you spend so much money on your fancy food, following your every whim, and here I am, perfectly good sustenance, rotting by the television while you fill your greedy hole with In and Out Burger. What a horror you are. So I toss it in the can. And now I've wasted cornbread, a styrofoam container, and half an hour of my life.

Oh, yeah. As much as wine, meeting people, and experiencing the wild blue yonder, this trip is about my head. And my head is full, people.

I can't seem to catch up with whatever agenda I'd set down for myself. What was it again? To write, to see the Western half of the Homeland and report back everything I've seen, take pictures of everything, talk to everyone, go to every winery, taste every wine, interview as many winemakers as possible while simultaneously working through my iminent divorce, death of my mother, come to terms with solitude and face my loss of faith in humanity....

Iminent. Was...was that a typo? Nice work.

So I'm at this wine dinner last night, and I'm looking through the wine list and notice that, under the category of Other World Reds is the 2004 Reverdy Sancerre. Thinking I've just spotting a heinous error, I quip to the table: "Wow. Who knew that the Reverdy Sancerre was a favorite in the 'old world red' category?"

"Actually," the winemaker for Cuvaison said, "Reverdy makes a Pinot Noir that's really nice."

Crap.

"Well, damn," I says, "Who knew I didn't know what I thought I knew?"

It earned me a laugh for being a sport.

Spending time away from a job, either with my self all on my own or interacting with other folks is teaching me more than I can process. It's both exausting and completely amazing. I just need to figure out how to slow down, let this stuff settle.

Sigh. I need a vacation.

T.

Rain on My Parade, but not on Theirs

2006-04-11T12:39:00.000-07:00

According to Allen Price, a winemaker for Casa Nuestra, all this effin' rain is supposed to be up in British Columbia. But it's here in Napa instead, raining on my head while I'm trying to do my thing. And the further North I go, the more I'm gonna get.

I know I shouldn't be complaining, since my guess is the Texas summer is going to kick our asses this year. I should be reveling in the not-ninety-plus degree climate. Sorry, but no: cold rain sucks no matter where you are.

I've been posting less the last couple of weeks. I gotta admit, between the craziness of the SF leg and the physical demands of interviewing, writing, hiking and power drinking, I burned out. I realized that I was desperate for normalcy, a chance to sleep late, do laundry in a residence, pet cats, and read. I finally got the opportunity to do that with my friends in Napa, and it's been refreshing.

Napa (the actual city, that is) is an old farmer's town. Prior to wine fame, this area was known for its prunes. There's a significant population of Mexican immigrants here, and on Monday many marched to the local park dressed in white tee shirts, trailing the American and Mexican flags behind them. Whole families filed along Jackson Street, some chanting and others strolling, taking the opportunity to enjoy the few precious hours of partial sunlight while they made themselves visible to the community.

I've encountered a lot of the protests, since I'm in the smack-dab middle of where immigrant labor--both legal and illegal, I'm sure--has a tremendous impact on economics. The issue of illegal immegration is profoundly complex right now, and doesn't lend itself to easy solutions regardless to which side of politics you might lean. I understand that 11 million illegals in the country is a big problem and a drain against already dwindling economic resources, but the idea of making it a felony is rediculous and counterproductive. Mostly, when I see these people walking down the streets is the desire for due respect, recognition that they have put their asses and elbows into the work they've found, and deserve more than to be sneered at or refered to as a "drain" on a society to which they have contributed.

Beats the shit out of me what the answer is. I haven't been able to delve far enough into the options since I've been on the road, and I hate to put my half assed theory out there and get it mangled by someone who knows the details better than I do. What I do know is that I want what's going to work best for them because I respect what they do.

I'm feeling better now, and as long as I can find freakin' wireless access (not so easy to find here; there's here at Ana's Cantina and some Burger King in Napa proper, and Starfuck's but they have that T-Mobile bullshit you have to pay for. WTF??) I'll be keeping up better.

T.

Catching Up: Lost in the City, Lost in the Woods

2006-04-09T12:40:00.000-07:00

Where the hell have I been? Where's all the amazing pictures of the City?

I arrived in San Francisco exausted, excited, and frankly a little burnt out on wine. I decided to put down the camera and the laptop and walk all around the City, get to know some chunks of it I hadn't seen before.

I stayed in the Castro, historic haven of tolerance for not only our gay and lesbian bretheren and sisteren, but just about any variation thereof. Upon my arrival, the innkeeper noticed my saucer-eyed meandering up and down Market Street, so he pointed me in the right direction for some great chow. Chow, as a matter of fact, a slender, hip little bistro on Church Street with magnificent and well-priced food and a killer por la gente winelist.

I had to make a second trip to Japantown. Love me some Japantown. Love that the cherry blossoms are out and the Cherry Blossom Festival is underway for the whole of Northern California. The Japan Center is always hiding some little treasure. Any graphic novel or anime fans? There's an eight volume series of graphic novels based on the life of the Buddha by Osamu Tezuka that looked fantastic. At $25 a volume, tho', I was a little priced out, but they're cheaper on Amazon. Off to Mifune after that, of course, for one o' those big cast iron pots of udon with egg, fishcake, pork and tempura shrimp. See, I figured I could get away with a big lunch if I walked the City afterwards. Sheeeit. Maybe if I walked to Portland.

I gotta tell you, there was so much stimuli that it was all a blur. I met so many people, both very cool and very pretentious, was shuttled around from one venue to another by groups of people...saw so much stuff, drank so very much beer...
Above is a photo of one of my favorite spots. This was the Amber Lounge, the only bar in San Francisco where you can smoke inside. All the bartenders are also the owners, and since the smoking law is there to protect employees rather than patrons, these guys can decide for themselves.
Phil was unafraid to crank up the tunes. Early Rush, Metal bands from Austin, Roots Punk. Fantastic. And what a cutie, no?

Another groovy stop was Wild Side West, a mixed crowd saloon with a great two-level outdoor space. It was here that I met a newly formed a cappella group who broke spontaneously into Pat Benetar's "We Belong" while the small crowd stomped out a beat. Very special City moment.

After all that night, I longed for trees and birdies and stuff. There's nothing like hiking with a hangover to bring you back to reality. After doubling back fifty times looking for the effing entrance to the 101 (only to realize it was a block from where I started), I made my way across the Golden Gate to the Muir Woods.

Not one to take the Grandma tour across the boardwalks, I headed up a trail that led through the thick of beautiful redwoods and ascended to a vista where you can see the ocean over the tops of the mountains. My wee camera doesn't hack it for this kind of expansive vista, but you get the idea.

I'm in Napa now, still reeling from my SF days. This trip...damn. I can barely keep up with myself. The proportion of this adventure is overwhelming sometimes. I knew this would happen: I'd get tired, have to slow down a little. It's part of the plan.

T.

Man, Nature and Cocktails

2006-04-01T09:50:00.000-08:00

So there was this California Baby Boomer couple in the breakfast nook of the Sands hotel in San Luis Obispo, talking about where they wanted to go next. "Hearst Castle?" says the guy. His wife sneers. "I'm not so much into man-made things. They don't interest me. I like the beach, the mountains, the slopes. The waves call to me, the wind calls to me."

Well, Mrs. Gaia McWheatgrass, the Hearst Castle calls to me. I was so excited at my first glimpse of the great Fortress of Hubris that I giggled aloud. The story of W.R. Hearst is one of the great twentieth century Power Broker tales, and the only thing that would have made me happier touring the house is if I'd been able to wander it on my own. See, tour guides are great and all, especially if you're not familiar with the history. Me, I don't give a rat's dingle how many pounds of concrete were hoisted up the mountain or how long the polar bears stayed on the property. I just want to look out over the electrically lit tennis courts and imagine all of Marion Davies' "trashy" Hollywood friends hanging out.
I want to inspect the artifacts for signs of Hearst's involvement in secret societies. I want to sit in the billiards room and see the dirty-rich bastards making power deals and talking shit about women. I could make the whole movie in my head, were it not for a tour guide filling me in on the age of some tapistry. Someday, when I'm rich, I'll have myself a private tour, with a docent who will follow close behind silently until I ask a question. Or need my cocktail refreshed.

Oh, and by the way, Molly McBirkenstock, Big Sur also calls to me. I did a day and a half powering through as much as I could take of the pants-crappingly beautiful* scenery. I watched a herd (Herd? Group? Gaggle?) of plump seals frolicking amongst the craggy rocks, laughed as they hoisted themselves ashore and plopped down for a nap.
Jade Cove and Sand Dollar Beach were spectacular, even in the off-and-on drizzle. At Jade Cove, I climbed underneath a massive boulder and sat about a foot from where the foam washed over the rocks. I had a nice conversation with the sea. I asked permission to take the fist-sized chunk of jade I found, and it said sure, go ahead, I got tons of the stuff. You fully understand the color aquamarine once you've sat so close, as well as the power of water. I was both enchanted and a little afraid.

The Henry Miller Memorial Library is nestled into a grove of tall redwoods, it's little chimney puffing away. I spent an hour reading and smoking while the "curator" played Stevie Wonder on the guitar. A Perfect Moment.

Ate lunch at the Nepenthe, a 60-some-odd year old restaurant where Orson Wells, Rita Heyworth and later a host of beat-generation personalities hung out. Today, it's a destination restaurant for the Beautiful People. Still a gorgeous view, though, great food; the Bloody Marys are wildly popular and the wine list does not suck at all.

Hiking at the Pfiffer/Big Sur State Park was cut short by the rain once it really started to pour. My entire 2-ish mile hike was wet and muddy, but I didn't mind. It felt invigorating to be trudging up the hill on my own amongst the redwoods. I felt like Survivorwoman again. But once your jeans are soaked through, it's time to give it up.

I would have loved to continue my adventure in Big Sur; I didn't get nearly enough. But the lodgings are muy expensivo, and scarce due to a concert going on at a local venue. Plus the rain was settling in, and so I've moved on. I'm definitely coming back, both to spend more time at the Castle and more time with the whales and the seals. Life is lovely, especially when you don't limit yourself to only one category of experience.

Oh, and seriously: check out the photos with the badge on the right. Good lookin' stuff.

T.

*(thanks, Maggie)

Highlights of, like, SLO

2006-03-27T17:27:00.000-08:00

I'm into my cups here at the Sands in SLO, wondering whether I will ever learn to spit. Spit wine, that is; when you taste 38 wines a day, you're supposed to spit from the get-go, but somehow I've managed to take my cue from the multitudes of tourists for whom spitting was never an option.

San Luis Obispo is a college town. My tour guide, John, believes there's a missing demographic here. There's plenty of twentysomethings, and a good bit of those over forty, but the middle, being, say, 26-40, are priced out of the real estate. This might be true. I still see joggers that look like they might belong in that demographic, but far more who belong to the Cal Poly set--good looking young 'uns who eat tofu by day and drink microbrews by night.

By accident I stumbled on Bubble Gum Alley, and no matter what you might read about its history, it's just straight-up gross. Impressive and all, but ultimately, it arose the gorge. Since 1960 or some-odd, people have stuck their gumwads on the wall here, creating a long corridor of chewy horror.

But even as there's stuff to squelch your apetite, there's a good bite that'll bring it right on back.

The Big Sky Cafe does the food right. Down to the vine ripened tomato on your burger, they make the details count. I've had two meals here so far, and both satisfied me to my soul. Pictured here is the odd but delicious 'Red Flannel Turkey Hash', a mix of turkey sausage, beets and carmelized onions nestled next to a couple of perfect over-medium egglets. That's a good layer of food for a long day's wine tasting, for sure.

John, my tour guide, led me to a most interesting stop: the San Luis Fish and BBQ, where you can purchase a basket of fried fish goodness, or... a 1998 Beaux Freres Pinot Noir. Somehow, the proprietors have amassed a large, revolving inventory of older wines. They're hit and miss, but so worth checking out, if only for the sheer amazement at finding the odd, ten year old Northern Rhone.

Lots more to check out. I'll keep you abreast.

Andersen's Pea-ple Pleasin' Soup

2006-03-24T08:13:00.000-08:00

It's usually the intrepid adventurer's wont to avoid the tourist traps, but in some cases, the tourist traps are a great reminiscence of childhood roadtrip wackiness. Remember those stops you made in the restaurants that had the big gift shop crammed full of cheap toys and novelties (which you begged for), figurines, peanut brittle, and the local "homeade" jam? And no, I don't mean the effin' Cracker Barrel, which is to these places as Wal-Mart is to the local specialty shop. I mean places that had been there since the golden age of the American Road Trip in the mid-fifties, luring weary drivers and their cranky kids in for eggs, bacon, and marble fudge. These places are a dying breed, losing their places to chain joints and Tiger Marts, or just rotting in the desert sun.

I, personally, love when I find one that's still going strong, and Andersen's is a cheesy roadside stop lover's dream. Not only do they have the requisite gift shop, but they have the kraziest specialty-of-the-house I've ever seen.
Homeade Pea Soup.

There's the all-you-can-eat Pea Soup, complete with toppings and cheese onion bread, or the Pea Soup and Sandwich, or the Pea Soup and Salad combo. I mean, they have all the other stuff, too, but c'mon, you know you want some.

Any tourist restaurant worth it's table salt simply must have its mascots. Andersen's spokes-peas are Hap-Pea and Pea-Wee, usually depicted laboring over the task of splitting the main ingredient. They're on the walls, in the gift shop as salt-and-pepper shakers (must...resist...) and, most alarmingly, awaiting your last spoon stroke on the bottom of your bowl.

As the waiter, a nice-looking young guy, set before me my platter of green goodness, I couldn't help but ask him: "Do you get sick of this color?" The look of relief that at last he was able to admit it was priceless. "Oh, God, yeah," he said. He never charged me for my extra plate of Pea Soup Toppin's...

I overheard two tables ask their servers what the other soup of the day was. WTF? Is it just that you've already had your life's portion of nummy pea-ple pleasin' soup, or what? You're one of those people who go to a Mexican restaurant and order off the 'Gringo' menu, aintcha?

The soup is pretty straightforward, and it tastes exactly like it looks. Perhaps a hint of smoky ham? Andersen's has been making this soup, most likely the same way, for over eighty years, so it's a comfort food. Once you dump all the toppin's in, it's pretty good eatin'.

Long live roadside cheese! My advice to those who, like me, really dig this kind of Americana: follow the elderly. Like moths to a flame, they'll take you to the hotspots.

La Purisma Mission

2006-03-22T18:14:00.000-08:00

IMG_0762
Originally uploaded by cork demon.

Finding myself a little fatter than I was when I left Austin, I decided to get some hiking in. Just outside of Lompoc is a Mission State Park. The weather was purrrr-fect, so I stopped the car.

The founder of this sprawling Mission, Father Presidente Fermin de Lasuen, wanted to make really, really sure that the Chumash Indians understood how Holy the Holy Mother was, so he named it Mission of The Immaculate Conception of the Most Holy Mary. She's not just Holy, she's the Most Holy.

The way they've reconstucted this place is amazing. I was lucky with my timing, as all of the schoolchildren were well ahead of me, so I had time to contemplate the rooms.

Yeah, I said contemplate. I'm a geek like that, I admit it. I love to visit places like this and imagine what it was like for the Missionaries, for the Soldiers stationed there and alloted tiny two room apartments for themselves and their wives and children, for the Chumash Indians, both converted and reluctant, who resided there.

This Mission was the second built; the first one, four miles to the Southeast, was destroyed in 1812 by an earthquake. Once the new one was up and running, it flourished, with over 1,000 Chumash neophytes, 20,000 head of livestock, and shops for weaving, leather and ironwork, and clay tiles.

The spread is at once idyllic and a little creepy. One building served as a cramped open room dormitory for Chumash girls who had reached the age of eleven but had not yet married. A five-ish foot wide wooden shelf wraps around the room and hosts thin straw mats and dingy pillows. Gotta keep 'em away from the soldiers while you're teaching 'em how to cook. Eeek.

In the middle of the main area is a garden full of typical Mission plantings, and a large corral with lazily grazing donkeys, horses, longhorns, and strutting turkeys. And since I'd caught up with them, screaming children. Interestingly, there's a outside bath nearby, intended to allow the Chumash to bathe and wash their clothes the way they normally would, despite the fact that the whole bathing thing was frowned upon by their Spaniard hosts. Nice touch, I guess.

This place is a great half-day walk and picnic, if you're ever in the area. I highly recommend doing the Las Zanjas Trail around the wide green field for exercise prior to checking out the main grounds, just watch out for the abundant poison oak on either side of the trail. Exploring the reproduced apartments, chapels and workshops will at the very least give you ideas for your minimalist Mission-style interior decoration project. You can have lunch with the retired tourists and pet the horseys. What else could you ask for?

Here's a clue as to my current whereabouts: Smorgaasbord. Oh, dear God, my stomach.

T

Corona Del Mar

2006-03-19T15:03:00.000-08:00

There it is, in all its glory: my $18 martini, shining with the last rays of the Laguna Beach sunset.
I totally took that picture, all by myself! Doesn't it look like a travel poster? Pamper yourself in Laguna. Wrap yourself in luxury. Enjoy the finest cuisine in the most opulent surroundings money can buy.
I stayed with a friend in Corona Del Mar a few days ago. It's the Beautiful Life: waves crashing on the rocks, the smell of fresh sea air, some dickless jerk weaving in and out of traffic in his silver Carrera. Everything you could hope for. We had a great time, ate our weight in oysters and had our toes done...kinda fun to pretend you're rich for a couple days.

On my way to California, I listened to the first half of Jack Kerouac's On The Road, read by Matt Dillon. I couldn't help wonder if my little road trip was going to yield the kind of personal insight I'd hoped for. There's no miles of walking, no long inebriated conversations with hoboes, no sleeping in boxcars. I can make reservations from one Motel 6 to another without leaving my room. I'm organized, funded, and centered on a single project. Not that that's a bad thing. It's just different from what I'd thought I needed when I was a twentysomething.

Back then I had that ache to disappear for a while. To drive away from everything and everyone familiar. To wake up, as Sal Paradise did, not knowing who you are for a few minutes while you watch the light change. Once, in my late teens, I was upset by something, jumped in my car, and drove east for a couple of hours, past Dallas, past the outskirts, past everything I knew. I realized that not only was I in new territory, no one knew where I was. No one could even guess. It was a little rush. What if I kept going? Whoever it was that had pissed me off might miss me, wonder where I was, worry. I felt independent, free, and courageous. Until I ran almost ran out of gas. Then I felt like an asshole.

Oh, man, I had it all planned out--hitchhike to Haight-Ashbury or New York or wherever, meet all these amazing writers and intellectuals I imagined were parked on every corner who'd recognize me for the budding genius I was, take me under their wing, and feed me while I typed in a candlelit corner of someone's shoddy flat. My deep, brooding tales would enchant the most arrogant literary circles, and I'd be a sensation. Then I'd overdose on heroin and die. OMG, that would be perfect!

So anyway, I grew out of that shit, obviously. But there's still that teensy urge...I think to myself: I'm not going to call anyone all week. Let 'em miss me. Let 'em wonder where I am.

After I've relished that thought for a while, I think: I wonder how my kitties are? And I call Jerry. And then Carmie. And then Gwen. Total disappearance time: 45 minutes.

So worry not, folks. I couldn't disappear, even if I wanted to.

There's loads of photos to look at, but right now blogger's not working with me. Check out my flickr account by clicking on the Flickr flash badge below the links on the right.

Cheers!

Survivorwoman: Tuscon to El Cajon in 7 Hours

2006-03-12T08:33:00.000-08:00

No breakfast. No phone coverage. No wine. No proper weather tires. I have seven hours to get from Tucson, Arizona to El Cajon, California. My name is Taj, and I'm the Survivorwoman.

All I've been allowed to take on my journey is a compact car, clothes, peanut butter, two stuffed animal companions, thirty CD's, an IPod, caffeinated aspirin, and a tankful of gas. There is no camera crew. I have to take all the photos myself.

Hour One: Highway 10

Things look pretty bleak from the get-go. The winds are fierce and the sky's threatening rain. I have a long way to go in this foreboding environment. Will I survive?

I've fashioned a backrest out of...well, a foam backrest, for support. Otherwise, my back will ache, and I could die. So far so good, cruising at around 80 mph...and if I can just get my foot up on the dash...

ARRRRGH! Suddenly the car spins out, I do a double 360 and land in the gravel. Holy sh*t. Thank God no one was driving near me. Miraculously, the car is okay, and I'm okay. Out here on the road, one little moment can bring disaster. You have got to know exactly what you're doing.

As I catch my breath, I realize that I am dangerously low on calories. It's some 2 hours until I reach the town of Yuma, AZ. I survive by munching on white cheddar rice crackers that I found stuck in between the seats.

Yuma at last! I scan the horizon for possible food sources. Unfortunately, all I see is an Applebee's. Not normally a place for proper sustenance, it may be my only hope for survival. I venture in. My worse fears are realized: a family of six children is in line in front of me. All girls, all dressed in pink. I must duck quickly into the bar...somehow, they follow me into the bar! This puts me in the precarious position of having to smoke in front of the children, which you don't want to do in an environment like this. It may cause the male of the pack to throw dirty looks my way.

I'm in a store, which is good, unfortunately, it's packed to the hilt with snowbirds. Even the self-service checkout. The trouble is, the elderly often don't know how the checkout machine works. I may be in this line for a long, long time.

While we're stopped: I have found something that will be extremely useful in maintaining my survival: this is a half-pound Hershey's Dark chocolate bar. While not truly dark chocolate, it will sustain me in this harsh environment.

Hour 4: California Border

I've been driving through intense patches of rain off and on since I began. Looks like there's more ahead. I pass the sand dunes, where local wildlife is engaged in the ritual of "dune riding".

Up in the mountains, I encounter snow. Wow. Snow is so rare in Texas, it's a real treat. Just look at that beautiful snow.

Uh, okay, well, there's a lot of snow. So much, traffic has slowed to a crawl. There must be an accident or something.

Hour 6: Cleveland National Forest

You can't see it very well, but the line of cars disappears into the distance. This'll take a while. It looks like I'm not going to make El Cajon in the allotted seven hours, but right now, my survival is all that matters.

Hour 7: Cleveland National Forest

We've moved about a quarter of a mile in the last hour. Folks are getting out of their cars to see how far the jam goes. I'm going to stay here. I have no phone coverage here, so this is going to be a serious survival challenge. My best bet is to take another caffeinated aspirin and hope for the best.

Hour 8: Cleveland National Forest

The traffic continues to move at a frighteningly slow pace. For the first time, I'm genuinely worried. We're losing daylight here, people. You'll recall I picked up a large dark chocolate bar back in Yuma. This is what will keep me from succumbing to exhaustion.

Hour 9: Cleveland National Forest

I hate to report this, but one of the worst things possible has happened. My feminine protection has sprung a leak. The traffic is headed uphill on what's basically a sheet of ice. The sleet is coming in sideways. Visibility is limited to the red tail lights in front of me. I'm out of water. I'm out of chocolate. I'm utterly exhausted. The Jeep Cherokee in front of me, spooked by the passing of another suv, has begun skidding out of control, and can't seem to maintain it's direction. Any one of these cars could hit me, or if I lose control I could also hit them, and then it's game over. At this point, it's all I can do to focus on the ice-slicked road. If my mind wanders just a tad, I could die.

Hour 10: El Cajon, California

Thank the Christ child, I've made it. Beer and a hot bath will replenish my strength. I flip on the teevee, just in time to watch Survivorman on the Discovery Channel. He's in the arctic circle or something, eating raw seal meat. What a pussy.

Bisbee, AZ: A Fortunate Diversion From The Plan

2006-03-09T15:32:00.000-08:00

Once I'd enjoyed my stay at Bob Johnson's Colibri Vineyards in a beautiful canyon in the Chiricahuas, I had a choice either to endure another hour's worth of primitive road back to I-10, or to take Bob's advice: fuck that, take Highway 80 and stay in Bisbee. Since the sky couldn't decide whether to threaten rain or not (which would've basically trapped my wee little car), I had to abandon my plan to spend another night at the vineyards and go hiking in the monument. Well, shit. Why not take the scenic route?

Lemme testify here, that XM Satellite Radio effin' rules. All the way through the southern side of the Chiricahuas, I listened to Hank's Place--all kickass old-school C&W, all the time. And even as the love-gone-wrong songs began to do a number on my heart, the tunes were perfect for the scenery.

So I get to the outskirts of Bisbee with high expectations, only to learn that the road out of the old mining town has been closed, due to a pretty serious accident involving a propane truck. Thinking at first that I can't go any farther, I turn back, follow a road called 'Bisbee', and found this little treasure:

Buffalo Bill's Bargain Basement

You walk into this place and think, oh, cool! A funky little junk shop/coffee house. Then you catch sight of the proprietor. He's dressed like Buffalo Bill. Exactly. He looks like he just stepped straight out of the set of Deadwood, leathery skin, twitchy eyes and all. And then he offers you coffee. And asks if it's okay if he changes the music to Van Morrison. I kinda regret not taking a straight up picture of Michael (his real name), but I just couldn't ask. It seemed too...touristy.

You can see Michael up by the coffee pots

He makes a bitchin' cup o' joe, and I sit, smoke, drink my cupful, and yicky-yack with a guy who looks like Donald Sutherland on a bender. He fills me in on the Bisbee skinny, tells me I can actually go ahead and drive up to the historic part of town before I get to the road closing.
As we chat, Michael fusses endlessly with notebooks, nicknacks, and the coffee pot, stopping only to roll himself a cig.

Buffalo Bill not a fan of clowns

The place is less like a business and more like Michael's personal
museum-slash-krazier-than-shit living room. The mix is old west meets Gore Vidal meets softcore porn, and is an absolute must-see if you're ever in the area.

Desert Lust Barbie says "Hi!"

But I have yet to see all the kraziness that Bisbee has to offer. When I asked where I should lodge, Michael said "The Inn at Castle Rock. Everything else is shit." I don't know that everything else was shit, but the Inn is very cool. So long as you don't mind a somewhat disorganized innkeeper, the kitsch-tacular factor pays off.

Wack-tacular, baby

One important caveat about the town: it's not a good place to give it up to the panhandlers. According to a girl who's lived here almost all her life, there's an underbelly of meth problems here. The panhandlers, she warned, could very possibly be tweakers in search of funding for a fix. I realize this can be true of any city, but I'd still recommend shutting down the urge here. The only dollar I gave out was to a man who had trained two mice to sit on the back of a cat, who sat on the back of a dog. Check out my flickr account for that pic (there's a Flickr badge on my Cork and Demon blog).

Main Street. Kinda empty because of the closed road.

The shops and bars are...well, touristy, with a few cool spots like VaVoom and Hotlicks Bar. I ate every meal at the Prickly Pear Cafe, a little sandwich/salad joint with a love for wasabi sauces.

My new friend and I pitch back a beer at Hotlick's.

I learned from a local that the propane accident was pretty bad, although the driver had survived. But it would take twenty some-odd hours for the clean up crew to burn off all the propane. Otherwise, the highway I hope to take will be closed, and I'll have to take an alternate route. I'm gonna wait it out; the flow's telling me I need to.

Notice to Science-Haters: For a clue, go see Carlsbad Caverns

2006-03-06T10:57:00.000-08:00

The first thing that blows you away when you tour the Big Room of Carlsbad Caverns is the unfathomable amount of time it takes for single drops of mineral-laden water to form massive formations.

The second thing is that no one understands what the fuck the word 'whisper' means.

But back to the first. Why, Lord, are there people who believe that the earth was formed 10,000 years ago? That might seem like a really, really, really long time to a simple mind, but for the love of Jehosephat, we're talking about drops of water making gigantimous formations formed over rock that is already millions of years old. Drops. Of. Water. You do the math.

Do these folks visit the Caverns? Do they stand there and think "Gee, this stuff is almost as old as Jesus!"

Anticipating this, the National Park Service has provided the public with informative diagrams so that you can revel in the beauty of nature:

But still, I'm sure, Bubba Fundamentalist guffaws as his wife sheilds their children's eyes. Another mind boggler.

Now, I realize that for those of you who read this blog, making fun of said people is shooting fish in a barrel, but I just can't help wondering how you can ignore evidence like the caverns. Besides, they're frickin' beautiful! Wouldn't you rather believe that God is so all-powerful that a million-gajillion years is nothing at all?

Another pre-Jesus formation

When I was a kid, there was no conflict whatsoever in my mind with the idea that God created the world, that it took a shitload of time, and that the whole Genesis thing was, like other creation stories, passed down by humans who had only their imaginations to devise answers to such mysteries. Why do some fundamentalists feel so threatened these days that they feel they need to turn the clock back to the Dark Ages?

Awright, I'm done with the fish-shooting. I'm really glad the giddy little tot in me finally got to see the Big Room. And having done so makes me want to check out all the National Parks and Monuments. Ah, the original American Road Trip is on, baby. Stay tuned.

Way down in the hole

2006-03-04T10:28:00.000-08:00

On a road trip to see Gramma once, when I was about five or so, I saw a billboard that said 'Carlsbad Caverns, Next Exit (then go back 235 miles)". I didn't have any concept of what kind of distance that was, but I do now. And yesterday, I was able to fulfill my childhood dream of visiting them.

And of course, me being who I am and all, the pedestrian tour of the 'Big Room' simply would not do. I wanted to spelunk, with the hats and the gloves and the pretending that I'm a little slinky lizard, slipping through the dark squeezes.

I was advised not to attempt the Hall of the White Giant spelunking tour because of its advanced challenges, so I signed up for the more unathletic-friendly Lower Cave. Still rather strenuous, but way closer to my comfort level.

Caves for me are very soothing. Knowing that the only things crawling around down there are a few blind crickets and some random patches of bacteria makes the darkness feel calm and protective. I wondered if that's the way Jim White felt when he spent nights down there after a long day of climbing, crawling and exploring. I'd love to be able to spend the night in a cave someday and enjoy the profound quiet of age old earth, expressing itself with water and mineral formations over the millenia, with no cares whatsoever about the land above.

I highly recommend visiting the Caverns on the off season, as the summertime sometimes sees several thousand visitors a day in the Big Room. Our tour guide told us they once had to divert the Lower Cave tour when a baby in the room above was screaming so loudly that the ear-splitting echo was insufferable. On the other hand, yesterday's tours were sparsely populated, making for a much more one-with-the-cave sort o' vibe.

Having a great time, wish you were all here.

Twinkle, twinkle, little Marfa Light

2006-03-02T06:54:00.000-08:00

The Marfa Lights viewing observatory

No, the Marfa Lights aren't cars. They might be bursts of methane gas. Or maybe they're the ghosts of the Conquistadors. Whatever. The important part is they're there. And when a random group of travelers show up to see them, it's a blast.

I don't have any pictures of the lights themselves. They're too far away and buried in the calm, deep desert night for my camera. Too bad, 'cause I'd love to be able to prove I saw them. The only way you're gonna believe is to see them yourself.

I arrived about half an hour before sunset, and watched an older couple walk around the ground in an unimpressed way, then return to their RV to wait. After checking out the little trail of information stations, there wasn't much to do but take pictures of the cheeky rabbits rustling in the grass. I was messing around later with one of the squeaky mounted binoculars when a sudden salutation in a Georgian drawl scared the beejezus outta me. Thus I met Michelle and Paul, who have been traveling across the country in a bus that runs on vegetable oil.

Yeah. Vegetable oil. Used oil, in fact, that Paul gets from Chinese restaurants. He walks in and offers to haul it off for free, and the confused owner usually says yes. Paul, a nice looking guy in his twenties and a UMASS tee, has managed to modify the fuel system of this old school bus to warm up with diesel, then run on the oil. Brilliant.

What was it Michelle called herself? A literary jock? Literary dork? Anyhoo, she's the one who aptly named the bus after Don Quixote's horse. Later in the evening, after many Lone Star Longnecks, she performed a rousing spoken-word version of Carl Sandburg's Grass. Very cool moment.

So we sat at sunset, longnecks in hand, waiting for something to happen on the horizon, exchanging stories. The RV couple came out of hiding after a while, and we all sat peering into the distance between us and the Chisos mountains, trying to find little dancing balls of light. We all established the given lights---a flashing FAA tower, the actual headlights of cars, and steady lights---so we could tell them apart from the real Marfa lights. Of course, every time a car passed, we perked up, and made endless jokes about the people running around in the distance with really big flashlights.

An amusing note for Texans: did you know that the lovely observatory pictured above was funded by Clayton Williams, who lost a gubernatorial race to Ann Richards after he made a joke about rape? A female relative of his was one of the first to write about the Lights way back when. Trivia-tacular.

The area to watch, at sunset

So we're yicky-yacking, drinking, having a ball, and just as we decide that it was worth the drive to see the sunset, the lady from the RV points at three lights that have appeared in the dim post-sunset. "Nah, those are cars," says her husband, and we all agree.

Until the one in front glides straight up in the air and starts going backwards.

Yay! The show has begun!

The Marfa lights look like balls of white light that occassionally change to green or red. They pop up well above the level of the road beyond (or well below) and then disappear. They sometimes seem to wander over to the west, then show back up where they were before. Often, they'd disappear for a while, then suddenly reappear in a cluster. One light was such a little showoff, I named him 'Disco Boy'. He liked to pop out really bright white, then twinkle red and green. He appeared several times through the night. At one moment, when several people had gathered, five lights appeared in a row.

I found myself not fretting over what the hell they were. There's a lot of theories, most of them very lame. My verdict was, who cares? The lights are playful, mischievious, and a great deal of fun to watch.

Cheeky Bunny

The three of us stayed the longest, as groups or couples came and went. Michelle took the task of pointing out the lights to newcomers. I especially loved the roudy group of retirees who sang 'Redneck Mother' for us.

The Egg Roll Lovin' Tour Bus

The very last family came around midnight. The lights had called it a night about half an hour before. They had just arrived, the mother hoping to catch them before they were due at a funeral the next day. Mom and dad had sleeping children draped over their shoulder. I'm really sorry they missed them.

Turns out Michelle and Paul are on their way to Carlsbad about the same time I am. I hope to see them there. Their company, the gorgeous sunset, and all the trimmings were enough to have enjoyed the evening, even if the Marfa lights really had been cars.

CORK AND DEMON WESTERN WINE TOUR 2006

2006-02-28T10:16:00.000-08:00

I'm leaving tomorrow, March 1st at 4:30 in the freakin' morning. Wow. Why, you ask, am I getting up at the crack of ass? Because I looooove to start driving early, so that after I've gone five hours, it's still 10 am, and I've got the whole day ahead of me. Otherwise, the day becomes about getting there, and while that'll be unavoidable sometimes, it's so much cooler the other way.

I can NOT wait to wake up in west Texas. West Texas is one of the most beeyootiful spots in the country, don't care what you say. I fully expect to be tripping on the Marfa lights very soon. I can't believe I've been out there twice and haven't check 'em out. We'll fix that. Also on my list of non-vino related destinations: the Guadalupe Mountains, Carlsbad Caverns (always wanted to go since I was a wee little shit!), and the Chiricahua National Monument in Arizona. There's a whole lotta stuff to see, and I want to get it done before we all die of the avian flu.

The Cork and Demon, my wine-centric blog will host my wine adventures, and this blog will be my headquarters for posts about my travels. And yeah, there'll be pictures. Lots of pictures. You'll totally be like, stop posting kickass pictures already, I'm not getting any work done.
Here's a link to an explanation of the tour.

Please check back, and please post any and all of your comments and suggestions, and wish me well.

Holy Damn, here I go!

Two Punk Proclamations

2006-02-26T05:58:00.000-08:00

I watched, finally, End of The Century: The Story of the Ramones the other night, and have since then been collecting punk classics for my road trip. Punk classics. There's sooo something wrong with that title. Oh, but try this one, from ITunes: 'Roots Punk'. How's that?

I met Dee Dee Ramone when I was 14. It was at a record store called 'Peaches', a wooden-crate and disco themed place left over from the seventies. The Ramones were there for a record signing. I remember being astounded by Joey's physique and totally crushed out on Dee Dee, who was in his closer cropped eighties punk revival 'do. The current album was 'Subterranean Jungle', a return-to-raw album with one of my favorite later songs: 'Psychotherapy'.

Anyhoo, the movie reminded me of the fascinating transition from glam rock to punk that happened during the dismal early '70's in New York, and how so many people think of the Sex Pistols as the undisputed sires of punk. Weeeeel, they ain't. They share the title with America's bands across the pond: The Stooges, Ramones, Television.

American punk rock makes me feel a little....patriotic. Is that kinda weird?

An interesting irony: There's the scene in the movie where they're accepting---gracefully---their induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and Johnny Ramone startles the crowd with "God Bless President Bush, and God Bless America." And I'm thinking, wow, that's as punk as it gets: Fuck You, I'm a conservative. The whole Conservative Punk movement still astounds me (how do you say Fuck You to The Man if your party's the one in power?) but Johnny was always a Republican, proudly declaring that he'd been "a Nixon man" and had never wavered. He sticks to his core beliefs despite the expectations or assumptions surrounding the whole punk thing. That, my friend, is punk, too, whether you (or I, for that matter) like it or not.

Yes, I just defended a conservative. And I'll do it again, if I ever see one worth defending.

The Sex Pistols have announced their own statement to being inducted to the R&R HOF: Fuck You, period. Above is a handwritten note declaring their intent to skip the proceedings, because it's a bunch of rich recording industry gladhanders paying rediculous amounts of money for tickets. I especially like the 'urine in wine' line. Not sure exactly what that means, but you get the idea. This, too, is a classic Fuck You punk move, just like Johnny's, but more predictable. Naturally, one of the rich recording industry members just looooved it:

Susan Evans, executive director of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Foundation, said of the band's announcement, "They're being the outrageous punksters that they are, and that's rock 'n' roll."

It makes me sad that the legacy of American punk rock is getting forgotten, except that everyone's gotta have a Ramones tee shirt to go with their expensive jeans. Punk was always more than power chords, and more than "fuck the government". It was a way for kids to express all the fury and anger and disgust that goes with learning how the world works. This is a primary function of rock and roll.

Five More Days

2006-02-24T06:59:00.000-08:00

I said goodbye to Jerry today. He's off to Mardi Gras for a four day weekend. I suppose I could be a little hurt that he won't be around to see me off when I leave for the three month wine tour, but who could be upset with someone for going to Mardi Gras this year? It's a pilgrimage, hell, almost a patriotic duty. I'd go, too, but I'm headed west. We spent the evening together, and while I thought: wow, this is it, we're getting divorced, I'm going away for so long...shit: I should be really upset, I wasn't. Instead of some sit-down, talk-about goodbye tearfest, we ate canned field peas and collard greens then snoozed together in front of teevee. I rubbed a knot in his back. We didn't say much, but smiled at one another a lot. It was peaceful and reassuring, and there wasn't room for anger or sadness.

I leave in five days.

Nothing will be the same when I return. I won't be married. I'll own a house. I will have changed. But I haven't the faintest idea how yet. Right now, I'm just thankin' the Christ Child that I've passed through the Free Floating Anxiety period. That was a bitch, thinking that there was all this stuff I was forgetting to do when there wasn't. I'm pretty calm now, gettin' down to thinking of which food bars I wanna buy for the road.

Cork and Demon Western Wine Tour is nigh

2006-02-17T10:23:00.000-08:00

Eleven days. That's like, tomorrow, man.

In eleven days, I'm going off in my car for three months.

D.K., the owner of Seoul Korea and as Austinites will know, the Sushi Pimp Host for Karaoke Mondays, gave me some suprisingly fatherly advice for my trip. Suprising, because this man puts on a leopard trimmed pimp suit and giant afro and makes Howard Stern look like Mother Theresa with his foul mouth. But for a moment, I was his kid, and he wanted to make sure I'd be safe. "Take mace with you, and don't travel at night, and if someone has you in a chokehold, shift your weight to the side and hit 'em in the balls."

But it's not the Boogey Man I'm scared of.

I've been slowly hyping this trip, which will take me all the way across the Western US and back again to taste good wine and meet people, for a few months now. What if I don't live up to my own hype? What if I haven't hyped it enough and no one reads about it? What if I run out of money? What if I get out there and it turns into a death march, trying to keep up with my self-imposed ambition of talking to all these winemakers? Or worse, what if I find myself in the middle of the Guadalupe Mountains and say, "Fuck it, I'm gonna stay here and commune with the Lord instead"?

Okay, that probably won't happen. Far as I know, there's no wireless coverage out there.

And why, pray, am I doing this krazier-than-shit thing again? Especially now, that I'm in the middle of the most heartbreakingly friendly divorce on the fucking planet? Shouldn't I be staying around, finding a new job, getting back to the grind and getting on with my life instead of traipsing off like a trust fund dilettante into the wild blue yonder? Who do I think I am? I'm no real journalist, why should these people talk to me?

Thing is, this is me, getting on with my life. It's me taking an opportunity to invest in what I love most: writing. There's probably a lot of winemakers out there who did the same damn thing, and left their unfulfilling jobs to pursue something their family might have thought was nuts.

That, by the way, is one of the reasons I think people should talk to me.

Ultimately, this trip is to test a belief that I hold very dear: if you make a bold step, the Universe rises to meet you. If this is true, I can't possibly fail.

Whew.

Dolmas and old times

2006-02-09T15:29:00.000-08:00

It's a remarkable thing to have a friend you've known since the two of you ate glue in kindergarten. Hell, even before that, Gini and I were in St. Luke's Episcopal preschool together, and have gone to the exact same schools ever since. Well, almost anyway; we went to different colleges in picturesque Denton, Texas, but we still lived in the same town.

She spent last weekend with me, and we finally did the thing we've been talking about for-effin'-ever: we made a Sunday afternoon of shooting the shit and handrolling dolmas from her late mother's recipe. Her mother was the patron saint of dolmas, and Gini and I know that when we perform this sacred ritual, Vickey is up there lookin' down and smiling.

Vickey was amazing. A big, lovely woman with a smartass streak. She was like my second ma when I was little bitty.

Gini and I grew up across the highway from one another. My dad was a banker, hers worked for the Santa Fe Railroad. As kids, I remember her parents taking us to Greek festivals, where a great crowd of churchgoers, stuffed full of souvlaki and tipsy on red wine would stamp around in a circle, shouting and singing. In the fifth grade, we both loved KISS. She was into Paul Stanley, but I was more about Peter Criss. We're veterans of both public and private schools, and because of that experience have rather loud and proud opinions of both. Both of us had regretably early sexual experiences forced upon us.

We remember that evil bitch Angela from the eighth grade, whose mother and grandmother worked at the private school, and how once you had already lobbed the barb about her overdone makeup, she would dig her nails into your soul and rip it out in front of the whole play yard. Oh, God, and the guy who would get you really stoned in his bedroom then start reading hardcore horror stories about babies with maggots in their heads (this guy's a writer and marajuana advocate now, God love him). It was so fantastic to me that I could start talking about nearly anything I'd been through or anyone I knew and she remembered it all. So cool to have a friend like that.

So we made us some dolmas. Instead of the original pound of chili ground and stick of butter (drool), we decided to go with ground lamb and a lighter touch on the fat. You steam these little bundles of delish in lemon juice and water, and they're divine. The cucumber business is a yogurt sauce with garlic and mint. For me, making these dolmas is forever conjoined with talking about my kidhood with Gini. And memories of her mother.

Sigh. Another example of how the experience of good food isn't fully appreciable without good company.

Writer's block blows

2006-02-06T14:52:00.000-08:00

Why do I have to fucking write? Writing sucks the greenest of all donkey dicks! I've been sitting at this desk for hours today trying to give shape to this essay, and the harder I try, the deeper into a quagmire I push it. It's like being constipated. It's enfuriating and nauseating, and this...this is what I want to do with my life???

I'm trying to write an essay for a local Writer's League contest. The prize is five hundred bucks and publication. I'm not after the prize, I'm after the accomplishment of wresting a clean story from a thick muck of difficult memories. I know it's in there. But I'll be damned if I know what to chip away to reveal it. I think at first, oh, here: this is an easy chunk of the story to hone into three thousand words or less. Oh, goody, and here's a theme. But I go to follow that thread and the whole thing starts to writhe around and hit dead ends and all these questions I think of in an attempt to regain my structure point me round and round until I begin to wonder who's home from work that wants to go out and get a beer.

Oooh, you...you stupid effing story! Don't you make me come back there! I will kick your ass right now, in front of all the other ideas, then how'll you feel? Huh? Huh?

My two cents on the Rumsfeld toon

2006-02-03T06:45:00.000-08:00

The evidence is mounting up...we're headed into Uber Righteous Land, a land where people only speak when spoken to, and political humor is restricted to light chuckling about the President's drawl.

The Washington Post Cartoon by Tom Toles was policital satire at it's most searing, and instead of rising to the statement made by it, we get a bunch of rediculous self-righteous indignation about the tastelesness of it.

NEWS FLASH, people: Political Cartoons are supposed to be tasteless. They're supposed to be ruffling. There written to make strong statements about what's going wrong in politics. This isn't your sweet grandmother's tea party, this is the effin' USA.

NEWS FLASH 2: The joke was on Donald Rumsfeld and the lackings of the Military leadership, NOT brave soldiers who are now amputees. Why do I even have to point that out?

This shit makes me mad enough to set kittens on fire.

The Cork and Demon Western Wine Tour: Planning Anxiety No. 1

2006-01-24T10:40:00.000-08:00

I emailed a friend to ask her something that's been bothering me since I started looking at the southern New Mexico leg of my tour today: once in El Paso, should I tack on several hours of driving time and hit Carlsbad caverns, or should I stick to The Plan, which is to travel on a winery-finding route, and not diverge?

She thought this was such a non-question. You've wanted to see Carlsbad and the Guadalupes since childhood? Then, duh. Go there. And that might be obvious--for someone else.

The big head demon I've had lurking round while planning this trip is that I must treat it as a JOB, and I am my own BOSS, and certain things must get DONE, or else I am a wandering loser HIPPY wasting my inheritance.

Certain things must get done. I'm gonna talk to winemakers and sample their wine and teach myself how to write about what I tasted. But what really needs to get done doesn't have a damn thing to do with wine. I'm doing this to learn how to trust myself. Now, I didn't say find myself; Lord knows I know where I am at all times. But if I can shove off from south Texas and make a grand loop across the Western United States on my own, for no other reasons than my own, I can probably trust myself with just about anything else.

So yeah, I should go to Carlsbad, and to see the highest point in Texas (you're right, Kym, I can't call myself a Texan and miss that opportunity!) Even if it means some extra milage and time. Not because it's practical or productive, but because I WANNA.

Area Gay Man Not to be Questioned About Brokeback Mountain

2006-01-17T15:00:00.000-08:00

I'm at this get-together last night, and the subject falls to the Globes and Brokeback Mountain. I mentioned that I loved how each of the sex scenes were played with a roughness, either a primal or a playful sort, and that they actually do kick each other's ass at one point. I had gone into the movie afraid that they'd skimp on the sex, or make it so dilute so as not to offend, but instead there was a real energy to it, with all the layers of rage, lust, sadness and joy in place.
This kid in a plum shirt and tie pipes up, "I have to disagree," he said. "I found that the movie did nothing but perpetuate the myth that gay men are predatory."

Whaaa?

"Wow," I said, "I didn't catch that at all."

"Well, that's how I see it as a gay man."

Look. There are a lot of situations I wouldn't step in and say I knew a damn thing about, like, say, living in Baghdad or only having one arm. But I don't need a gay guy to trump my perfectly good opinion, like it should be obvious to me that only gay men understand how gay men are portrayed in movies.

Turns out, his opinion was shared, albeit unintentionally, by Gene Shalit, who used the term 'sexual preditor' to describe the character of Jack Twist. He later apologized for the comment, intending only to speak about the one character and not of gay men in general.

Nashville Highlights

2006-01-13T10:32:00.000-08:00

It's Hustler Hollywood! The talk of the town since it's grand opening last July. This chain of "friendly" smut stores is owned by the Grand Poobah of Boobies himself, Larry Flint. What fun it must have been for him to land his latest store on Church Street!
The whole premise behind these stores is to offer "discriminating consumers a bright, refreshing alternative to the seedy adult bookstore", and while it's bright alright, it's not all that different, and it is still geared specifically toward men. Why is it that women can't be "discriminating consumers" as well? The front part of the store is a bunch of novelty crap and the usual assortment of lubes and lewd toys, such as the one that looks like a man with his pants down, and when you stick your pencil in his butt, he moans. There's also a rowdy bunch of rude tee shirts, some of which are kinda funny, but who besides the Spring Break Beach set is going to walk around in these things? And then there's the coffee bar...WTF? What's that for, so your wife can have a latte while you browse the XXX titles? Speaking of which, it's the same old thing---all the movies and naughty toys are partitioned off in the back. Now, I'm not afraid to browse either one of these, unless I peer in and there's nothing but the same lurky dudes back there. My question is this: if you're trying for a kinder, friendlier atmosphere that allows sex movies, novelties and toys to be playful and fun rather than spooky and seedy, then why section off the store like that? Leave it all open. That way, the men don't have to feel like they're lurking in the back, and women can actually browse the viddies and toys without feeling like they don't belong there. My verdict: lame. For everyone's wholesome, fun sex movies/toys pleasure, I recommend GOOD VIBRATIONS, who has been doing it the right way for decades. They're friendly to all---boys, girls, gay, straight, whatever.

On to some shopping...

Katy K's 'Ranch Dressing' on 12th Street is totally boss. You looking for a real Western Shirt? With a real cowboy necktie? And a pair of vintage boots? This is where you go. She's got the real deal.
Except for just one thing...
I browsed around, looking for a western shirt that was a bit more casual than my Scully, something authentic, but didn't make me look like I should be holding a guitar. I found a nice one, soft, with pale green and light brown stripes that was exactly what I wanted...until I saw the tag that said "Made in China". I liked that shirt fine, but I'll be damned if I'm going to drive all the way to Nashville from Austin to buy a western shirt made in fucking China. What a drag that was. If you go there, stick to the real stuff.

We got a little lost, driving around, and ended up at a great big car graveyard:

and looking at it reminded me of a Beck lyric:

Give the finger to the rock and roll singer
As he's dancing upon your paycheck
The sales climb high through the garbage pail sky
Like a giant dildo crushing the sun

And speaking of giant dildoes...look at this visual horror:

ARRRGH! Run for your lives! The city is being eaten by a giant blue demon!
Is that not the fugliest building you've ever seen? That there's the Bell South building, and a mere photo cannot show how rediculous it looks looming over downtown Nashville. Besides, the corporate metaphor is sooo difficult to resist...must....resist....

To soothe your aching eyes, here's detail from a proper building, the beeeyoootiful Frist Center for the Visual Arts. All Deco, absolutely stunning.

We caught an awe-inspiring Murano glass exhibit there, and the combination of building and show made me feel like a kid full o' wide-eyed wonder. Also on was a multi-media exhibit by Deborah Aschheim called 'Neural Architecture No. 6', a metastatic network of clear plastic 'neurons' hanging from all corners of the museum. Each pod had either a camera, a two-way radio, or a monitor, so that you could catch snippets of the conversations of others in another room or see yourself being 'watched'. It's a multilayered work exploring the world of secret surveillance. Check it out.

And finally: the Parthenon by moonlight. It's closed at night, but walking around it in the dark is a must do.

Don't Miss the Dempseys, Jack!

2006-01-11T14:09:00.000-08:00

Our first night in Memphis, we feasted on Tennessee-style BBQ ribs at the Blues City Cafe on Beale Street and afterwards, asked our waiter which music venues we should check out. He pointed to the adjoining bar and insisted that we see that night's act before going anywhere else. Our reward for taking the advice was The Dempseys, a fabulous frenetic free-for-all of a rockability band that blew my little mind.

I can't think of when I last saw a gig as tight and exciting as these guys. They were hilarious, dexterous, and inexaustible, and a little nuts. To call them 'Rockabilly' is really an underestimate of their range; they had a full grip on every genre surrounding rock and country, including jump blues, Western Swing, surf rock, and even a soupcon of the Sex Pistols. But this was only the songs themselves. As if to prove the absolute extent of both their mastery of all things showman, each of the trio took a turn at the drums, stand-up bass, and Fender Telecaster with near-equal prowess.
There were moments a-plenty when I thought they'd topped everything they'd done already. The medley of artists that ranged from Roy Orbisson to Johnny Rotten was a blowout, but so were the acrobatics---in one of the finest moves, spazz-tacular bassist Joe "Slick" Fick stands atop the bass fiddle and plays guitar while guitarist Bradley Dean Burkedahl slaps the bass with one arm under Fick's legs. Drummer Ron Perrone Jr. ended the second set with a drum solo that led him all around the bar, tapping out rhythms on every table top, ashtray, beer bottle and boot sole in the joint.

The Dempseys' site has a lot of info on their accolades and purchasing CDs, but they are a must-see live. Of all the bands playing that night in Memphis, I can't imagine a better one to have caught. Thanks, Blues City Cafe Waiter Guy!

Okay, just one more doll: DJ Korea Love

2006-01-03T09:17:00.000-08:00

My Candygirl Doll and Thoughts about Jobs

2006-01-02T05:56:00.000-08:00

OMG, how cute is she? Aw, c'mon, give it up. It's five pm, I'm blowing a little time while waiting for the laundry to finish up. Make your own!

http://elouai.com/doll-makers/new-dollmaker.php

There was this guy at a New Year's gathering last night who used to be tangled up bad in drugs but now builds furniture. It's not often I meet someone who can recite lyrics by The Fall or who can sit and listen to McGovern and I dork out about some Cotes du Rhone and not zone out. I used his business card to make a point that marketing isn't all evil; for a craftsman, it is simply a tool with which to leave an impression. He told a story about this woman who brought him a picture out of a magazine of a kid's bunk bed that looked like a medieval castle and wanted him to build one just like it. He looked at the picture and realized that it would cost five or six grand to custom build it, so he asked her: if you liked the bed in the picture, why didn't you just order one of those? "Oh, because it was way too expensive," she said.

You know, here's this craftsman, who crafts furniture by hand out of high quality materials, and this idiot woman thinks she's going to be able to get him to build her fucking pre-fab, particle board bunk bed for less money. How skewed an assumption is that?

This story, along with another conversation about how much we both despised bosses who spewed out corporate policy like robots, got me a' thinkin' about what kind of job I want in the future. The bunk bed bitch reminded me of how completely done I wish I was with having to perform the duties of customer service. I've been really good at it for years. Customer service requires that you take a lot of silly shit off people and be able to grin straight through it. This is a fantastic skill to have. When I'm on my game, I can take it with the biggest lovin' smile ever to stretch between human ears. I could solve that grumpy guest's problem before they could bat an eye. It's just that...well, I don't fucking wanna anymore. And when I don't wanna, I don't do so good.

Desperate to move away from the foodservice and bar industry, I took a job several years ago, and though it was cubicle-land, you could decorate your space with any Beanie Baby or retro plastic action figure you wanted. And for a while, I really believed that I could get into the gig, perform the mandates, prove myself, and move up. I pictured myself becoming a trainer of new recruits, since I had a propensity for telling others how they ought to do things. But I could never quite follow all the little meticulous procedures for which we were evaluated. I got restless and bored, and began to tell people exactly what I thought they needed to hear.

So what kind of gig am I made for? How is it I'm smart, knowledgable, talented, and have such a lovely ass, yet am still, at my age, wondering what I wanna be when I grow up?

There was a guy named Mark who worked at the now-defunct Mezzaluna restaurant, who spent nine months out of the year waiting tables, and the remaining three in Alaska or Maine, hiking and making music. I used to think, wow, what an effin' hippie, but now I'm thinking he had the perfect gig. The restaurant grind only lasted so long, then he got to spend a nice long chunk of time doing what he loved. He was really good at the tables, too, never got riled up; I used to think he was immaculately stoned all the time, but I bet not now. He could count down the days until he left all these screechy yahoos behind for the great outdoors. Knowing that the struggle was finite, how could you not take it in stride? It's only when you feel stuck that it starts to eat at you.

I put up a map of the U.S. on my kitchen wall above the table where I blog. After a short jaunt to Tennesee, I'll begin charting my destinations for the C&D Wine Extravaganza Hootenany Tour 2006. This will be one of the best things I've ever done, I can feel it. It'll yield up amazing things. Planning it is my gig for the time being. In a way, I'm employing myself as my own opportunity scout. I'm such a kickass boss.

New Year's F*ck-All

2005-12-31T05:14:00.000-08:00

Thank the Christ Child, I'm emerging from my Fuct Up Holiday Funk. I woke up this morning, and some of the heretofore sticky wickets that threatened to delay or complicate my Cork and Demon Wine Tour, March, 2006 suddenly seem to have several possible answers. I feel like cleaning the whole house, top to bottom, and while that probably won't happen, at least I'll get the living room done.

Ah, the obligatory New Year's Rezzies. I never make them, because I know that I'm going to pick some silly shit like 'Get back to yoga twice a week' and 'stop smoking pot forever'. And why do that to yourself? Some people remedy the situation by making less specific goals like 'get more exercise', but come on---go to the gym once a month and they've fulfilled that one. I am already predisposed to debilitating guilt, so I try not to set myself up for it. The only way to go with resolutions, I've decided, is to resolve to do what you already know you're gonna do. So screw resolutions. Here are my 2006 promises:

1) I promise to take baths instead of showers at least 85% of the time.

2) I promise to buy the best Beck seats I can, just as soon as the little shit finally makes his little way down to Austin.

3) I promise to keep up with all of my favorite HBO shows faithfully.

4) I promise to occassionally eat toast.

5) I vow not to become a vegetarian.

6) I swear to drink only tasty wine.

7) I commit to reading Princess Sparkle Pony every day.

8) I pledge to spend hours with Stumble Upon, at night in bed, until I pass out.

9) I promise to fart whenever necessary.

10) I resolve to drive my car through no less than six states, and while on that trip, I will write every single day. I will publish blog entries for the Cork and Demon for each winery I visit, and for this Cocktails blog every day to chronicle my trip. I will strive to make these entries interesting enough to actually read.

There, now. I have set myself up for success, and I feel terrific.

Xmas, Schmexmas

2005-12-21T09:30:00.000-08:00

I'm not like this every December. I'm usually the one who demands a tree be put up and each of us contributes to the library of Kickass Christmas Music every year. I've kept my grandmother's handmade ornaments through many moves, even the ones that are so freaking huge that the tree required to hang them is too big for any house I'll ever own.

This year is my exception. Things are a challenge right now. You know how it is: you let something traumatic happen in the End-of-the-year Holiday Run, and the season becomes a great pit of winter despair for years afterwards. The hell with that. I need to take this one off, let all these changes happen, then save up the spirit for next year. For me, it's less of a War on Christmas and more of a Refusing to Return Christmas' Phone Calls.

This means minimal exposure to grocery and retail stores, no tree, and sticking my fingers in my ears to reduce potentially damaging exposure to Jose Feliciano. I've done all my shopping online, and refuse to sweat the fact that amazon still has not shipped my stuff. If it doesn't show up for the 25th, then they're freaking New Years Day gifts. Deal.

I went to North Fort Worth with Jer to see his family last weekend. I insisted he tell them about our impending divorce. He didn't want to lay the news down so close to Christmas. I didn't want to go up there and play Nothing's Wrong. After an exchange that was more about venting than our options, he called his sisters and told them. Each, in their own special way, let me know that I would still be considered part of the family.

His oldest sister called me immediately and told me not to worry, divorce was a regular pasttime with the family, and there were hangers on to the clan from marriages long, long gone. Another assured me that her influence with the family would be sufficient to bind me. Uh, thanks, I think.

The oldest sister's daughter is Sara, who I've watched go from household to household trying to take root. She's a smart, curious young woman now, just 21 with no taste yet for dry wine. I'll have to fix that, especially since she's into cooking. I wanted to give her something with meaning. So I got her a knife.

It wasn't the Wustoff; I wanted Wustoff but as Jer and I had only just finalized the trip hours before, my best hope was to hit the Ace Mart Restaurant Supply. They had Forschners, a step down but still really good knives. I got the 7" Santoku with the Granton edge. It's the perfect all-purpose chef tool with some weight. Some gravitas. That onion knows it's being chopped with a bad-ass knife. This feeling is important for the young chef.

I wanted to get her a cookbook, too, and here began my dilema: she's a devotee of Rachel Ray, and I'd love nothing better than to jump her up a few notches from 365 Fifteen Minute Meals. I thought about giving her my copy of The Way to Cook. It'd be a special gift because it was mine, and she could say it was from her Auntie Taj when she totes it to culinary school. But then I realized that was quite a jump, and wasn't the most important thing to encourage her from where she was? So I opted for the Food Network Something-Or-Other Cookbook with her hero, Rachael Ray right on the cover. Besides--wtf am I thinking?--that little shit's not getting my Julia Child.

Fred and Austin, my two little monkey boys, got a boxed set of The Chronicles of Narnia, which I bought despite the clerk's rolling eyes. Never mind the whole movie hooptie-doo, these were my favorite stories when I was their age, and I vowed to hand them down to my children when I finished the whole set (I really did, isn't that cute? I was so serious as a child). Kids are out for me, so I gave the set to my nephews instead. It was fun to watch them fuss over them; I wasn't sure how they'd react to getting books. But they couldn't wait to read them. I was deeply gratified. Later, I pulled myself up into the tree where Fred had wedged himself and was sounding out the first sentence of The Magician's Nephew. He's a charmer, that one. I asked him if he wanted me to read to him, and he said yes. About halfway into the third page, remembered what a dull storyteller Lewis can be. God, I thought, I hope these books won't bore them, then end up in a box of mismatched robot parts. But hey, anyway, I fulfilled a childhood vow.

Baby Sammy got Where the Wild Things Are, of course, and his mother reminded me to sign it. I'm not sure what I wrote now. I'd drunk a bottle of Cava by then.

My moments:

Introducing Sara and her boyfriend to a lovely Italian Dolce Rose. Now, that, my dear, is proper sweet wine.

Redheaded Austin, marching up to me with an enormous grin and his neck adorned with wrestling medals.

Watching Grandpa's face while he told me about the kind of woman his wife had been.

Fred giggling and pulling me head over heels into the neighbor's grass.

Colleen sitting in my lap. Sydney telling me she loves to write.

Teaching the kids how to play Exquisite Corpse.

Breakfast the next day with Ryan, at the 290 East Cafe.

All that happened last weekend. So who gives a rat's ass what goes on the 25th?

Lousy Wednesday

2005-12-14T16:33:00.000-08:00

It's all dreary and windy outside, and between that, my sake hangover, and the fact that my oranda is sick, AGAIN, this day has sucked. I don't even know what to blog about, my head is so shorted-out. I keep thinking about ice cream, and whether I can actually figure out how to change the filter on the water tap, and how I'm a shit for letting all my plants die in this last freeze. It's a drawback to unemployment: too much time to think.

The not-yet-ex Hub and I are driving up to Fort Worth over the weekend to see his family. This is a double-whammy for me; Fort Worth is for me just one big fat memory-scape for my dead mother, and seeing his family is going to be weird, especially since most of them don't know we've separated. How will I deal with that? No matter how I slice it in my head, it comes up this-a-way: we divorce, I never see them again.

I know, the Hub says, oh pshaw, they love you, they'd always be there for you, blah, blah. But it's the little things, the cards at Christmas addressed to 'Mr. and Mrs.', the Birthday greetings, the invitations to football rivalry gatherings in Dallas, that won't happen anymore.

I try to view loss as door closed, door opened elsewhere sort of thing. It usually works, and would've worked all Holiday season long, if I hadn't volunteered to actually go see them. Now I have to go up there, buck up, and not speak of anything hurtful. I feel like it's a secret I have to keep. I hate it.

I keep thinking of those little boys that Hub's sister adopted, and how they hung all over me at his cousin's wedding. I took them down to the pond next to the event center and told them, that if they were very quiet, they could get really close to the sleeping ducks. I told them that I, too, had been adopted, and that it meant you were very special. It was the same lie that I got at their age, and it made me feel better then. I feel like I'm on the verge of losing the right to tell them anything again.

Wow. Somebody needs some ice cream. Seriously.

Preparing to take the Leap

2005-12-11T12:57:00.000-08:00

The encouragement for my trip, henceforth known as The Cork and Demon Western Wine Tour Hootenany 2006 (C&D Wine Tour, for short), has been overwhelming. To know that others do not think I've gone absolutely batshite is a tremendous comfort. Especially since I'm not sure myself that I haven't.

One clue that I'm still on the sane side of the fence is my timetable for departure. The meticulous planning for such a trip on it's own is a load; beginning the process during the holidays and smack-dab in the middle of a marital separation is, as the French say, le fardeau du merde.

The French don't really say that. But you get what I mean.

The official departure date is March 1st, 2006. By that time, I will have acheived the following:

1) Spent a weekend with my husband's family. Maybe the last visit for a very long time. If I ever see them again.

2) Spent the first Christmas day away from him since we were married.

3) Settled the issue of our house, and who will live in it while I'm gone. Who will take care of my cats while I'm gone.

4)Made a list of the wineries, wine shops, and other enotech destinations, and plotted a route, and rooms, accordingly, from West Texas to Vancouver.

5) Put my financial affairs in order. Not like I'm dying or anything, but it's a load of my mind if everything's squared away.

6) Buy Pepper Spray, to defend myself. I was gonna get one of those little pearl-handled guns a lady can put in her garter belt, but garters make me look fat.

God, why can't I be 21 again? I could just pile a bunch of wadded up clothes into the banana yellow Vanagon and be on my way? Delayed gratification is so bogus!

And then again, it's not. Planning for this trip is part of the journey, part of the whole point of doing this: to see once and for all that, if I take the helm of my own life, I will not run aground. This hasn't always been the easiest thing for me to trust. Beyond the writing experience, the people I meet, the opportunities I discover, the stuff I learn and the country I see, this excursion is most of all about my trusting myself.

So, aren't you dying to know if I can pull it off?

Here's the way I'll set it up: this site, Cocktails with the Noonday Demon, will be my place to chronicle how this trip (and until then, it's preparation) is going for me, the things I figure out along the way about myself and the world, and any catty shit I have to say about people I meet. The Cork and Demon will house all the wine reviews, interviews, winery info and photos of vineyard dogs with big, cute eyes. That way, you can stick to one side of the story or another. I, of course, recommend keeping up with both.

The Great American Road Trip

2005-12-06T05:32:00.000-08:00

I quit my job.

Oh, yeah, I did. And it was either the silliest or most brilliant decision I've ever made. Fortunately, I'm inclined to believe the latter.

I was able to resign only because I have a safety net, and am grateful for it. But believe me, I worked for it. When my mother was diagnosed with a particularly cruel and quick form of ALS (one in which things happen fast, and the first to go is the ability to swallow and speak) I resigned from the job I had at the time and became her full-time caregiver for just under two years. It was fucking brutal, for both of us and for my then-new husband. ALS is a disease for which more than one doctor has advocated Kevorkian-style measures. It is horrible. Watching a loved one die of it is heartbreaking.

Since her death in 2002, I've received annuity payments, and have been able to live rather nicely with their added income. I've saved some of it, thinking I'd put it towards a house or whatnot. But I've also been very restless. At the same time I longed to use most of the cash for future security, there was another plan for it brewing in the back of my head.

How old were you when you first thought about ditching parents/school/relationship/job and hitting the road? I dwelt on this fantasy at several times in my life.

At sixteen, I imagined myself peeling off in my little beater Oldsmobile with only a general driving direction as a plan. I'd head West. Or north. I'd live off my wits. I'd sit, looking intense and brimming with literary vision, smoking in some coffee shop while everyone wondered: who was this totally hot, totally deep chick who'd just hit town? I'd meet like-minded tune-in-and-drop-outers, and we'd drop LSD together and talk about Sartre. Then someday, someone would find me in the gutter, gripping a tattered manuscript that was destined to become the Greatest Memoir Ever Written. That'd be sooo cool. And wouldn't my parents feel like assholes for mistreating me?

At seventeen, I hated Catholic school, and planned to form a roving Commedia dell' Arte revivalist troupe. Gawd, those were the days---young, innocent, and unaware that 'Renaissance Festival' was a euphemism for Ye Olde Commune of Reeking Hippies.

By early twenties, Herman Hesse's Demian had convinced me that my quest for orderly bourgeoise existence was antithetical to the possibility of true happiness. All that stuff about the sensual world, and how "each man's life represents a road to himself". How can you resist that, drinking a beer at a coffee shop, chain smoking, and desperately avoiding your term paper? It so moved me to pack up, get in the car, and go forth in search of Humanity that I had anxiety attacks for a week that were only ameliorated by heavy dosages of Lone Star Beer.

A couple of main things kept me from realizing this dream. The first, of course, was cash. I couldn't save money for diddlysquat, but then again, I never made more than diddlysquat. The second was fear from deviating from what was expected. I was chickenshit to abandon the path that allowed me to appear legitimate despite my utter lack of self-esteem. I was a college student. I had held down a full-time job. These things kept me from being a complete waste of space. Or so I believed.

I also feared the voices in my head that condemned such a trip as frivolous. I had only a vague idea of a plan: to observe American life and write about it, blah, blah, blah, and my inner critic said: Hell, sister, you don't have to leave town to do that. Besides: borrrr-ring! Already been done.

The truth was, the whole idea lacked structure, and seemed more like an excuse to get away from whatever crappy situation I'd gotten myself into: bad relationship, soul-sucking job, meaningless theater degree.

My original intention in quitting was to spend time with family and friends during what is a difficult holiday season. My husband and I are separated, and although we're the best of friends, we may not be able to pull off the married thing anymore. I planned on looking for another wine job, one that payed more, and was putting out feelers for a wholesale gig.

And then it occurred to me: I could do that, but what if I did something else instead?

Everything, I realized, was in perfect place for my Great American Road Trip.

Money: Got it.

Time: Got it.

Purpose: To blog as I drive west, stopping at as many of the lesser known wineries as I can. Drive all the way up the coast, through California, Oregon, Washington, and into Vancouver. Meet winemakers. Meet owners. Meet everyone. Interview them. Stay away from the Big Darlings, and give small production vintners a spot. In the big hub cities, I'll do the podcasts on a weekly basis, as much as possible. I'll hit local wine shops, wine bars, and restaurants.
I'll learn to write better. I'll learn to organize better. I'll learn all about the American Appellations. I might even find myself a job.

Am I nuts? Most people I've laid this on think not. They know I can do this. And for the first time in my life, so do I.

Holy shit. I'm really going to do this. Wish me luck.

Mike Barfield to the Rescue

2005-11-10T15:44:00.000-08:00

As you may have gathered, your humble bloggeteer is going through a tough time, and when a sister is a-hurtin', the last thing she needs is to sit alone at home with the felines. I accepted an invitation to hit some nightlife, and although I was feeling low, I drove home home with a smile on my face and not nearly enough to pay the taxi driver. But that's another story.

Sure, the lobsters and champers at Eddie V's helped to take me away from my troubled mind. There's nothing quite like a group of girls who know how to throw down at the hottest surf and turf joint in their jeans. Of course, it doesn't hurt to be pals with the manager, who hooks you up with bubbles and Super Tuscans and comps the holy mother out of your bill (thank you, sir!). Being classy lasses, we took the funds we saved and put them right on into the pocket of our server (if you get comps at a restaurant, I assume you're savvy enough to do this, right? Right?)

But I have to offer up thanks and praise to the gentlemen responsible for the really rockin' good time of my evening, and that's Mike Barfield and the boys, who blew my mind at the Continental Club.

I've seen Mike at my place of employment several times, but had never had the pleasure of knowing who he was. I figured he was a musician, what with the porkpie hat and all. But I had no idea, NO idea, how this man and his boys could lay down the white-hot, panty-dropping funk. And this is saying a lot, because I'm pushing forty, and I don't panty-drop for just anyone.

A few hours before, I was feeling old, feeling funkless, feeling like my best option was to rely on my wily intellect and forget about the efficacy of my ever-expanding ass. Then Mr. Barfield bade me dance. "C'mon, darling, this is your night!" he shouted, and before I could set down my vodka and tonic, I was led to the stage.

The heat, the lights, the supertight funk, and I forgot all about my woes and tribulations. Thank you, Mr. Barfield, for reminding a girl that when the going gets tough, the tough shake their ass.

Separation anxiety rant one

2005-11-08T16:32:00.000-08:00

I wanna know what the woman next door has against me. My husband told me a while ago that she's just an odd bird, a homebound mother of two with a shriveled personality that I ought not to spend a minute worrying about. And he was right; she's dull and dowdy and bears a disturbing resemblance to Andrea Yeats, so why do I care what she thinks? Still, we used to be friendly, and our house was the first stop for the girls on their trick-or-treat route. But the little golden haired heathens didn't show up this year. What the fuck?

Jerry told me it was probably because of the weather threatening rain, and that all the kids would have wanted to go down to those new Mc Mansions they built next to our addition. But I knew I'd been snubbed. For some reason, Andrea Yeats had nixed us, and I wanted to know why.

The next day, she and her offspring were all up in my yard, as usual after the bus came. I asked Andrea Yeats: "Did the girls not go trick-or-treating this year?" and she says, "Oh, yeah, we went down to the new houses, and kinda up that way a little," like I'm not going to notice that "up that way a little" is up our street and excluded my fucking house.

So what's the deal with Mrs. Yeats? Is it my liberal leaning bumper sticker, or the fact that I have neglected to mow the lawn? It might be a cumulative effect, but there's the one thing I think that has convinced her that she must keep her little preciouses away.

It's the recycling bin. See, since the hub and I are both in the wine biz, it's usually full of wine bottles. Full to the brim. She's been looking at all those bottles and has decided we're boozehounds. Plus, since the hub has moved out, I dumped all these liquors I didn't plan on drinking, so she's processing absent husband + 5 recycled tequila bottles = neighbor is a drunken slut. That's gotta be it. She's thinking, no wonder he left you, you Godless whore.

Oh, you might be thinking, now for fuck's sake, that's just silly to trip on something like that. But I'll be damned if she's gonna whip me at the speculation game. It's a pride thing.

Here's what I'm speculating, Andrea: you plod around in your house all day, which stinks of yappy puppy and kid sweat, in the same sweatpants for days. So don't be judging me and my wine bottles. Ain't nobody wanting to trade spaces with you.

Ten Things that hurt about separation

2005-11-03T09:17:00.000-08:00

10. There is no one to bring me my coffee, or to bitch to about the sugar level.
9. Wondering if he didn't kiss me goodbye because he wasn't sure he was allowed to.
8. Watching movies in the evening together like always, except afterwards, he leaves.
7. Not fighting about who gets what.
6. Dismantling the 'perfect couple' image we were so good at.
5. "I love you" and "Fuck off and die" occupying the same space simultaneously.
4. The lingering fear that I am too intense for anyone to handle.
3. It is impossible to stay angry at him. Why does he have to be such a goddamned nice guy?
2. His car in the parking lot of an apartment complex instead of our driveway.
1. Wanting you gone so I can miss you.

My 37 Year Old Foot

2005-10-21T06:14:00.000-07:00

Above is a picture of my foot. Of all the parts of my body, my feet seem to have changed the least. Still the monkeylike spread my mother told me came from walking around barefoot all the time, and trying to pick things up with my toes. That, of course, was total bullshit, like most of the things she told me.

My mother had very dainty feet. Princess feet, painted and primmed and molded by years of trotting around in tapered toe high heels. Mine look pretty damn good, I think, for having trudged through thousands of hours of table waiting, bartending, and hiking around. I try to keep them tidy, heels scrubbed and dry skin removed, but I don't trip too hard on nail polish or shop for superfly slingbacks. My doggies are utilitarian. They work like hell, and enjoy a good strong massage now and then. And I can still pick things up off the floor with them.

When xanax is not enough

2005-09-27T06:34:00.000-07:00

I dreampt I walked into the Episcopalian Church I attended as a kid, and a group of workers were gutting it. My first concern was what they were going to do with the enormous bronze wall hanging of Jesus that rose above the altar, which had already been removed. "It's on the way," a woman said, "to another church who needs it more."

I loved that thing when I was younger. I spent many a sermon running my eyes up and down the intricate folds of the robes and memorizing every angle in the face. It was a very modern depiction of Christ, of a similar sensibility to Charles Umlauf. He had no beard, and was a studied extreme in Anglican features---square jawed, chisled features, closely cropped, curly hair. His face and posture radiated solemn serenity, rather than suffering. I adored him. As recent as four years ago, when I assisted my crippled mother to a service, I found my appreciation for the design of the sculpture had broadened rather than diminished. Despite its Caucasian-ness, it still managed to press deeply into that tender spot that wants Daddy to take care of me.I was distressed, in my dream, that the sculpture was gone, and that yet another image of my childhood had been dismantled. I was angry that "some other church needed it more" when it was mine, goddammit, and no one had asked me if I could spare it.

It is too easy, lately, how images of massive destruction evoke those of personal loss. It has left me dreaming of stolen icons and riddled my day with reminders of my own mother's slow, cruel battle with ALS. Grief is a long-lived bitch that never leaves you, but sometimes sleeps. You can tiptoe around her, try not to make noise, but inevitably some loud event jars her awake. Then you're in for a whole new round of anxieties, images, reminders, that hit you in the face from every angle. I have had to realize that my usual list of comforts, including rich red wine, dark chocolate cake, and xanax, won't stay the onslaught for long.

The solution: write and volunteer.

Goddammit, I knew I was gonna say that.

At least, I didn't say "yoga and abstinence". Cause that would have been rediculous.

T.

Fema City

2005-09-17T07:55:00.000-07:00

As FEMA continues to flounder around, The "President" is talking about putting refugees on federal owned land in exchange for either getting a low-kost mortgage from low-income loaners like Fannie Mae or having a house built by Habitat for Humanity. The participants will be chosen by lottery.

Why does everything smack of creating win-win situations between the people displaced and desperate, and some fucking industry? Scratch that, I'm sure we all know the answer.

Anyhoo, what really scared the shite outta me this morning was reading this article from washingtonpost.com, and realizing that there are still refugees from the last devastating Gulf Coast hurricane, unable to find permanent housing. Holy fuckaroo, people. Holy fuckaroo.

Donation etiquitte rant, part two

2005-09-10T06:35:00.000-07:00

A fellow wino and I drove out to the Red Cross sponsored donation drop-off center here in Austin, responding to urgent requests to help in sorting out the mountains of donated clothing unloaded by Austin residents. While sorting clothes isn't as sought-after volunteerism as actually getting to hand out food and care kits directly to the evacuees, someone's gotta get it done.

Shortly after the announcement that a parking garage would serve as a donation drop-off for the Red Cross, the papers reported the line of cars waiting to hand over their carload was an hour long. The volume of donated goods was so overwhelming that the donation drop-off point had to close in order to process it all.

On our arrival, we first noticed rows of crutch handles peeking over the concrete wall of the four-storey garage where they'd been sorted away from the piles of walkers, canes, portable toilets, and other home health supplies taking up several parking spaces. Beyond them were pallets straining under bulging garbage bags, wrapped in plastic, lining the walls of the garage, all the way up into the next level. It was an encouraging sight, both because the majority of the donations had been wrapped up and were ready to go so quickly, and that the generosity of Austinites seemed so obvious.

But as always, mass donations are a mixed bag. As Steve and I joined the others in making sense of the remaining bags of clothes, we quickly got to the underbelly of generosity: while some people had thoughtfully sorted gently used, clean clothing by size or gender, others had stuffed paint-stained T-shirts and worn out, frayed, threadbare crap into garbage bags and called it a day.

Here's the deal, folks: fashion preferences aside, if you wouldn't pay a buck at a yard sale for it, it is garbage. If you've justified cleaning out your drawers of old, dingy clothing because you figure beggars can't be choosers, think again. One of the myriad losses among the survivors of Katrina or any disaster is dignity. Keep this in mind when choosing gently used clothing for donation. Tossing out your unwanteds is a lousy way to say you care.

Taj's Top Ten Things NOT To Donate, Ever:

1 ANYTHING STAINED. If you don't walk around in it, don't donate it. Cut it up and dust your entertainment system with it.

2. Torn or threadbare bedclothes and towels. Donate these to your local pet shelter to comfort animals.

3. White blouses or tee shirts with two-inch yellow sweat stains under the arms. I know this falls under 'anything stained' but people miss this one. They're gross. Toss 'em.

4. Unwashed clothes. Honestly, people.

5. USED UNDERWEAR. Buy a new pack of undies, for fuck's sake. No one wants your stained tighty-whiteys, laundered or not!

6. Off-season clothes. Yes, the seasons turn and these things will eventually be needed. But in situations of critical, immediate needs, please try to focus your donations on what people need right now. A thick, black wooly sweater is useless in Texas heat.

7. Broken toys. I watched this litte girl at the Berger Center try to navigate the parking lot on a Barbie scooter with a wickedly loose handlebar, and it was not a heartwarming sight. Either fix them or toss them.

8. Board games with pieces missing, or with unsecured boxes. The first is obvious. But it's also important to remember that a kid's board game with lots of little pieces and cards and such is going to end up in the trash if the box is torn or crushed. Put a bit of tape on the box to make it less vulnerable during rough transport.

9. Cheap, crumpled belts. God, these got on my nerves. You know those lame belts you get when you buy women's pants at the mall? They're made of cardboard, or something, bending and tearing at the slightest pressure. Toss 'em. They end up in huge piles beside the sorted clothes and are nothing but a pain in the ass.

10. Shit that you didn't need, either. Tea cozys. Leg warmers. Broken gagets. Soap dishes. Non-immediate need donations are idiotic in this situation, and are usually things people don't need until after they've settled in to their new lives. Save this stuff for the yard sale.

Most important of all, when a crisis strikes, pay attention to local news and notices to find out what is really needed. It's great that you found some decent, clean clothes to share, but don't stop there. Spend a little cash at the Dollar General and pick up items listed by organizations as immediate needs: clean socks and underwear, specific types of food, water, flashlights, over-the-counter meds, or whatever. Use your natural American Consumer impulses and shop!

T.

Drunk, hurt, pissed, and at wit's end about New Orleans

2005-09-02T20:39:00.000-07:00

President Bush,

I have never hated you as much as I do today. Today, you showed up to tour the devastation, then when you had the opportunity to be a leader, the way you were during 9/11, you chose to throw down a bunch of useless bullshit. You said something about the "devastation in this part of the world", and what little respect I might have had for you withered completely. You know why? Because New Orleans, and the Gulf Coast, are part of America, you stupid piece of incompetent shit! You've spent so much time regurgitating pre-written crap to say in response to tragedies outside of our shores, you fucked up. "This part of the world"?!? Did you not even remember where you were? How about, on the Southern shores of your own fucking country! You let us down, and you are the absolute shittiest American president ever to befoul the plush chair behind the desk in the Oval office, and I hope you wake up one day, having spent the night bathed in sweat, realizing how many people have suffered during your tenure, and exactly how long an eternity with your ass roasting over a spit in hell will last.

I am a ball of anger. And I don't give a drowned rat's ass, either. This is me, pissed, irrational, unable to access cleverness or urbane commentary. Fuck everyone responsible for screwing up the response to the devastation of Katrina. Fuck you all.

Refugees do NOT love piles of crap donations

2005-09-01T12:36:00.000-07:00

I woke up needing to know what was happening in New Orleans and spent all morning with the online accounts of the devastation. Dr. A said it well, later during my session: when we feel like helpless witnesses to a catastrophic event, we want at least to bear witness to the stories. That's just precious and all, but why was I feeling so overwhelmed by it? I sure as shit didn't just lose everything I owned, my job, my family. The images that were hitting me the hardest were of the elderly and the infirm. An image of a woman weeping next to her husband's body, which was wrapped in a sheet. He had lung cancer, and when the family was cut off, he ran out of oxygen and died. He was going to die anyway, that's not the point. I hurt for her. It was her job to keep him comfortable, and she couldn't do it anymore. I knew that feeling very well. So well, it hasn't left me, and all day, I have scrambled around town, doing odd things to help local efforts, trying to get her out of my head.

There were a few refugees at the Berger Center in Austin Texas, where the Red Cross has set up an emergency station to catch any overflow from the Superdome. I was one of many people who just showed up, not knowing how best to help, to get an idea of where help was needed. I knew this wasn't necessarily the best way to go about helping, but I was in a bit of a daze. Being early into the thing, and with only a few families at the station to take care of, the Red Cross volunteers had little to offer in the way of advice, except stock answers: the Red Cross needs trained volunteers. Go help answer the phones at headquarters, make a monetary donation to the Capital Area Food Bank, there's nothing to do here.

There were a lot of "donated" clothes and food at the Berger center, well-meaning (and not so well meaning) people had come around and dumped off a bunch of old clothes at their doorstep. One of the volunteers, Theresa, told me that they were about to get in trouble with the AISD for having that big pile out in front. The plan was to take the clothes to the Goodwill centers; the refugees would be given vouchers to shop at Goodwill. She had been told that a Goodwill truck would be coming around to pick up the clothes, so I offered to come back around to help load them up.

I drove over to the HEB store and picked up some canned tuna, water, and diapers, because that's what the Capital Area Food Bank had asked for, and drove them over to the Bank itself. A big, burly Marine guy, who I'd noticed at the same store, pulled up behind me. There was no one free to tell us where things went, so I looked around and found that there were large, marked boxes to put donations in. Meanwhile, Marine guy is bitching up this guy who didn't even work at the food bank: why don't you people have someone to direct us out here? How the hell are we supposed to know where to take the food?

Clue for Mr. Marine man: the volunteers have their fucking hands full. Figure it out, just like I did, it wasn't that hard.

I went back to the Berger, and waited around for the truck to help load it, folding clothes in the meantime to make it easier for those who were trying to pick through the pile. It wasn't much to do, it just made me feel better. There were reporters and photographers trying to snag a story; one guy's just filming the shit out of me cramming clothes into trash bags. Give it a rest, dude.

I don't like feeling helpless. There was a lot of busy work that I did when I was taking care of my mother (who had ALS), that felt just like what I was doing: mostly busy work, not necessarily crucial. I hated that people had just dropped this shit off in trash bags, some of it worthless, and went home feeling like they'd done their good deed for the day. I hated that they expected the Red Cross to deal with it, or that the refugees inside would love nothing more than to dig through random piles of stained clothes.

Even the media was wondering why we were taking the clothes away to Goodwill, like there was something unsavory afoot. A reporter asked me suspiciously: "Where are you taking these clothes? Aren't they for the refugees?" I wanted to say: "actually, there to be sold to benefit the Kill Unwanted Children Fund," but I held my tongue.

So here's a clue for everyone: please do not dump off your trashbags full of broken toys, out-of-season, old, stained shitty clothes, and dirty, torn bedsheets at the Red Cross shelter. Or anywhere, for that matter. For one, donation boxes are not dumpsters. For two, if you want to really help, find out what's going on in your community, and respond to the needs listed by legitimate organizations. Otherwise, you're just creating extra work for those who are trying to get a job done.

A little raw anger takes me to the Fort Worth ISD, circa 1980

2005-08-08T19:48:00.000-07:00

I know I'm near the time of my monthly when I have an urgent need to anathemize something that normally doesn't even cross my mind. Tonight, I can't stop thinking about the middle school I attended, way the hell across Fort Worth.

My sistah Gini Goddamn over at Mascorrolandia grew up across the highway from me, and the shit we could dish about being bussed across town in a half-assed attempt at desegregation would make the good Dr. King roll his eyes and sigh.
Was it enlightening, in any way, to haul us naiive, middle class suburban kids out to the 'Hood? Did it bring the white children and the black children together to hold hands and sing Kumbaya while the rainbow of brotherly love beamed o'er our heads?

Fuck no. The schoolboard didn't bother to think they'd actually have to address the racial tension situation in the classroom, or encourage socialization in any way. All they had to do was fulfill the mandate of desegregation, put out fires when they flared, and try desperately to cover up the dropout rate.

I don't know when or where I acquired the following factoid, nor do I know how acurate it may be, but I remember being told that the ratio of black kids to white kids at William James Middle School was 35:1. Always made perfect sense to me; when I walked into my homeroom on the first day of school, I was the only non-African American child. I remember thinking: they must be trying to teach us what it's like to be in the minority. That couldn't possibly have been the FWISD's goal; that would have taken too much thought.

I soon learned that homeroom and the hall was to be the only place where I'd see my black schoolmates. The classes were obviously drawn up by race. All the attention was lavished on the white kids. We were told to keep to ourselves. What was the point of desegregation if the message was still this: the only way to keep us all quiet was to keep us apart?

The tension was not only between kids. The racial mistrust was extended to teachers, staff members, and for me particularly, the drivers of the busses. Here was my first taste:

By the sixth grade, I was quite fond of Star Wars. Alright, I was fucking obsessed with Star Wars. One fine morning, on the bus ride to Wm. James Hellhole, I was happily doodling the insignia of the Intergalactic Rebel Forces on a sheet of notebook paper. I must have dropped this little masterpiece, because a week or so later, I received a photocopy of it, along with a letter to my parents, in a manilla business envelope handed to me by the bus driver. "You need to give this to your parents, child," she said. When I opened it and saw the aforementioned contents, I was very confused. The letter said something about the supervisors of the FWISD bus depot being concerned that "your child's drawing is consistent with racist insignias".

Oh yeah. Sixth grade. And I'm all up in the fucking Klan.

I was mortified. I cried my eyes out, and I went to school everyday in terror of retribution. My mother took up for me with the principal, explaining that Star Wars hadn't a thing to do with white supremacy. But it didn't matter to the bus driver, who always glared at me afterwards.

Ms. Goddamn and I could tell a million stories about this shit.

I'm mad about it not because I was shipped to school in a predominantly black neighborhood, but because there was no guidance, for any of the students, on integrating across racial and social lines. It was as though we were all supposed to just get along. None of us came out of that with a better understanding of the other set. We just all served our time there and got the hell out.

Oh, and in case anyone's thinking of pointing out that, hey, African Americans suffered intolerance for years, et cetera: please stop now. I know this. I'm talking about a school system that let us all down by not preparing themselves or us to understand the reality of racial and social tension.

What's funny about writing this blog entry is that I feel really uneasy with it. I was in the middle of a sentence about my mother taking me out of the public school system after this, and deleted it. Wrote it again, deleted it. My internal editor fears that including my migration to private school will make me sound like a priviledged suburbanite, whining about having to spend time with the lesser classes.

The subject is worth exploring, because I've always been pissed off about it.

Help me out here, Miss Goddamn....

The Ritalin Years, Part Three

2005-07-26T06:59:00.000-07:00

The fifth grade gym teacher, Mr. Phillips, was a merciless tyrant. What he lacked in height and fitness he made up for in volume. There was no occasion, in this portly little man's mind, to speak to children in a normal tone of voice. To him, we were junior delinquents, scheming behind his back to make a fool of him. Discipline, not fitness, would be our only salvation. A shy black boy once asked to go to the restroom a few minutes into class. "You shoulda taken care of that before class, boy! You can hold it now." The kid cried as he pissed himself, and I hated Mr. Phillips forever.

A friend of mine had just returned with her family from Iran, where they had lived for a year while her father was stationed there. She was a bit of a celebrity upon her rejoining class; her family had narrowly escaped during the hostage crisis, and everyone wanted to talk to her. This year I only had gym class with her, and I was determined to get the skinny on life in Iran before I lost my chance. As we sat on the gym floor awaiting the start of some rediculous game involving a giant rubber ball, I coaxed her into a surreptitious exchange, keeping a close eye on Phillips. Having established that she had gotten out of the country quickly and with little fuss, I moved on to the more important details of life in Iran.

"So, do they listen to cool music over there?"
"Not really, its kinda weird," she said.
"What about movies? You've seen Saturday Night Fever, right?"
"Oh, heck yeah. The Bee Gees rule!"
"Omigod, they're all total foxes! Which do you like better, Barry or Andy?"
"Andy's not in the group, dorkus. And anyway, Barry is way more hunky."

A single giggle, and Mr. Phillips was on top of us. "Hel-LO, Ladies! I hope there's something really important going on back there, because I HATE being interrupted!"

I took a moment to picture him in his underwear. "No sir," we said in unison.

"Then what say we Shee-yut UP?"

Shee-yut up. Even I knew, at my age, that was totally rude.

We sat quietly and watched two boys bring in the massive red rubber ball. We had just played this stupid game a couple of days ago: the class lines up in rows with one half facing the other half, and we all try to lob the giant ball past the team facing us. Mr. Phillips saw no reason to mix things up. We were lucky to have a giant ball, and not the back of his hand.

"So, real quick: do you have the soundtrack to the movie?" I whispered.
"Heck yeah."
"Which is your favorite song?"
"I dunno. Stayin' Alive, I guess." She was getting nervous about getting busted. I had to keep her attention.
"'Open Sesame' by Kool and the Gang totally rules the world."
"Don't know that one," she said, her eyes on the tyrant, who was at the front of the gym barking instructions.
"Oh, wow, you've got to hear the whole thing. There's all these other cool songs on it."
She shushed me suddenly and pointed to Mr. Phillips, who was eyeing us. I estimated him to be out of earshot.
"Up Phillip's ass, forget him! You totally need your own copy of this album."
By the look on her face, I had misjudged. Mr. Phillips was barrelling toward me, teeth bared. He grabbed me by the arm and shoved me ahead of him, toward the gym door.
"You go on and tell Mr. Morgan what you just said about me, word for word, young lady, and don't you come back in my class today!"

"Fine!" I shouted as he slammed the gym door. Mr. Morgan was no problem. I was his favorite. Whenever I ended up in his office for something, he'd pat his leg and I'd jump up in his lap. He'd tell me how pretty I was, and how smart I was, and that I should really try harder to be a good girl. I never got in trouble. It was our little secret. I grinned and headed for the principal's office.

I was suprised to find Mr. Morgan a little aloof with me when I arrived. I told him what happened, going for the sympathy slant ("He's always yelling at us and I couldn't take it anymore"). He said something about a meeting with Mr. Phillips and my homeroom teacher and dismissed me to lunch.

Determined to put the incedent out of my head, I began to plan my lesson for Fred and the new girl, Lacey. Today was alphabet day. I nibbled at an ice-cold industrioburger and doodled pictures of Snoopy and Woodstock, singing the ABC's. Snoopy was easy to draw; Woodstock was the real challenge. Fred could draw him rather impressively, for a first-grader.

I was putting my lunch tray away when Mr. Morgan tapped me on the shoulder. "Come on over here, Tif. We're going to have a talk."

He led me over to where my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Blakely, sat precariously in a child-sized plastic seat, her large rump spilling over the sides. Her normally sweet face now looked disturbingly grim. Behind her, chawing on an imaginary piece of gum, stood Mr. Phillips with his arms crossed, looking satisfied.

Mrs. Blakely pulled out a chair for me. "Tifanie, we know you're a smart girl, and we've tried a lot of things to make you understand that your behavior is inappropriate. Nothing seems to work. Mr. Morgan talked to your mother today, and let her know that our next step is to take away your recess time."

I looked around, stunned. Mr. Morgan's eyes did not beam with adoration. Mr. Phillips pursed his lips into what looked like an evil smile. They were serious.

"Well, so, you mean, if I act up again?" I tried, feebly.
"No, we mean right now. You're going to go up to homeroom and sit quietly until recess is over."
My heart raced. But surely, as a tutor of first-graders, I still had some negotiating power. "Actually, I don't really do recess anymore anyway. I teach those kids in Mrs. Robertson's class."
The three adults looked at each other, and for a moment, it looked like this would make the difference. After all, I had already willingly given up recess time to help them do their job.

After an excruciating moment of silence, Mr. Phillips broke out with this: "As far as I'm concerned, young lady, if you can't behave and watch your smart little mouth, you got no business teaching those kids."

Mr. Morgan nodded. "Mr. Phillips is right, Tif. If you lose your recess time, you lose your teaching privleges."
"Go on now," Mrs. Blakely said. "We'll let Mrs. Robertson know."

I begged through tears to be allowed to teach a final session and say goodbye to Fred and Lacey, but it was nothing doing. I was screwed. My gig was over.

The bottom dropped out of my little world. Dazed and shaking, I dragged past Mrs. Robertson's room to my own homeroom, and laid my head down. Stupid old fucker Phillips. He really enjoyed that, didn't he? I spent the rest of the hour fantasizing about marching up to the front of gym class and hurling anathema at him, to shouts of encouragement from my peers.

Later in the week, I snuck around the edge of Mrs. Robertson's door and pressed a gift into little Fred's hand. It was a little diecast racecar with Snoopy at the wheel, taken from my own collection. "Take care, little guy," I said. And as I walked quickly down the hall, I heard him shout "Thank you! Thank you!"

Portrait by Stephen Schwolert

2005-07-18T12:37:00.000-07:00

Wow. My portrait is done, and it's a-fucking-mazing.
I can't tell you how weird it is to look at yourself in a portrait, especially one so uncannily dead-on as this one. I feel suddenly inadequate, like maybe I've cheated. What have I done to deserve to be immortalized in oils? When I die, will this portrait go to someone who knew and loved me, or will it hang in some Goodwill store somewhere next to a pair of decrepit macrame owls?

Now that it's done, I wonder, what possessed me to comission a portrait of myself? Have I become narcissistic in my late thirties, having spent so much time thinking of myself as a complete waste of oxygen for so long? Is all that inheritance money burning a hole in my pocket?

No to both. But I think spending a chunk of my inheritance on this indulgence is a way to communicate with my mothers.

Mothers. I typed that by accident, but I realized I should leave it. I had two mothers before I had none; one gave me up for adoption and the other adopted me to help her bear the burden of her own mother. There's something about having this portrait done that feels like giving the fucking bird to both of them.

This gorgeous canvas was done by the incomparable Stephen Schwolert, who I hope now knows how good he is. Steve shouldn't have do anything but this for a living. Thank you so much, Steve. You're a great friend and a tremendous painter.

The Republican advantage: Framing Theory

2005-07-17T08:02:00.000-07:00

During, and ever since, the last election, I've found myself furious at Democrats for their seeming inability to grasp (let alone compete in) the Game that Republicans play so well. I've never been quite sure myself what it was that 'Game' was, only that Dems sucked at it, and it was costing them almost all of the confidence America once had in their ideals. How was it, for instance, that the Repubs had created such a strong, clear agenda while making Dems look like mealy-mouthed intellectuals with no interest in The People? And how did the Republicans manage to crumple John Kerry's image like a gum wrapper, while Dems seemed just to be shouting hopelessly into a deaf crowd serious concerns about the mismanagement of the war?

So I was reading the NY Times this morning and came across this article by Matt Bai about the way Republicans have used language to capture the American attention. It's a long article, but check it out. It will fill you with a sense of Orwellian dread, while at the same time offering hope that the Dems have finally figured out what they need to do to prevent our government from becoming a one-party affair.

Now, the Hub says I shouldn't put NY Times articles links on my posts, because some people aren't registered to the NY Times. Well...register, for Chrissake! It's not that difficult.

Let's just get this outta the way.

2005-07-13T06:24:00.000-07:00

Shaysu

The urge to show one's animals on one's blog is apparently impossible to resist, because I'm the *last* person who wants to see them on someone else's blog. I mean, truly: nobody really gives a flying rat's ass what your pets look like. Yet, here I am, unable to help myself.

Nuka and Orson

I mean, does everybody think their fat tabby is the most beautiful creature ever to grace a dingy tile floor? Please.

Ella and Genji

Fortunately, for those of you who read my blog (all four of you), my animals are clearly superior specimens and well worth admiring. Oh, yeah, and for all you parakeet lovers, here's my bird:

Mr. Pea

No, this is not a stock photo, this was taken in my driveway. This is Mr. Peacock, aka Tarzan, Pasha, and Bob, depending on what part of the neighborhood you ask.

Okay, Mr. Pea is not technically mine. He's actually a semi-feral bird that showed up in the backyard one day. But I'll be damned if anyone spends more than I do on gourmet peacock food for this guy. In my head, that makes him mine.

Alright, now that I've gotten that out of my system, I swear that these creatures shall never again appear on my blog.

Until, of course, they do something really cute that the whole world simply must see.

This blog is dedicated to the memory of Ella. RIP, little sister.

The Ritalin Years, Part Two

2005-07-08T06:34:00.000-07:00

If I look back and try to find the positive, character-building messages I received from my teachers during my stint in the gristmill of the Fort Worth Independent School District, I come up with fuck-all. Well, to be fair, there was that Breakfast Optimist Club Award I got for reading skills, which afforded me a fuzzy photo in the community newsletter. But that was the same year I had to endure Mrs. Ashburn, who seemed to be unclear as to which century it was. If we so much as looked like we were thinking of misbehaving, she would dig her bony thumb deep into the flesh between our shoulder and neck and hold it there until she had slowly recited the class rules. She also made us stay in from recess once a week to listen to Bible stories. How I hated her. I saw her years later selling panties at Stripling's and Cox, barely ambulatory in what was surely her final decade. I remember thinking that evil made people live longer.

With each beginning of a new grade, there was hope that I would straighten up and fly right, that I would forsake my disruptive ways and fulfill my destiny as a posterchild for the success of the public school system. The principal and my new fifth grade homeroom teacher decided that, despite my love for clever potty humor and for sharing it during the pin-drop silence of spelling tests, I should be cultivated as a leader. With responsibility given to me, I would begin to walk the straight and narrow. I was offered my first job. Instead of enduring my regular social beat-downs at recess, I was given the task of tutoring first graders who had fallen way behind.

Walking to the first grade classroom from lunch was a grand moment in an otherwise miserable day. Where once I had trugged along the hallways, embarrased of my embroidered coulottes and greasy hair, I now held my head up high. As the only tutoring student, it was clear that all the teasing and harrassment I received daily was mere jealousy . I told myself: all those other kids now had nothing on me. I was no longer just a student, I was a member of the staff, possessed of authority and power. I would be a great teacher one day, and the rest of the snotnosed brats would collect my garbage at the curb.

My first student was a boy named Fred who just couldn't wrap his mind around either the social graces or the alphabet. He was smaller than the other first graders, and lacked all his teeth, and I wondered if someone had mixed up his birth records. He liked Snoopy and whispering the word 'shit' and snickering. My task was to make him understand that his success in society for the rest of his life hinged on understanding the words 'please' and 'thank you'. It seemed to be a simple enough lesson to me, and that my own mastery of the two words empowered me to pass this on to him. But it wasn't that simple.

I drew a picture for Fred of a stick figure holding a ball, and another stick figure saying, "May I please have the ball?" I explained---very thoroughly, I thought---the concept of politeness. I then drew the exchange of the ball, and Stick Figure Two saying "Thank You!". Both stick figures had wide grins, which I intended would show how politeness makes everyone happy. "Now, let's try," I said to Fred, putting a hand on his shoulder to make him stop squirming and giggling. "Let's pretend I have a ball, and you would like to see the ball for a while, what do you say?"
"Gimme the ball!" he declared.
"That's the old way. We wanna do it the new, polite way. Look at the picture. What do you say?"
He studied the picture for a second, then pulled at my shirt. I leaned in.
"Shitty shit." he whispered, then burst into laughter, covering the left side of my face with a fine spray of child spit.
Mrs. Baker, who had been working at her desk, came over and spoke a few stern words into Fred's ear, and he shriveled like a salted slug. She had her doubts, I knew, about the little guy, and about me. When she walked away, I felt I had to level with Fred.
I leaned in, with an eye on the retreating teacher. "Okay, sweetie, look. You gotta learn this stuff, so that Mrs. Baker gets off your case, and I gotta teach you this stuff, because I'm going to be a great teacher someday, and I need the practice. So what say we help each other out here?"
"Mrs Baker is shitty," he whispered.
"Yeah, she is. So do we have a deal?"
"Please-thank-you," he said.

As my slow but sure progress proved my competency, I was given another student, and I alternated in between them every other recess. My pupils adored me, and grinned like puppies when I came into the room. With this extracurricular responsibility, my own grades improved. I began to see a future forming ahead of me, one that would take me to heights at which I could look down upon my previous tormentors with sweet pity tinged with retribution. There was not only hope for me, but at last, a clear path to my destiny as The Most Intellegent, Capable Woman Ever To Walk The Earth. But thanks to the Bee Gees, it would all fall apart very soon.

Dollhouse

2005-07-07T15:54:00.000-07:00

During the final cleanout of my mother's house after she died, I found the ruins of a dollhouse in the storage shed. It had been given to me as a birthday present. I had begged for one after being enamored with the ones at a local hobby shop. These little houses were painted and warmly furnished with irrisistable miniatures of every imaginable household object, down to tiny red apples in china bowls. The one I got was empty and unpainted and it made me cry. It never occured to me that you had to paint the damn thing yourself. In the state in which I found it years later, it was a perfect image to underscore the loss of my childhood home.

Resurrecting The Ritalin Years

2005-07-04T07:02:00.000-07:00

"Only to the extent that we expose ourselves to annihilation do we discover that which is indestructable in us" Pema Chodron said. It took me until my early thirties to realize she wasn't advocating doing so with expensive vodka and weed. What weren't indestructable were my stomach and self-esteem. The back, too, from years of waiting tables, bartending, and laying crumpled in bed with a belly full of Grey Goose.

I was given the name 'Tifanie' by the people who adopted me because it wasn't enough to pick a name that sounded prissy as hell, it also had to carry a spelling that would afford me years of ridicule and mispronunciation. During elementary school I went by nicknames, usually something shortened: T.J., Tif. For a whole summer I called myself Vette, after a beloved tee shirt with the car's nickname written in loopy rainbow cursive. The nickname stuck until I started getting teased for wearing the shirt to day camp every single day, clean or not.

I was an intellegent, impatient, loudmouthed little shit from kindergarten to middle school, despite pharmeceutical intervention. Ritalin was an afternoon regimen for me all through the elementary years. I was on the highest recommended dose, which doesn't suprise me now, knowing how my mother adored medicene. At the time, I didn't really know what they were for, just that every day before I got my ass kicked at recess, I was to march straight to the office to receive my medication: a small, bluish-white tab, pressed into my hand by the office secretary. I don't remember feeling any different; I was still bored, wiggly, weary from endless taunting, and focused solely on foiling the teacher and winning a roomful of snickers.

I was recognized as a 'gifted student' at some point or other, which amounted only to batteries of tests, getting yanked out of class to participate in accelerated reading programs, and the expectation that I would set some sort of example. The child psychologist I saw wanted my mother to skip me from the second to the fourth grade. I only got the news as a side note, driving back home from his office, along with her decision that it was a bad idea because I would "be at odds with my peers." Considering that the most interaction I'd had lately with my "peers" was sitting in the grass while a group of kids threw grass clods and insults at me, I was supremely pissed off at her. So instead of bragging rights and higher learning, it was pills and spankings for me, for a good long while.

Waiting for Photo

2005-07-02T06:31:00.000-07:00

I thought that now, since blogger will download images, I'd take the time to shamelessly display some of the animals I know everyone is pissing themselves to see.

Problem is, blogger is a tad slow in the uploading process as of yet, and I'm getting restless. I'll continue to blog until the photo shows up, and hopefully ease the tedium of waiting.

DAY ONE: I don't blame blogger for taking so long. After all, this is a new thing, and it's probably being used by a bazillion bloggers at once. I can wait patiently.

DAY TWO: My spirits are still up, although this is definitely a test of will. Haven't left the bed yet, as I'm afraid I'll miss the publishing of my first photo (by blogger). I will wait.

DAY THREE: Some people might not understand my vigil, and would certainly criticize me for losing my job and laying in my own filth, just for a photo. But it is they who are the the losers, with nothing good enough to wait for.

DAY FOUR: Feeling weak. hanen't eaten. huband left today, took cats to anmal shlter.

DAY FIVE: Okay, fuck this. The world will just have to wait to see how precious my cats are. Sorry to disappoint.

New Line sucks its own dick

2005-06-27T06:24:00.000-07:00

Guess what happens when a big, vertically integrated conglomerate funds your movie? You sign a contract, they undersell, to themselves, all the merchandise upon which your percentage is based, then when you hire a lawyer, they make you out to be a greedy bastard.

Peter Jackson made a ground-breaking set of films, and helped New Line and its subsidiaries make a gatrillion dollars. By allowing only itself to bid on the merchandise, they maximized their own profit at the cost of Jackson's. Who's greedy?

moaning and munching

2005-06-21T07:05:00.000-07:00

Lord, the internet moves fast. Apparently, cryingwhileeating.com is so last month. this article explains the origins of this wildly popular site.

My husband had sent me and several others the link to this site, then reported that there appeared to be a gender split by reaction to it. All the males responded with, "what the fuck is this?" while all the girls laffed their asses off immediately. Perhaps women are better acquainted with the impulse to boo-hoo and stuff face simultaneously, and can appreciate the rediculousness of it? Since two rather clever guys came up with the site, I guess that theory doesn't fly very well.

eatingwhilecrying.com

2005-06-19T21:37:00.000-07:00

I just finished 'Finding Neverland' and a bottle of cheap Spanish wine and this comes across my email from my husband. I've been through about ten of them and have nearly pissed my pants laughing...

Fashion Brillance

2005-06-14T07:33:00.000-07:00

I was enjoying a vast, flowing stream of fascinating topics about which to write, sitting at the Brick Oven over a glass of cheap Pinot Grigio and a slice of cold pizza. I had a shitload of trails to follow: my therapist's hair, the secret life of Tom Delay, ten things you do instead of going to your own mother's funeral.
I get home and fire up the laptop, ready to commend my brilliant thoughts to electronic media. But suddenly, with the cat rowring and the fishtank dirty and my clothes I just bought still in the sacks that say GAP and NY and CO, I find myself completely blank. Except for a faint pang of concern, looking at those sacks of clothes.

An uncomfortable realization forms: Now that I'm in my late thirties, I have resigned myself to the path of least resistance in fashion.

Not that I was ever much of a maven. My idea of accessorizing was wearing the same earrings for months until I reached up and noticed that I'd lost one (and who knows how long I'd gone around with just the one). For the most part, I favored Rock-n-Roll casual, thinking it vastly more important that everyone knew that I dug the Pixies than looking like I gave a damn. For those days when I really wanted to make an impression, I had a small collection of unusual, cool shirts with collars, like that fitted denim number with the embroidered longhorns that made me look all Rockabilly sexy (too fat for it now).

I tried to diversify. I'd drive around to all the little boutiques, looking for something that would really show the world what I was all about. All I found were tiny, overpriced swatches of cloth intended for girls far scrawnier than me.

I looked all over town because I didn't want to throw my money at the mall. I didn't want to go anywhere near the mall. And I certainly don't like buying clothes that are made in Sri Lanka by obscenely underpaid ten-year-olds.

I found neighborhoodies.com, where you can create your own hoodies, tees, bags and so forth, adorned with whatever message you need to tell the world. I was instantly in love, and set out to make all the most important statements, such as 'Beck. His Beat Is Correct.'

But I found that I can't live by tee shirts alone. As I grow older and plumper, I've started to lean towards clean lines, crisp collars, and bold colors. Pants that fit me well. Decent prices. And I end up at the fucking mall. Sri Lanka be damned, I shop the GAP.

I'm not proud. And I would really like to see some of these small clothing stores help a sister out by carrying a size range beyond tiny to microscopic. I'd like to see more companies like American Apparel , and I'd like to see them do a wider range of styles.

In the meantime, I'll crawl the sale racks and pray for the day I find the One True Belt that, when worn, offers admirers a window to my brillance.

postsecret.com

2005-05-31T06:53:00.000-07:00

This site is a perfect example of why I love blogging and checking out what others have done. As you scroll through the creative confessions, you might occassionally be tempted to dismiss them as the whimsy of some frustrated art student, but not for long, as they begin to resonate with little dark chunks of your own mind. I dare you to spend an hour with these and avoid thinking about that one nasty thing you need to confess.

As I went through my own secrets, I found myself thinking, "ooh, that one would make a cool postcard," until I was reminded of a nasty one that still, to this day, makes me feel like a monster. I don't even want to think about it any more, right now, let alone design a postcard around it. The confessions that jolted me the most were cards that bore just such a secret.

T.

Begging Willie Please

2005-05-28T07:41:00.000-07:00

The hub and I were watching a special on CWT about Johnny Cash's struggle with Nashville a few months ago, and we got on the subject of murder ballads. I had never heard the term 'murder ballad' before, to be honest, but as soon as he threw it out there, I realized, "Oh yeah, those songs that creep me the fuck out." He went into his office and brought back a CD, popped it in. "This is the Louvin Brothers, right?" I said and he nodded. I was familiar with the Western gospel of the Louvin Brothers, where they praise the Lord in rustic Tennessean two-part harmony. But soon I realized that this song weren't no praise-to-the-Lord 'tall. It was a narrative of a man who beats his fiancee to death, throws her into the river, then goes home and tells his mother all the gore on his clothes is from a bloody nose, all in that same irresistable, earnest working man harmony.

It blew me right the fuck away. The Hub switched to an album and played 'Miss Otis Regrets' by Ella Fitzgerald. Now, granted, she could sing the alphabet and I'd still swoon, but this was amazing. It's not hard to get Jerry to plunge into his music collection, so before long, we'd popped another bottle of Spanish Garnacha and littered the floor with jewel cases and album covers, looking for more murder ballads.

I hopped on ITunes and began to remember other murder ballads I had heard before I was aware of the genre. My ideas betrayed my Gen X tastes: I thought of 'Country Death Song' by the Violent Femmes and the 'Murder Ballads' album that Nick Cave had done.

I thought I should go deeper, so I googled and came up with this site, a collection of the lyrics of old, original ballads (and how their stories turn out, for good measure). I decided to put together a compilation of as many versions of these original ballads I could find, plus a few recent takes on the genre, and maybe a couple songs that, while they don't count as true ballads, creep me out all the same.

Much like the name 'Wayne' seems to show up attached to criminals in real life, the name 'Willie' seems to be the prefered moniker for the murderous boyfriend in these ballads. I still wonder why that is. Who is Willie Lee? He appears so often, I was convinced this bastard was a serial killer sometime in the 20's, and is maybe still going today, through generations of screwed up hillbillies. Maybe it works like the story of The Shining, only you don't have to go to some freaky hotel to get the curse, it's passed on by name.

Anyway, here's the playlist:

Knoxville Girl---The Louvin Bros.
Cocaine Blues---Hank Thompson
Banks of the Ohio---Johnny Cash
Pretty Polly---Angela Correa
Country Death Song---Violent Femmes
Lawson Family Murder---Doc and Merle Watson
32-20 Blues---Robert Johnson
L.A. County---Lyle Lovett
Hey Joe---The Jimi Hendrix Experience
The Cold Hard Facts of Life---Porter Wagoner
Little Sadie---Bob Dylan
Miss Otis Regrets---Ella Fitzgerald
Miss Otis Regrets---Marlene Dietrich (sung in German)
Goodbye Earl---Dixie Chicks
Possum Kingdom---Toadies
Down in a Willow Garden---(off a 'various artists' bluegrass album, iTunes gave no credit, and I couldn't find it elsewhere)
Pretty Polly---Queen Adreena
Legs---PJ Harvey
Henry Lee---Ralph Stanley
Where the Wild Roses Grow---Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue (yeah, that Kylie Minogue!)
Delia's Gone---Johnny Cash

I'm still processing my and other's fascination with these songs. Somehow, the tales of jealousy and subsequent murder resonate in a dark chunk somewhere in our psyche. They let us live the whole story of being betrayed, exacting revenge, and paying the dues in a three minute time span. There's something satisfying about it because we can visit our evil sides for a moment, sing along with the perp about taking a shot of cocaine and shooting our woman down, then return to the business of picking up dinner. For some reason, I just love that.

Much thanks to the Hub for all the artwork, to Miss Gini Goddamn, Musicologist Extraordinare, for the sugs, and to God, for giving us Johnny Cash to let us know He loves us.

Cocktails with the Noonday Demon

2005-05-17T19:59:00.000-07:00

One cannot live by wine alone. One also needs food, shelter, and a place to allow one's demons to express themselves. This is the blog I moved from the earthlink location (trellis site builder sucks), and will continue to be my little corner to post my personal whatnots.

The title of this blog comes from Andrew Solomon's book The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression. In it, he charts his own personal struggle side by side with cultural and scientific data. It's a great book. But I decided to rip off the image of the Noonday Demon, because I know this animal quite well. I have had what I thought were hoardes of them, stomping around in my head, only to find, finally, that there's really only one rather large sonofabitch up there, sulky and puffy and petulant. After years of struggle, I realized that I fared better with this beast when, rather than fighting it, I invited it to take a load off and explain what it wanted from me. This meeting always went better over a nice gin and tonic with extra lime.

Cheers to all...