Pouring or drinking?
First thing this morning, a young man informed the coffee cart guy that yesterday he paid him with a 10 and got change for a 20. He returned the extra cash. Those in line smiled and were suddenly left with a feeling of pride and well-being towards humanity.
It was a pretty cool moment. The triumph of honesty and common decency reminding us that there is still hope for this generation and we need to stop being so damned cynical.
Then coffee cart guy quoted KC & the Sunshine Band – a hilarious addition to our usually jovial morning banter.
My first thought following this was,
“Well, this can only set the tone for the day or it can only go downhill from here…”
Is the glass half empty or half full? It depends, like the old Cosby routine goes, on whether you’re drinking or pouring.
(I already know it’s going to be a bumpy ride.)
Of promises unfulfilled...
Disappointment happens when your expectations exceed reality.
It is hard to be disappointed when you expect nothing or when you expect to be predictably screwed. It makes for a relatively sad existence, but one devoid of disappointment in how things that should make you hopeful instead prove your pessimism right. Then you can concentrate on getting depressed over a whole new slew of things that you really cannot control.
Once your suspicions are confirmed yet again, you nod to yourself and you keep going. What else is there? (Besides cringing at the "it's always darkest before dawn" words of
comfort from well-meaning folks...)
Hope and freedom and the preservation of dignity
Sometimes the only way to fight tyranny is by the manic creation of art!
There are unspeakable consequences to the violence that tyranny engenders in us. So it is best to take a pacifist outlook. Not turning the other cheek, that never made any sense to me. I say inaction is sometimes a louder action than a good stabbing. Less bloody too…
It’s about preservation of self. I cannot descend into the same level as my oppressor, that makes me no better than her. To succumb to a base instinct tests my dignity. No one can take your dignity away, unless you let them. You can be pushed to the mud, but an honorable person, stands and wipes away the crud. You push back if it is necessary, but you don’t engage unless you are willing to participate in the corralling of your soul with the likes of the pusher.
Instead, I write (another chapter in my short story, a continuation of the RPG mission and development of a new character, a new column for the food column), I cook, I plan, and I love; and I do so knowing that the martyrdom will soon be over. Everything must end. Closure comes for those who allow the big picture to be.
I know exactly how much longer I must serve this sentence, I can only hope that I am strong enough to overcome the urge to strike back. This week coming up needs to be about hope for the future, freedom from tyranny and the preservation of dignity or all is lost!
Though I cannot guarantee that the finger won’t salute. Since I moved to Brooklyn two decades ago, it has developed a mind of its own…
Sweet, sweet destiny
The eighth circle of hell is called the Malebolge, literally the evil ditches (or pockets). The ninth bolgia is reserved for those who sow discord and schism.
Sinners who, in life, promoted scandals, schism, and discord are punished there. A sword-wielding demon inflicts their punishment in the form of disfiguring wounds—from simple gashes for the minor sinners, to fingers and toes cut off, decapitated heads, bodies cut in half and complete disembowlment for the heavy hitters. As the sinners make their rounds the wounds heal, only to have the devil tear apart their bodies again, for eternity.
Passive aggressive bitches belong here. This thought gives me solace. The potential of a future where justice prevails makes hope spring eternal. That’s all I’m saying.
Suck it, Evil!
Today had a hellish quality that grew more fantastic and surreal as the day progressed. My sanity was stretched to a point I’m convinced it was leaking toxins! And it is virtually impossible to find serenity when negativity, anger, unhappiness, and a general malaise that permeates the air like asbestos, surround you. In Puerto Rico we refer to days like these as a Calvary and certainly the only thing missing was the blood!
This is partially my fault. I had the option to walk away and I chose not to do so. I was trying to do the right thing but forgot that if I do not take care of myself first no else will volunteer for the job.
Today was the kind of day that you duck into the nearest church (denomination is irrelevant) and you convert it into your fortress of solitude for as long as it takes for you to emerge fully human. This gothic beauty is two short blocks away!
It is precisely on this kind of despicable day that your friends lift you up in unexpected ways. And nothing Satan or his girlfriend throw at you can keep you from doing a little dance. I’m getting a Mac! The coolest hand-me down. EVER. I will set it up next to the PC and play “I’m a Mac and I’m a PC” like a crazy woman. It turns out that my fate is not to become a cat lady. I’m going to grow old gracefully known as the Laptop Lady. All that is left is to name her. I think I’ll name her Dorothy… because Paris Hilton has forever ruined Tinker Bell for me.
Like a tourist at home
I haven’t been into Manhattan at all this year. This is surprising because I used to spend almost every waking hour in the city, I dreamed of being there! Somehow I have become one of those provincial folks I used to find so darn peculiar years ago.
The truth is that I don’t miss it. Even if I had cash to burn, I am perfectly comfortable and happy in Brooklyn. I don’t belong over the bridge any more. I’ve done that bit and I have my memories.
I went for an hour-long walk around downtown. Aimless, my only condition was to avoid (for the moment) any of the old haunts. It was hot, the kind of hot that screams for cerveza. I walked down one of the streets that stop short of the promenade and took this photo. I stood there for about 5 minutes. I don’t recognize the landscape. It looks like a Lego set from afar. What struck me the most is that I could not feel the pull I used to experience when I looked across the bay—not the joy, the excitement or the magic. I felt nothing but relief that I was on this side.
This time, I no longer felt an overwhelming sadness looking across at lower Manhattan. I headed back to the office and treated myself to a chocolate mousse cup with whipped cream and shaved chocolate.
Revelations assume the position...
You simply cannot force creativity. You can’t make a character do anything it doesn’t want to do.
It turns out my assumption was wrong and my story will not be taken for granted by the likes of me. It is not meant to have multiple narrators at all. I just didn’t know the rules yet.
Each chapter has a different central character introduced in the first sentence, exposing the plot as the character witnesses it, and moves to a second chapter based on a character mentioned in the last sentence of the previous chapter, stringing the story together and moving back in time. It's probably not the world's most innovative gimmick, but I don't remember doing this before.
I think…
I have no idea. I’m just playing along and letting the mechanical pencil glide through the page. It certainly makes for an interesting morning commute.
I have this urge to plan it out and control it, but it won’t let me and I think I need to let it run its course. Besides, in the space of two days I have met a cute young cop and a character that scared the living crap of said young cop by just saying,
“Because I said so!”
Like I said, it’s about the journey.
Revelations at Play
I have been playing with this idea for quite a while. It involves a marriage falling apart—because I’ve seen plenty of those. I know only part of the story. I think I know how it ends.
I was possessed with unbound energy. It came in handy to face the monsoon that was pounding us this morning. I was determined that I would meet this horrible day with head high, pride and dignity, and with a vengeance! I was gasping for air and well over 2/3 of my body was wet. Still, the moment I reached the platform, the little notebook came out and I started to scribble like a woman on a serious mission.
I wasn’t expecting what happened on the page though. Two pages later I was wondering, where the hell did that character come from? It makes perfect sense that he should be there, right then. Beyond what I wrote, the possibility is that the character will only be seen (but not heard) maybe once more.
This wasn’t my intention when I started writing, and I still had no clear idea how this was going to work or where it was leading. The appearance of this character at the end of the story—or at least some pivotal action—led me to believe that this story will be told in vignettes, as seen by its various witnesses, moving up to the final scene in progressive flashbacks.
I have no idea whether I can sustain it, but it makes for an interesting exercise. Whether it will be a good read remains to be seen. But that’s just not important right now. It’s the journey.
The Last Supper
I have half a very sweet tomato leftover from last night. Chopped in tiny little pieces, it will be folded into mayonnaise, with fresh dill, capers, lemon juice, crushed garlic and pepper. There are two ways to prepare this “sauce” with codfish.
You can boil the fish to completely desalt it. Flake the fish with the back of a fork or by hand (after it has cooled, of course) and fold into the mayonnaise.
You can also cut into one-inch squares and dredge with flavored flour (pepper, oregano, garlic powder) and sauté until browned and then add to the mayonnaise.
This goes especially well in pasta and I tend to prefer it with angel hair. If you want to thin out the sauce, add a bit of the pasta water. Otherwise, it will simply add a creamier consistency to the pasta (especially the with the flaked fish).
It’s rich without being heavy – the tomato, lemon and dill give it a fresh bite. And it holds up nicely, as it tastes great at room temperature. It is also a very pretty dish with the specks of green and red peeking through the pasta.
Why call it "the last supper"? Because I expect a week devoid of peace. I'd love to be wrong. But if not, I'll enjoy one last evening of sweet epicurean indulgence.
Labels: codfish, food, pasta
Tonight the anchovy is god!
Every Xmas I set aside a few dollars for magazine subscriptions: It’s the gift that keeps on giving! Tonight,
Gourmet paid itself for the year!
The August issue arrived midweek and Mom soon became enamored with a recipe for tomato-and-garlic stuffed chicken cutlets. Under their Quick Kitchen feature, they’ve got a 15-minute recipe that is so outstandingly simple it seems rather impossible that it would be so divine.
It involves anchovy paste, though we did not have any stocked. Instead, I sliced anchovy filets in soya oil and then used my mill to create a paste with pepper, garlic and parsley. This is spread over a cutlet and inside the pocket a slice of sweet, juicy tomato. Finally, the bundles are browned on each side for a couple of minutes and finished over low heat, covered for 3 to 5 minutes. The chicken and tomatoes render a bit of liquid and the anchovies, garlic and pepper season the pan juices.
Trust me that the anchovies are not overpowering as the paste is a thin layer that gives a new level of seasoning – it has the faintest taste of ocean goodness! It has a very Mediterranean charm, sweet and savory and peppery. It is lovely. We had it with a green bean and baby carrot salad in a mustard marinade.
I cooked extra chicken for brunch tomorrow and some of the leftover sauce will season the mayonnaise, refreshed with a dash of lemon juice and fresh parsley for our sandwiches. And I haven’t even looked through the rest of the issue yet!
Labels: anchovy, chicken, food
Sweet, sweet end of week
I went to the Rite Aid this afternoon to pick up a snack. Mom and I have a piece of pastry with a cup of coffee while we watch Jeopardy and try to clear as many categories as possible while we talk about our day, the week and the coming weekend. Tonight we had guava cheese puffs, an excellent little treat from
Entenmanns (no trans fats, baby!).
These are excellent and remind us of the guava turnovers that both Mami and my great grandmother used to make, with white cheese and guava paste. They’re not the same, but it’s more an attitude thing…
As I was paying for my guava cheese puffs and a couple of lighters, the slacker working the register waves the lighters around and says,
“You need an ID to purchase these.”It has been a long week and I am in almost complete shutdown expecting a hellish week full of circus-like moments (a surreal circus), so it took me a minute to realize what he was saying.
“Are you carding me, fresh face?”
He smiled. I smiled. It possessed a certain charm to it, despite its transparency. There are far worse ways to end your week! It was sweet.
Just a couple of updates
Numero Uno: Acording to
Google Maps, Heaven is in a place called
Loveland, Ohio -- a town that was once known as the "Little Switzerland of the Miami Valley." If that
Croatian dude is still interested in suing God in Heaven, that might be a place to start. The thought that God is amongst us, in
Ohio, must be one of those Seven Signs of the Apocalypse. I also suspect they will dismiss the case because Ohio is not in that court's jurisdiction.
Numero Dos: Nothing in the 11 o'clock news, nothing in the morning news regarding the helicopter mystery last night, nothing in the daily newspapers (not in the 3 dailies or the 2 free dailies), nothing even on the Internet. But I have my sources... I asked Ibrahim, the coffee cart guy. According to him there were shots fired somewhere on 10th Avenue, a building was cordoned off and the possibly armed suspect (a quiet loner type) allegedly fled on foot -- hence the circling helicopters and the floodlights. I do not know whether he remains at large, but I am not concerned that he'll come after me. He has a fairly large queue to get through first.
And C, (props to Kelly Bundy!), this goes with love and kisses to my sweet, sweet Jeff:
bacon ice cream. Bacon. Ice cream.
Bacon, dude!
I'm out.
This is freaking me out!
For hours there has been at least one, but probably two helicopters flying awfully close to the house. Sometimes it ventures right over the house and doubles back towards Bay Ridge—never too far from us because the sound is persistent. I went to the kitchen to look out the window and see if I could catch a glance. Their spotlights were shining off the surface of one of the windows in the houses across the back. (Somebody is in
huge trouble!)
It is relatively spooky, especially because after getting home and turning the TV on we watched mesmerized by the shooting steam that exploded on 42nd street, people running, a car immersed in a huge crater, fire trucks, uniformed men in masks. The images left us speechless and we empathized with the commuters who must have for more than a second assumed the worst,
“Oh God, not again!” So we’re going on residual nervous energy brought on by haunting memories.
And apparently, tornadoes have tired of trailer parks and are now touching down in Long Island--just a bit too close for comfort. They're also talking about hurricane warnings. Today's like a circus. An evil circus!
There is little or no traffic, because I hear nothing on the overhead BQE right now. All I hear is that helicopter going around in circles and occasional sirens… And that itself reminds me of the night of September 11, when all traffic had stopped and the only sound was that of fighter jets from Ft. Hamilton flying overhead.
I have a feeling I will be having a few tortured dreams tonight. I’m a little impressionable.
I'm gonna tell!
So here’s an interesting question: is it ethical to write stories that amalgamate into an abridged memoir and call it fiction?
We all know that writing fiction and calling it the truth will cause Oprah to tear you a new one. On national television! Plus, your publisher will pull your books and call you names. In print! It’s a lie and, ultimately, I suppose whatever ass kicking you get for lying is well deserved.
But what are the consequences when you create fiction by taking the facts, and then enhance or soften it, making it more colorful or palatable – whether to soothe your own soul or to make the sharing less painful? Do you have a responsibility to the truth (to simply state it, as is), or can you take artistic liberties just for the sake of art? Do you have a responsibility to those who shared the truth with you or do you own your memories and therefore the right to remember it as you see fit, even if you are only lying to yourself? What if you are sharing these stories with others that have no knowledge of the truth? What is your responsibility then?
I’m not talking about just changing the names of those involved to protect their innocence. Is the fiction of my own life mine to represent as my twisted mind colors it for me to live with it? What if I choose to profit from that fiction?
I already decided I’m going to do it anyway (
Be afraid: you know who you are!), but it remains an interesting question.
Cooking in Hell: it just looks fancy.
During hellishly hot and humid days, the body rejects the idea of heavy foods. A quick grilled chicken breast treated to a few minutes of George Foreman love seems like a perfect solution. Marinade simply with salt, pepper, crushed garlic and a bit of oil is enough, or try your favorite dry rub.
The perfect accompaniment:
Greek salad! It’s simple and elegant, refreshing and a lot more filling than it appears.
Slice a few cherry tomatoes, a small red onion and a small cucumber in a bowl. Crumble some feta cheese over it; add a dash of oregano, tiny capers, pitted black olives and, if you are adventurous, brined artichoke hearts. Pour some virgin olive oil (extra virgin or a flavored oil is good). Mix well. Crack some fresh black pepper over it and then squeeze a bit of lemon juice over the salad and chicken.
Dessert? Rainbow sherbert with vanilla wafers.
Dinner in about 15 minutes: how can you go wrong?
Labels: food, salad
Separated at birth: life imitates art?
Mom once told me that right after I was born, the doctor said, “Ready for the second one?” And then he said, “Only kidding!”
This inspired a story in which a handsome young man inserts himself into the lives of a woman and her daughter, after his “mother” admits in her deathbed that he has a twin. In the aftermath, it turns out that the head nurse and the obstetrician were having an affair and, because she could not conceive their love child, they stole the boy – unbeknownst to the birth mother – and left the city to live an anonymous life out west. Dealing with fraternal twins, it required that they recognize each other in a more metaphysical way than by mirror image.
I don’t remember how the story ended because I had this tendency to discard everything once I was done. Of course, this
story is not exactly the same, but it reminded me of it. Now I’m not sure if I should revisit the story. Would it be criticized for being derivative?
Maybe they don't know about Google Maps?
I have no idea how accurate this news item might be, but it hardly matters. It is brilliant, inspired and one of the funniest damned things I have read in my entire life (courtesy of a link from Fark):
A Romanian man, Micea Pavel, 40, who is serving a 20-year prison term for murder, has sued the Almighty. His complaint against "the defendant God, who lives in the heavens and is represented in Romania by the Orthodox Church," accuses the Lord of "fraud, betrayal of trust, corruption and influence peddling."
In a carefully worded affidavit to the Court, he explained further: "At my christening, I made a deal with the defendant aimed at freeing me from evil. But the latter has not respected that agreement until now, although he received from me various assets and numerous prayers."
[Take a moment to compose yourself, because it gets better!]The court dismissed the case in a ruling that is even funnier than the complaint itself:
"God is not subject to law and does not have an address."
After all, how would you serve that subpoena? “Lord, you’ve been served! Oh wait, you’re
Peter? My bad, dude... Where’s the other old white guy with the beard?”
This has all happened before...
Friday the 13th was appropriately spooky at my end. It was a little scary and very gloomy, but all strangely appropriate. I don’t mean in a karmic way, more in a “have-been-here-before” way.
Déjà vu, anyone?
Have you ever had a moment when you recognize that you’ve made a huge mistake? Like that scene in
Platoon where Charlie Sheen is writing the letter to his grandmother and you hear those horrifying words on voiceover,
“Grandma, I think I made a big mistake coming here.”
I had that moment today. And I’ve had the sneaking suspicion that my internal sensors are offline and that yellow alert went to red but the system didn’t recognize the shift. It’s too late now because I am so deep into Romulan space the only thing that could possibly save me is a wormhole, self-destruct or a miracle.
It’s useless to question every instinct or every decision I have made to this point because coming from the deepest vowels of hell in these last two years, I was just making the proverbial lemonade with the lemons sent from above.
These facts do nothing to allay the growing dread and are useless in getting me out. So I am left in that uneasy territory where I question my decisions. Should have so steadfastly sworn that neither bin Laden nor Satan himself would make me leave New York? Should I have listened and joined my cousin in Kentucky? Is it time to pack it up and swallow my pride and return to Puerto Rico and be the dutiful “daughter” as expected? I’ve rejected all these choices before and although I am not likely to cave, I do wonder. Is it pride? Is this the right choice? It’s not like it is working for me or anyone involved…
So, so screwed!
Memmmories...
Tomorrow is the anniversary of a giant travesty. I had been so careful, so timid, so naïve. Then I got stupid and walked—willingly, mind you—into an act so devastatingly idiotic it was epic. I became the virgin sacrifice to the volcano, but it was an evil volcano and instead of appeasing it, this inflamed its evil tendencies. The repercussions were felt by many, and for quite a while; and it changed everything.
July 13 is my half-birthday, but I stopped celebrating those years ago. (Shortly after the debacle, in fact.) It sucked the joy out of it and I just didn’t need another excuse to drown in vodka… July 13 means regret. It’s the anniversary of a heart getting broken into tiny little pieces, its sharp little shards still doing damage all these years later, every time the wisdom that comes from perspective unveils another layer of ugliness I missed because you can’t see clearly what is right before you with your eyes full of tears.
Ah, yes, misty water-colored memories…
Gettin' my Nerd on!
In the last couple of weeks, during commercials and the majority of television programming (because it’s just not entertaining enough), I have been reading
CYBERPUNK: Outlaws and Hackers on the Computer Frontier by Katie Hafner and John Markoff.
I’m fairly sure that I know enough details about the cases presented, and I am pretty sure that I started reading this book when it first came out but never finished it. What I do know is more from the other side, because at the time I had very eclectic reading sources.
My interest is mostly about the “historical” perspective, as written by outsiders – always interesting if slightly skewed. I don’t expect this book to have the depth of something like
Hackers: Heroes of the Computer Revolution by Steven Levy, one of my favorite non-fiction books of all times; or a bunch of words strung together by
Robert X. Cringely.
Here’s the thing, the Star Trek SIM is on hiatus and I need my minimum nerd required nutrients!
Xocolatl!
We began dinner tonight in a way that would have made my grandmother spitting mad! It was another scorcher and it seemed perfectly reasonable to us. Our first course: Mayan Chocolate ice cream, one of the new treats from Häagen-Dazs®. Cocoa has been blended with cinnamon and this rich semi sweet chocolate is interrupted by fudge swirls that add a naughty finish to the whole thing.
The word chocolate comes from the Nahuatl language of the Aztecs and was likely assimilated from the Mayans. The earliest evidence of chocolate dates back
3,000 years from an ancient pre-Olmec town in Honduras. Chocolate is the ambrosia of the Americas, a gift of the winged serpent gods to the world. And while descendants of the Mesoamericans still use it in main dishes, this treat is strictly a dessert—putting it ahead in the meal batting order would make my grandmother scream in agony!
On a day like today, with temperatures almost reaching 3-digits, I’m sure she would have relented a bit. We needed something cool and I needed a guilty pleasure because I found out something disturbing that added to other bits of intel I have gathered make my future precarious, at best. If I’m going down, I want a few good memories to sustain me until I recover.
I'm melting!
It’s 84-degrees right now, though it remains far higher than that inside the apartment. I am trying to come up with something uplifting and interesting, but my mind has this perverse tendency to drift to a fantasy involving a bag of ice cubes…
Yes, I intend to get intimate with the ice, but I’ll marry it if it’s going to become a big issue!
Intellectually, I'm just a puddle right now.
The never-ending salad...
I made the base for a cod salad tonight. After soaking it overnight and changing the water to desalt it, you finally boil it for about 15 minutes and break it into flakes. Usually I use red onions, but I didn’t have any. So instead, I used a large Vidalia, sliced almost paper thin. I chopped some salad olives and pimentos.
What holds this together is the vinaigrette. It’s a very simple thing: 1 cup of olive oil, half a cup of red wine vinegar, a dash of lemon juice, oregano, salt and pepper to taste. I added crushed garlic and whisked to emulsify--turning it into a creamy solution that coasts and infuses the ingredients with a refreshing and slightly tart taste.
The fun part is putting it together later. We usually serve it over couscous, rice or boiled potatoes. It’s great in a pasta salad as antipasto too. Alternatively, you can toss it with your choice of greens and sup up the vinaigrette with bread. Add tomatoes,
capers, chopped eggs, avocado, scallions, black olives, or fresh peppers for a crunchy finish. For a more substantial dish, add garbanzo beans. And to refresh it, when you are ready to serve, add fresh herbs (dill is a lovely addition, mint is not bad, chives, parsley and cilantro are naturals also) and a dash of olive oil for a richer taste, or a dash of lemon for a tangier taste.
The dish keeps rather nicely, refrigerated for a couple of weeks (not that it will actually last that long). And it is an absolute lifesaver on days when the mercury hits the upper 90s!
You can find a Puerto Rican version at
The Victory Garden and also a Catalan version at
Astray.
Labels: cod, food, salad
The End of the World!
Sir Martin Rees, some yahoo professor of astrophysics at Cambridge University has written a book titled “
Our Final Century.” In it, he claims that we have a 50-50 chance of making it through this century. He even outlines several ways humanity might bite the big one.
My favorite one involves the planet being swallowed by a man-made black hole. My initial reaction? That’d be the most hilarious thing. Ever! Well, until that last nanosecond.
“Behold, I have created a
black hole!”
“That’s scientifically improbable, I will disprove—“
{GIANT SUCKING SOUND}
Priceless. Life as a Looney Tune.
Click on image to link to NASA's LISA Project, including some data about black holes.
Sun showers
Tonight as I walked home from the bus stop a couple of blocks away from the house, a persistent drizzle began to follow me. The drops fell hard. They felt like icy little pellets on the skin. It wasn’t extremely hot, but it was quite humid so my skin was already ultra-sensitive. Instead of comfort, it brought me distress.
I quickened my pace, though the prospect of getting drenched again did not bother me that much.
As I rounded the corner into my block, things looked brighter! And it caught me by surprise. The dark clouds that covered the lowered half of Fourth Avenue were not present above the houses in my block. There were beautiful, fluffy clouds moving fast away from me. The effect was dizzying.
The other thing that caught my attention about three houses into the block was that the pavement was completely dry. I stopped for a moment and turned around. Yep, the dark cloud still loomed behind me and the tiny watery beads kept falling just feet away.
I could almost hear my great grandmother, “They say that if it rains when the sun is out that a witch is getting married…”
Check out Linguist for a very interesting, international list of colloquial explanations for sunshowers.
It's a French Farce without the Funny
The contract has been signed. The raise okayed by the Big Man. What could go wrong? Right?
Bwahahahahahahahahahaha!!!If you have to ask, you do not understand bureaucracy.
What could go wrong?! Perhaps if I remind you of my expectations for something
legendary?
I’m told retroactive pay is not like the tooth fairy.
I’m not naïve enough that I didn’t expect it. Of course, I have no back-up plan because that would require pirate booty or another job. I have neither. I have worries and stress. My bank account may dwindle but my shit list expands like the Universe, it appears to be eternal!
I have been assured that this is only temporary – which I have learned to decipher to mean something akin to this statement: π equals approximately 3 and a fraction… True but
so far from reality!
Of Gods and Monsters
When I was a toddler, my bedroom was in the back of the house next to my grandparent’s room. There was a light pole that pretty much shared the four corners of the adjacent houses and power lines ran from it in both directions. There was a tree outside my window, though I cannot tell you what it was. I can tell you it had to be cut down because on windy nights, the leaves made quite a racket that awoke me to find menacing dancing shadows on my wall. This caused a fear so extreme I’d scream at the top of my lungs.
Adults would come running and turn the lights on to try to comfort me, but the beast was then suddenly gone and I could not explain what was wrong. All I could do was grab on to whoever was on call, sob and shake, and slowly let my little heart and breathing return to normal functions until, exhausted, I’d fall back into a deep slumber. While visiting me in my new home, Mom finally got it out of me. There was an elephant (a mean one) that came into my room at night. They did not know exactly how I knew what an elephant was or even that I knew the word. Apparently I was in no mood for nightly visits from
Lord Ganesh.
My grandfather decreed that it was probably the shadows from the tree outside my window and cut the poor tree down. The elephant never returned. Instead, when it was windy (or when the river came up and the rats felt secure in the dark and ran across the power lines), my room would be infested with playful snakes that traveled up and down and across the ceiling and wall--but these never bothered me. They tended to stay on their side of the room and that was just fine by me. Live and let live, you know?
I’m not afraid of elephants, or snakes for that matter, anymore. I’m no longer afraid of monsters, but I respect their lethal prowess. My monsters are not quite as lethal anymore, just human; and their effectiveness vanishes in time because I have never been one to remain afraid of anything for long. That’s all I’m saying.
Sumbitch Rat Bastid!
Lovely. Scooter Libby is a free man; his jail sentence was commuted. His friend
Shrub (that’s what Molly Ivins used to call him) thought the punishment was "excessive” and he doesn’t want to feel his pain. God forbid justice should be handed out to any of his cronies!
I could say so damn much, but what’s the point? I guarantee you more people were steamed up about Paris Hilton getting off easy (
she cried, she panicked, the walls were closing in on her: "Save me, Mommy: you are my only hope!"). Granted, it has been mere hours since it happened. But I expect little fanfare tomorrow. Then, on the Fourth, talk will turn to barbequed meats, concerts, and fireworks. By Thursday, Scooter will be sweetly forgotten…
Seeing as we are approaching the most patriotic of holidays, I will try my utmost not to be overly critical of Mr. Bush.
…
It remains to be seen how history judges his actions; but at least he didn’t pardon Nixon.
(Fuck you, I was too being nice!)
Ultimate Power in a Bowl of Rice
When you are young, life allows you the illusion that you are in charge. Then as you live and learn, you often feel lucky to make it one day at a time. Suddenly Bill W’s wisdom becomes apparent. This is a rather cynical view of existence, maybe. But life still allows you moments of absolute power over your own universe.
I made a perfect pot of yellow rice this afternoon for dinner. It was moist, but not mushy. Each grain was fat and golden, buttery and creamy. The stewed cod loved to skirt it and combine in a delicious spicy mix, with the odd piece of pepper, garlic, onion and olive changing the texture with each forkful.
We don’t have much, but we have this. At least for a few moments, I was Empress of the Universe! Queen of my Kitchen, if nothing else. I'll take success where it I can...
