Happy Halloween: BOO!
The
Evil Mad Scientist has a frakking fantastik primer on creating a Cylon Jack o' Lantern. Of course, if it's the end of the day and you spent 8 - 10 hours at work and still haven't even thought of what you'll have for dinner, the obvious counter-move is this: be a punk and spray paint your toaster orange! Then slap a piece of red duct tape on it.
Deep down, I wanna be dark and broody and stuff; but I know I'm just gonna slouch to 'Gilmore Gilrs' and 'Veronica Mars.'
When exactly did I become that gal? Talk about scary!
In my defense, I am wearing my spider and web earrings. There's a little bit Halloween Rock and Roll to me, I'm not all lame!
Halloween Soundtrack
Despite my increasing age, Mom knows I'm just a big kid at heart.
The fact she goes insane baking cookies and decorating them, creating those ridiculous "witches' hands" and the package tag ghosts is because she knows the kids (not all chronoligically so) get a huge kick out of it. She lives to make kids smile.
So every Halloween at around midnight I get a gift. A silly toy or something ghoulish, sometimes just something geeky that goes well with the holiday and further imprints good memories of Halloweens past. This year, just for kicks, I got something some fool discarded: the special edition soundtracks to Star Wars, episodes IV, V, and VI.
Of course! John Williams should conduct my Halloween soundtrack. Well, he's welcome to rock my whole life (and I did not mean that in a naughty way, you evil trolls).
Click on the comic strip for some cool stuff by M.E. Russell
If you believe in faeries...
I am full of energy! Of course, that’s because my head and chest feel lighter. Coming off a period where you are so extremely beat up any energy feels like a starburst. I'd attribute it to magic, but not feeling debilitated almost equals happiness. I suppose this is how relapses happen. Of course, all it means in my case is that I have been awake for longer periods of time. I haven’t ventured out into the elements yet.
That will end tomorrow because I have no choice but to return to work. Any day I stay out is a day without pay and I do not have much in terms of reserves. So I must crack the whip on my own back and get into rotation on that big galleon of commerce so I can earn myself next month’s rent. Or what I call living it up!
Last night, we started our Johnny Depp Halloween marathon. First was “
Finding Neverland” because any work that can makes you attest that you do, in fact, believe in faeries (and I do! I do!! I do believe in faeries!!!) seems like a perfect beginning to the holiday. We are going to follow that with “
The Libertine” because Depp’s in period drag. For the actual holiday, “
Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride” because an animated wedding to a dead girl is absolutely perfect for Halloween.
A Few Words on the Rice Pudding
I made the rice pudding that I linked to on 10/21. It took longer than the recipe called for. It simply refused to cooperate! Finally, when all was said and done, it was beautiful. It looked delicious, the raisins plump and the rice creamy. But, alas, it was not what I expected. Awe found it extremely sweet. It’s the perfect thing to kill a mean diabetic!
For years I have tried, failing each time, to recreate my great grandmother’s arroz con dulce. I watched her as she made it, but I was tiny. She didn’t have a recipe and nobody else in the family was ever as good in the kitchen as she was.
If I try it again, I’ll omit the cup of sugar and instead of a full 14 oz of Coco Lopez maybe 8 oz will do. I have many changes flying around in my head, trying to recreate the ambrosia of my childhood. It’s entirely possible that it will require a different recipe altogether. And if there is such a thing, maybe Abuelita will come to me in a dream and fill in the blanks!
Caldo Gallego for a Windy Day
The winds picked up last night (upwards of 60 mph!) and the skylight over our bathroom serves as a sort of barometer of the dangers outside. It has been covered for decades, but as it rises above the surface of the roof, when the winds come it rattles and the sound carries below to our bathroom.
During gales, it sounds really spooky. It sounds like an infernal howling from another world. The dry leaves dragging across the roof sound like witches playing divination games with small bones. The rattling sounds like tiny daemons trying to make their way into our haven. Sometimes it sounds like a volleyball is bouncing off the roof and I just assume is a tired horseman dragging is own head...
During any other month of the year, I have often compared it to God moving furniture.
Considering the general abuse the northeast suffered in the last 24 hours, we lucked out in Brooklyn. The most I can complain about is that one of the car alarms up the street kept going off every time the vehicle was rattled by the strong winds.
High winds and rain is nature's call for a mean soup! I’m not talking about one of those wimpy things, all stock and a few strands of pasta; no, I mean soup as a meal. This calls for
Caldo Gallego! Here’s a relatively easy recipe – it looks complicated, but it really is not as you are free to vegetate under warm covers while it cooks. First it makes your kitchen aromatic, then as it cooks it helps heat up the place and finally, once finished, it is filling and satisfying.
2 teaspoons Olive oil
1/2 cup Chopped onion
3 cloves Garlic, minced
1 quart Water
2 packages instant beef broth and seasoning mix
1 package instant chicken broth and seasoning mix
6 ounces Pared and diced potato
1 cup Seeded and diced canned Italian tomatoes
1/2 cup Diced carrot
1 Bay leaf
6 ounces Cooked veal sausage, sliced (pork or turkey sausage are good substitutes)
4 ounces Drained canned chickpeas (garbanzo beans)
1 cup Cooked chopped kale (or substitute for frozen and add at the end with sausages)
1 tablespoon Minced fresh parsley
1/2 teaspoon Oregano leaves
1/4 teaspoon Pepper
In a 3 to 4 quart saucepan heat oil over high heat. Add onion and garlic; sauté until onion is translucent, 1 to 2 minutes. Add water and broth mixes and stir until dissolved. Reduce heat to low and add potatoes, tomatoes, carrot and bay leaf; cover and let simmer until vegetables are tender, 35 to 40 minutes. Add remaining ingredients and cook until sausage and chickpeas are heated through, about 5 minutes longer. Remove and discard bay leaf before serving.
Pumpkin pi!
I was making my rounds online and got this
link from Boing Boing. I love the idea of letting geeks loose with a pumpkin and some carving tools. It might give you ideas for some far out -- in a quantum sense -- designs. Pumpkin pi: that's hilarious! Or maybe it's pumpkin pi(e) where e=1. Either way, very Zen...
Betty Crocker has a pretty easy pumpkin cream cheese pie.
Recipe Zaar has pumpkin bars with cream cheese icing.
Visual Recipes has a step-by-step recipe for pumpkin cake roll with vanilla cream cheese.
Joy of Baking has a yummy pumpkin cream cheese bread that'll make the house smell very Hanzel and Gretel before the whole disturbing cannibalistic overtones set in.
Lvels of difficulty vary, pick whatever you are comfortable with and send me a slice!
Zombie jamboree, anyone?
I felt a little hazy about everything yesterday, and this picture pretty much covers the feeling. I took off today too and it's going to cost me. But I suppose not risking pneumonia is the better choice.
I am feeling a little more human right now, but I know there are millions of germs feasting on my brain right now. Those bastards!
I had a second wind of sorts earlier and I made the rice pudding I gave you the recipe on the 21st. It cooked longer than what the recipe called for, because it simply didn't look right to me. So, either it will be outstanding or the sweetest slop of rice and raisins ever put together. I'll tell you the verdict when we try it out later tonight or tomorrow -- there's no way to tell how long I'll stay upright or conscious.
If it doesn't quite work out, we'll ball them, air-dry, wrap them up in plastic and call it "Reject Brains." It will go nicely with the cut off "Witches' Hands" we're making for the kids' Halloween packages (clear surgical gloves with candy corn on the tips, serving as rotting fingernails, and popcorn to make it look bony and deformed).
Morning Becomes Resident Evil
I stayed home today, undoubtedly making one of my coworkers sigh in absolute relief. Yesterday I wasn’t looking too hot. She wanted me to go home immediately. She mentioned something about not wanting to be the one to make the 911 call when I dropped.
I wasn’t feeling that much better this morning. I was sitting, pathetically holding on to my cup of coffee, too weak to lift it and drink the elixir of the living dead. Make no mistake, I felt and looked like a George A. Romero creation. Probably sounded like one too, except with far more wheezing. I walked like a zombie too, but that’s because my head was so congested it hurt to move, so I was trying to walk straight and upright while trying to hold my head in place without it feeling like a dozen very sharp cleavers were stabbing at it invisibly in midair.
Moving in slow motion prolongs the pain. Moving like the Road Runner amps up the pain.
I also had lava lamp head, which is a condition that makes it impossible to concentrate, so making the phone calls to the office and the agency took all the energy I had to spare for a full day. I was asleep before I fully hung up the phone and dropped back in the bed. And it would have been a good rest, had I not hit the side of the computer stand as well.
Spooky Menus
There’s this restaurant in P-town, called
The Martin House – it sits overlooking the Harbor. The house is said to have been part of the abolition movement and comes complete with secret rooms in which slaves hid until they were transported to Canada. There is no evidence that there are ghosts in the place, though it stands to reason -- it's so Stephen Kingish!
In 2001, they created a pretty spooky Halloween menu. It included the following (I wish I had pictures to go with it):
Soup
Orange Ectoplasm with Gorey Guts and Tombstones
Butternut squash puree with roasted spaghetti squash and bacon
First course
Blood Soaked Muscles
Steamed pei mussels in roast tomato broth
Main courses
Terror fish
Grilled tuna in a shockingly spicy roast shallot beurre blancOn grotesquely chopped finger potatoes
Monster body parts with green gobs and spooky mist
Roast free range chicken pieces, basil mashed, poultry herb cream
Dessert
Smashed jack o’ lantern with some ladies fingers inside
Pumpkin tiramisu
Wired Magazine had some writers contribute to
six-word short stories, some of which are absolutely priceless and deserve some mention:
Gown removed carelessly. Head, less so.- Joss Whedon
Longed for him. Got him. Shit.- Margaret Atwood
Kirby had never eaten toes before.- Kevin Smith
The baby’s blood type? Human, mostly.- Orson Scott Card
Dorothy: "Fuck it, I'll stay here."- Steven Meretzky
Epitaph: He shouldn't have fed it.- Brian Herbert
All this flash fiction deal led me, in my travels, to
Anantha’s page where he offers his own gems – including the absolute classic:
A Life in Slow Motion
The snail and the rat race.
Inhabited by Apparitions, that's what it is!
Years ago, looking for cool images of real haunted mansions, I ran into a story about some
law in New York State that said you had to disclose a house was haunted if you were selling. Hell of a
caveat emptor, doncha think? I didn’t take it very seriously, because, well ... The funniest dissent in the books has got to be this:
"Finally, if the doctrine of caveat emptor is to be discarded, it should be for a reason more substantive than a poltergeist. The existence of a poltergeist is no more binding upon the defendants than it is upon this court."
Last night, again, I found this law and followed several links. Some lead nowhere reputable. And then, ultimate coup: I found Assistant Professor Eric Goldman's, Santa Clara University School of Law, Contract Law lesson plan:
Stambovsky v. Ackley Case Resources – in which the buyers sought rescission because the seller failed to disclose that the house was haunted.
Apparently the Hudson Valley is rife with haunted residences and mischievous apparitions, and even the New York Times Real Estate section last week had a
story about several hauntings and an awesome multimedia audio slide show to go with it. (The story also references Stambovsky.)
Now that I got you all into the whole haunted house mood,
Ghost Village has spooky first hand accounts of "encounters" that will chill your bone marrow! Probably.
Jack o' Lantern Pizza
Seven days to Halloween!
Looking around for something a little different, I came upon the Halloween Kitchen, hosted by Webmistress Wanda. Her tray of gelatinous, spooky eyeballs is really gross and I think the kids will absolutely love to screech prolonged “Ewwws” between gulpfuls. The bloody popcorn is inspired.
I realize that this might be more than some of you can handle, even on Halloween. So instead, I think you should try her
Jack o’ Lantern Pizza.
My Very Own Edward Gorey Death!
The Biggest Sabbath is coming! And as the Highest Holiday, we take every opportunity to celebrate in little ways... So without further ado, or any explanation or rationalization, my results:
You will sink in a mire. You like to think you're normal, but deep down you really just want to strip off your clothes and roll around in chicken fat.
Take this quiz!
The Closer: chicken breasts
It started with about half a cup of chicken stock that will eventually gets soaked up by the potatoes. Tiny capers went over the slithered onion and topped thinly sliced potatoes and topped them with a mixture of lemon juice, Dijon mustard and olive oil. Above the vegetables I placed breaded chicken breasts – with breadcrumbs, a little flour, cayenne pepper, oregano and Parmesan cheese. Forty minutes at 350° (because they were big breasts). The potatoes got creamy and the onions turned sweet, the little capers provided a savory explosion in every bite and I had the lemon for tartness and the cayenne for a little heat. A simple meal with enough texture to keep the palate interested in another bite!
The fun thing about this recipe is that you could substitute the liquid to change the taste and aroma of the dish. Orange juice. Milk. Wine. Red. White. Beer. And you can play with the amounts of liquid for more sauce, or more Dijon for a thick gravy.
It's this endless cornucopia of choices all leading to delectable results that makes cooking so sexy to me.
Awesome little fantasy
Updated: Somehow I wasn't able to complete the download of the updated entry this weekend -- it kept getting stuck! Here is the whole thing, as I intended it.
We watched Howl’s Moving Castle tonight. The
animated film was based on a fantasy
book written by Diana Wynne Jones. But the book was written during my party years and I never read it. Despite having my stint at a children's publisher, I never heard of it until this movie was released here a couple of years ago.
The
movie was fun and very different than any of the animated films we’d watch in recent years. I can’t really say why this is so because it reminded me about this Japanese cartoon I used to watch when I was a kid. This was far more sophisticated, of course. It had rich textures and backgrounds -- and a definite sense of place and timelessness.
I realize the movie was different than the
book, so now I’m very curious to read the original story.
The visuals are fantastic and I wonder how it would fare if Pixar had taken a chance of retelling the story (and given it the "Toy Story" treatment). How cool would that be? But John Lasseter loved the original enough to go through a freakishly technical effort to dub it right and keep its vision intact.
Stormy weather and sweet, sweet rice
It absolutely stormed in New York today. One of my coworkers and I watched in awe as the sky was overcome with dark clouds, the sun disappeared and a furious rain came down. It looked like giant daggers were thrown with terrifying accuracy, in 3-second bursts of antagonism and the tiny people below tried to run to safety in varying levels of chaos and confusion – and in vain as the rain seemed to be having its way with them. And just as it looked like a watery Armageddon was starting to slow down, the winds picked up and the street below found itself violently hit with a mini-funnel of giant daggers, loose leaves and other flying debris. It didn’t last very long, but it was lethal to some cars, trees and power lines across the tri-state area.
When it was over, the wind calmed a bit (not much) and the temperature started dropping like Paris Hilton’s inhibitions on a night with minutes and seconds (but frigidly). Oh, what do you want from me?
The fickleness of this weather bane reminded me of Puerto Rico in the fall (not that autumn is noticeable as a season in the tropics). To us there were two seasons, summer and winter. “Winter” is the months when it isn’t summer but it always feels like summer; so to be clear, winter covers the big block of religious holidays from All Saints until a bit past Easter. And here’s the coolest thing about Catholicism: religious festivals = bitching desserts!
My favorite dessert is a Xmas tradition. Go visit my friend Carlos’ recipe page and if you have a half an hour to make absolute magic, prepare yourself a mess of
arroz con dulce (Puerto Rican sweet rice pudding). You are allowed to get jiggy with the ginger and add cinnamon sticks for a spicier dessert. Forget the religious thing, dessert is supposed to taste like a deadly sin.
Update: I made the dessert and the consensus seems to be that the result was too sweet. Perfect if your plan is to kill a diabetic, though.
Oh, I believed!
Tough day. Everything hurts. Even body parts I didn't know existed. My bad for getting out of bed. I'm old and creaky! But nothing's as invigorating as Mets playing in October. Unless it was tonight, of course. Heartbreaker.
And so I go to bed with this plagiarized thought:
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the moon is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy at Shea — mighty Mr. Met has struck out.
I believed. I believed. Oh well... the dream was sweet while it lasted.
A gift from above?
Here’s one of the reasons it is almost impossible to peg me: I have fond memories of hurricane seasons past.
The rains came, sometimes in diagonal sheets or as waterfalls, sometimes in impenetrable walls that extended from the heavens and instead of falling, defied gravity, and seemed to pull flooding waters from the depths of hell. The winds stage whispered, “Chaos! Destruction! Pandemonium!” Inevitably, the power went out and four special tools made their appearance: flashlight, radio, candles and kerosene lamp.
Huddled in a room, the circumstances lent themselves to story telling because the adults were terrified in a myriad of ways and speaking calmed their tensions. It made them feel safe – their voices reasserting the fact that they were alive. For a child, this was a special moment to sit on the floor and listen and picture a world that existed “before,” a time and place “away” and watch the almost hypnotic dancing flames.
As long as the elements remained “out there” it was an adventure. The moment either child or hurricane stepped in on the other’s domain it redefined the power of nature to something considerably awful. But therein is the twisted beauty, ethereal truth and pure magic in hurricanes because I remember them as a time of family unity more than about the act of god itself.
Black Poetry Day
October 17th is the birth date of
Jupiter Hammon, the first published African American poet. He was born in slavery in Long Island and died a slave – Northerners were enlightened enslavers so he was allowed an education and apparently also the opportunity to get his work published. His work was heavily influenced by his devout Christian leanings. Of course, this was all before the North decided it was immoral to own people and all hell broke loose over a supposed semantic difference with our neighbors to the South.
The point is that in Mister Hammon's honor, today has become a celebration:
Black Poetry Day – or brown, or heavily beige, or African American or whatever the hell we’re calling ourselves these days. I’m out of touch and keep getting reminded all too frequently that I am not
"black enough." But them is the perils of mixed marriages in a world desperate for absolutes… And to my detractors I proclaim: I can be Black any day of the week I choose and got the nappy hair to prove it, just as I may choose to be Chinese on Wednesdays, go all Bollywood on Thursdays, Puerto Rican on weekends, Scotish on Tuesdays and Welsh on odd Mondays (because Nick made me Honorary Welsh, so shup ut!). I will celebrate my collective heritage in whatever form that makes me happy. Sticks and stones, my bothers, sticks and stones.
My favorite Black poet is
Langston Hughes and on this stormy day his words resonate:
Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head
with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
Chocking on the holiday spirit, already!
Every year, the Sunset Park merchants place these lively and elegant gold tinsel garlands across the motorway to announce the coming of
Noël.
For years it was after Thanksgiving – when Macy’s announces the coming of the fat dude enslaving the reindeers. In recent years, it was done around the
New York City Marathon. This year, I noticed them tonight, a full two weeks before Halloween.
There’s something perverse about that; especially since it isn’t so much about Christianity as it is a message that you need to buy, buy, buy and buy now! I’m all for commerce and the free market, despite my socialist leanings, but this is a little ridiculous.
Next year, we can start right after Labor Day! After the end of a long hot summer, we all need a boost and what can be more cheerful and invigorating than a reminder of the birth of our Lord Jesus H. Christ and a white Christmas by way of tasteful street decorations?
You can't keep a good woman down
On this day, back in 1917,
Mata Hari faced a firing squad for her alleged actions as a double agent. There has never been concrete prove that she was the femme fatale of international intrigue that the Germans made her out to be and French chose to believe she was.
Whether she was a spy or a double agent, her name has had an endurance to rival the fleeting definition of celebrity. She certainly did not play by the rules and that made her extraordinarily dangerous. I like dangerous babes. They make the world so much more interesting.
I like the fact that when she faced the firing squad, she did it on her own terms. According to a British reporter: “
Mata Hari was not bound and she was not blindfolded. She stood gazing steadfastly at her executioners…” Whether she did this because she was brave, or because she wanted to defiantly proclaim her innocence with this action, or because she was in shock because she had no warning that death would meet her as soon as the sun rose, it doesn’t matter.
She died as she lived, holding her head high, eyes wide open and on her own terms. She didn’t need anyone’s permission to be.
When germs attack...
It seems poor people across the Eastern seaboard are dropping like flies to some insidious little bug. We are trying to eradicate it with all sorts of soup products. My friend across the river is doing the traditional chicken soup. We are doing pork and garbanzo stew in Brooklyn: mean and hardy! We hope.
It’s Queen Night at the Movies here. We started with “
Transamerica” and are following that with the Helen Mirren production of “
Elizabeth I.” Of course, we know the story well, but she remains my favorite monarch of all time so I will watch anything related to the Virgin Queen.
And then, more sleep. That’s what sick people do.
Chilling spookiness
I turned 21 on a Friday the 13th! Pretty darn cool for a pagan girl…
This last Friday the 13th of 2006, I awoke congested from my chest up to my split ends. I slugged along in a haze trying to prepare to go to work and eventually decided that I needed to amp up the meds, take a hit off the inhaler and stick my aching body back under the covers. The last thing I heard on the news, before I called the office, announced the onset of the plague and went back to bed, was that they awoke to two-feet of snow in Buffalo this morning. While it was about 40° outside our house, at least we lived well south of Buffalo. But it surely gave me a chill!
I was accepted to SUNY Buffalo and went to an orientation presentation at one of the chic hotels in Manhattan. Mom went with me but she thought it was a waste of time. The presentation cracked her up; there were these beautiful slides of a lush green campus. “You realize that Buffalo only looks like that for like a few weeks between July and August and it snows dozens of feet the rest of the year…”
I was visibly shaken, “Dozens of feet of snow?”
“Oh yes. It paralyzes the town. It closes the highways, train service, the airport: They invented the phrase ‘snowed-in’ in Buffalo.”
And that was the last we spoke of it. It has not snowed that much in October in 89 years; 3 people died; on Erie Lake, boats were encrusted in ice; one hundred year old trees are down. In the midst of high winds, thunder and lightning and two feet of unexpected snow it might be reminiscent of something Biblical. An area resident said, "Our street looked like it was hit by a hurricane. It looks like the apocalypse. It's unreal." This isn’t going to do much for their paraskevidekatriaphobia.
"Intolerance is evidence of impotence."
Not that any normal human could live to 131 years, but today is
Aleister Crowley’s birth date.
Crowley has been pegged as the wickedest man in the world. He lived between 1875 and 1947. In the intervening 72 years, here’s a list of labels attributed to the man: occultist, hedonist, mystic, writer, sexual revolutionary, painter, astrologer, drug user, chess aficionado and charlatan. Of course, he’d be one of my heroes and yet another reason to celebrate on this day (besides the usual doe-eyed remembrance of
puppy love).
Crowley had an unusually fertile mind putting on tiptoe right over that fine line between genius and insanity, a delightful and terrifying combination. It’s rather easy to dismiss his magick writings as so much existential fluff, the truth is if you read between the lines you realize the man had a keen insight and was a philosopher of the highest order. Maybe it was the high-grade opium and cocaine talking, who knows?! But if you can buy the idea that chaos and divinity are intertwined, his writings can take you to very interesting places. Not that this is light reading by any means. Crowley’s influence in
popular culture is extensive but almost a closely guarded secret among a select few of extremely cool people.
Oh, yeah: *I'm* the cynic...
Broadcasters were positively giddy today! Every single television station spent hours covering the
plane crash that took the life of former Yankee pitcher Cory Lidle.
Every angle of the building, every color change in the flames, the horrified faces of area residents, the tired and angst-ridden faces of police and firemen, every nuanced detail of tragedy, death and pain regarding the lost aircraft and broken building. “We are first on the scene! We are bringing you this new nightmare in HD and commercial free just like we did after 9/11 and every year on the anniversary for at least a month!!”
But in their zealousness to bring you the story first, they tripped over themselves to bring you details, that perfect mix of human-interest angle that screams “PEABODY!” that they neglected to think through what they were doing and blurted out more than is usually said in casual accidents; they took liberties with information where it wasn’t their place to do so.
The bottom line is that his
father, Doug, was watching the tragedy unfold on his television screen and that is how he found out his son had lost his life. Good going! Who wants to be number one there? Because that’s the
get of a freaking lifetime, isn’t it? You frakking people make me sick.
Doom and Gloom Girl
Do you want the definition of pathetic? Having a mid-life crisis, but having rebelled against all available causes during the decade of your 20s and pushing it into your 30s, and thus leaving yourself fresh out of protest material or taboos. Plus, I never learned to drive, so now I can’t have the red Lamborghini (a red bullet!) to speed along Fifth Avenue blasting Mozart (or U2, whatever).
Were I wiser, I’d use this time to redefine myself career-wise, but suddenly I no longer know what I want to be when I grow up – and Plan A didn’t work and Plan B went up in flames and Plan C is stifling my soul.
It’s hard enough to reassess your place in life, society and reality when you are conflicted; I’m drawing a total blank! At least I still have a sense of humor, even when I’m feeling sorry for myself because I have had this feeling lately that I’m irrelevant.
Happy Columbus Day
(Think of today as a snarky public service announcement.)
The
American Indian College Fund's mission is to raise scholarship funds for American Indian students at qualified tribal colleges and universities and to generate broad awareness of those institutions and the Fund itself. The organization also raises money and resources for other needs at the schools, including capital projects, operations, endowments or program initiatives, and it will conduct fundraising and related activities for Board-directed initiatives.
The hallmark of the
American Indian Heritage Foundation is it's continuing dedication to encourage Indian people to aspire to excellence in their own lives and to provide relief services to Indian people nationwide, while building bridges of understanding and friendship. The multifaceted programs of the Foundation have helped American Indian people achieve greater fulfillment and a deeper pride in our heritage.
NativeWeb is an international, nonprofit, educational organization dedicated to using telecommunications including computer technology and the Internet to disseminate information from and about indigenous nations, peoples, and organizations around the world; to foster communication between native and non-native peoples; to conduct research involving indigenous peoples' usage of technology and the Internet; and to provide resources, mentoring, and services to facilitate indigenous peoples' use of this technology.
The
National Museum of the American Indian is committed to advancing knowledge and understanding of the Native cultures of the Western Hemisphere, past, present, and future, through partnership with Native people and others. The museum works to support the continuance of culture, traditional values, and transitions in contemporary Native life.
Funky lemon chicken
Last night, I walked in the kitchen and decided to wing it. That’s always interesting. I filleted chicken breasts into thin slices and dredged it in a combination of flour, Parmesan cheese, garlic powder and chili powder. After all the pieces were browned, I piled some slices of onion on top of them and let it steam on a low heat for about 10-15 minutes in a seasoned half a cup of liquid. I mixed a quarter cup of chicken stock with lemon juice, red wine vinegar and a touch of olive oil, minced garlic and black pepper. The chicken soaked up most of the liquid and became plumb and spicy. Somehow the rice I made to go with it turned out with the most splendid buttery texture. There was no butter involved and I have no idea what makes it do that. Kitchen alchemy. Mere magic! It certainly worked for me.
Speaking of amazing magic, as I was in the kitchen creating, the New York Mets poured more salt in the wound for Yankee fans and George Steinbrenner – whom I suspect was hit with an elephant tranquilizer dart several times over the weekend. George has been doing this kinder, gentler thing for a couple of years, but I’m afraid he’s just going to rupture something if he doesn’t let the monster out. It’s just not natural and there aren’t enough anti-anxiety drugs in the universe to contain him. Dude’s gonna go primordial (which is just like going Medieval but with a knuckle dragging gait).
Just a quiet evening at home…
Everything is relative, right?
Friday’s bus ride was largely silent. This got me thinking of the chatterbox from earlier this week. Somewhere there must be someone who loves the sound of her voice, even if it seemed jarring to most of us. In fact, the fictional autistic boy playing the viola might find music in the disarray of notes her voice produced. Autistic brains are wired differently; we don’t know how they might perceive it. To some, sound is painful. To others, it is a fascinating phenomenon – which, added with their penchant for repetitive action, is why they’d play the same chords over and over like the whine of our fellow rider.
When I was 2 or 3, my uncle bought me a tiny rocking chair. I took to collecting rubber bands from the daily newspaper delivery. I’d place them across the back of the rocking chair, place my ear against it and happily pluck away for what seemed like hours – my eardrum numb when my grandmother would pull me away from my homemade harp, or what she called ‘furniture.’
I certainly was not making music; I have little talent in that regard. It just sounded like plucking rubber, snaps, to my grandparents. But it had a magical timbre to my ear!
The sound of an out of tune viola might also be the sound of angels singing to another ear. And that right there is the definition of relativity as an art form. Neither nature nor reality is a democracy and beauty, like truth, is not dictated by majority rule.
Colombus Day Weekend
Long weekend to celebrate the old bambino who had trouble telling his left from his right and "discovered" an already inhabited continent thousands of miles away from his intended destination.
I plan to rest. Perhaps I'll watch the Mets game in the hopes of a sweep against the Dodgers (apologies to Nomar and Piazza). It has been years since we've enjoyed being this close to success... The last time feels like another lifetime altogether.
We're celebrating an idiot, it is only appropriate to curtail activities that require engaging like loads of intellect. So I will sit back and watch boys play with balls!
Musical chairs, of sorts
I gave up my favorite spot on the bus tonight.
A couple of women sat directly behind me. One was talking rapidly and the other tried to get a few words in, but the other one cut her off,
“You’re not listening to me! Are you gonna listen? I’m trying to tell you!!!” By the next stop, I moved across the aisle to avoid the awful sound in my ear.
I gave up my seat for one of the neighborhood old ladies who come downtown once a month to buy incidentals at the big 99¢ store. So I moved back across the aisle, but one row away. I couldn’t escape the incessant chatter and whine.
It was amazing, it sounded as if she wasn’t stopping to breathe at all. People noticed and stared in disbelief. She kept going and going and going – like the Energizer bunny! And completely oblivious of the attention she was getting. The older woman with her, trapped in the window seat, looked a bit disconcerted by it.
What was more remarkable was the discordant cacophony that emerged from what seemed like an inoffensive little face. It sounded as if an autistic child had been left alone with a viola and he could not keep tempo, hold a melody or play harmony, but he would alternately pluck and bow – allowing this unending wail to be interrupted by the odd hiccup of pointed noise:
weeee-huh, weeee-huh, tweak, tweak, LOVEME, weeee-huh.
It was almost unspeakable.
Midterm Election Implosions
Former Congressman Mark Foley’s ducking accountability is starting to resemble a writers’ meeting for Letterman’s Top Ten List. Mr. Foley was recently busted for sending sexually explicit IM’s and e-mails to his pages – some of them underage – has done some fine dancing to deflect responsibility.
1.
He’s an alcoholic. In fact, he went to rehab just as the scandal broke. First, this is insulting to dipsomaniacs everywhere. Of course, the booze might loosen some inhibitions, but it will not take you anywhere you are not willing to go on your own. It’s liquid courage but it does not cut against the grain. If you have slutty tendencies, you will table dance. Don’t blame the tequila or the worm. You’re the whore.
2.
Pedophilia is a little strong an accusation. Some of the pages were young-ish, but they’d reach the age of maturity, so it’s not like they were little, little kids. There was consent, of sorts; they participated, so they share some of the blame.
3.
He is gay. Oh, the “I have sinned against God” defense! Okay, then, if God’s willing to forgive him, surely we’ll have to. In fact, part of his rehab includes treatment for “behavioral disorders” and I suppose they meant his homosexuality. All that’s left is for Tom Cruise to personally – personally! – cure him.
4.
A priest molested him. Oooh, it’s the Catholic Church’s fault! Man, that will deflect almost anything. Brilliant strategy. Carl Rove’s? Surely nobody will notice your douchebaggery if you bring up the pee-pee touching clergymen…
Coming up: Foley accuses his mother of being a Zacatecas purple hoochie in college; his father as psychologically castrating; and Bob Woodward as a zombie.
Blazing Balls
Why are boys so obsessed with balls and otherwise bouncing things?
They cup them, throw them, balanced them on their fingertips and whack them with a variety of hitting equipment from bats to clubs to rackets and assorted surfaces. Men have created fashion to match their ball playing, including special footwear. Men have created business franchises that reign in trillions of dollars worldwide based on the mighty balls. In the spirit of international fraternity, men have created tournaments combining pageantry, competition and riches beyond what over half of the world’s countries call their gross national product.
I’m not going anywhere with this. I’ll allow you to mull it over and imagine that kind of loving zealous endeavouring on behalf of some other x-factor – a loftier principle perhaps (not a bouncing one).
Dream a little!
The ultimate master's voice?
An article in
Forbes details a study that appears in the October issue of the journal
Pediatrics about how smoke alarms with embedded recordings of Mom’s voice helped children wake up faster than the manufacturer’s shrill warning signal. Their lede:
"Johnny! Johnny! Wake up! Get out of bed! Leave the room!"
Smoke alarms equipped with this personalized recording of a worried mother's voice were significantly better at waking up children in a deep sleep and enabling them to perform a simulated escape procedure than standard residential tone alarms, a new study found.
Apparently, Mom and I are far ahead of the curve. For years we have come to realize that on a weekend the one thing that will get me out of bed are these two things: my mother’s voice saying,
“Boo-boo, brunch is ready!” (Yeah, I’m still her sweet boo-boo, shut up!) A less poetic but just as successful one is:
“Kali. Food.”Imagine the many uses for this technology, like the Mom Diet – a chip attached to the fridge door that bellows: “So have another pint of Cherry Garcia! Your ass will soar to the size of New Hampshire and I will never have grandchildren because nobody will ever want you!!!” To me that would revert to the sound of the regular alarm I am used to ignoring, but there’s a certain type that might be aided in her dietary lifestyle by it.
But seriously, if it helps a kid get out of bed, into their Hello Kitty slippers and out the fiery inferno: technology rocks!
Meet your Guardian Angel
Did you know the Catholic Church had designated a memorial day to the
guardian angel?
I think mine is a heavy drinker. I don’t really know, maybe if we pow wowed more often there would be a chance for a better relationship. Or if she’d share…
Apparently, if you are interested in communicating with your angel you can visit this
page for suggestions.
I'm afraid that meeting would be as disastrous as meeting Prince Charming at this point and would begin with the accusation, "Where the hell have you been?! ANSWER ME!"
But then it leaves us to ponder: which is the biggest fantasy? I, for one, am more prone to believe in winged spirits than the perfect man.
Magical Bakery Time
So here it is: October. That makes the clock 30 days to go till my favorite holiday! But more importantly, this sets us up to the mad dash of cookie making in our kitchen to cover Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. There are children of all ages that will awaken to the crisp Fall air and realize that soon my Mom will be delivering to them an adorable package with beautiful and delicious cookies, candies, lollypops, breads or whatever other goodies she comes up with this year… October first is a calendar reminder to my brain that soon the entire house will smell like a magical bakery for weeks on end.
She does this because she loves to create and because she knows it makes people smile. The kids are excited and pulled into a moment of pure magic and the adults get a glimpse at their own childhoods – when the holidays meant more than the chore of buying crap and getting through yet another holiday season. She is sweet and generous with her goodies and this is just one of the things that make her endearing.
