Author Archives: avr

Und, a bit more, jah?

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Hello! It’s me again! When was the last time we got together like this, and just took the time to hunker down and really get to know ME? I know! It’s been too long! I’ve missed you, too! Looks like 2012 has been great to you so far; have you done something with your hair? No? I guess that was ME then! I Love Lucy Orange, remember? Well, I know, right? Who knew I’d be this cute as a ginger? I took a risk, right! Thanks! 

So, I wanted to get back to my New Year’s Lists, which may turn out to be just the one list, on account of I’m losing interest. I do have a few for more things in my “Things I liked in 2011” list, and I know you are probably eager to get back to it, so….tally ho, hos! (Oh no I di’n’t!)

OK! So here’s another thing I’m into: TV! This is nothing new; I’ve always been cool with the tube. But, as I’ve mentioned before, I used to be ashamed of this inclination. Smart people read (which is true), but dum-dums watch the boob tube (as if there was any scientific evidence that breasts are unintelligent! Sexist and ridiculous, I tell you!). Anyhoo,  my Nice-A-Ronies (the San Francisco treat!) and I are now confident in our superior intellects (AVR, Professor Nipples and Dr. Tah-Tah  think way deep, y’all!), and want to talk about what we like to watch when we are chillaxin’. 

Subsection A: Crap. Oh, who doesn’t love a  little of the absolute worst that popular media has to offer! Admit it! You wallow like a beached whale on the disgusting Jersey Shore, or save up eps of Hoarders to watch all at once (and then you feel guilty but don’t delete them), or strap on your gold, jewel-encrusted high heels (I’m talkin’ to you Big John!*) to watch Toddlers in Tiaras, or you tune in to every one of the Republican Debates because you think Mitt Romney is kinda hot. We all have our dirty little secrets. I, (unlike Mitt Romney), am one of you. I love me some doo-doo vision. Of course I have better taste in the shows that  I watch than most; I’m discriminating about what shit I stuff into my brainholes. I spent at least two years crying a little at every episode of The Biggest Loser. I watch Project Runway with friends, and sometimes I dress up in an innovative frock made out of Ramen noodles , fishing lures and taffetta. I record Teen Mom 2. This comes after I recorded Teen Mom 1, which of course was simply called Teen Mom. I consider it research related to teaching in high school, so it’s not really trash; it’s educational. Lately I’ve been sucked into Celebrity Wife Swap. Really there’s no excuse for that. All I know is that when I’m sitting alone in a Snuggie on my couch with a box of wine I bought at Target, I thank my lucky stars I’m not married to Flava Flav or Gary Busey.

TV, Subsection B: Hello, Joe Viewer: I watch some things everybody watches. That’s because these shows are the Peter Framptons of television: they make you feel like I do. In other words, they are things to which we can all relate. They have little lessons and make us cry, or maybe chuckle while softly shaking our heads – we know how that goes! I love my shows that make me feel like I have something in common with the people I work with and we can all speak of in loving terms at lunch in the teachers’ lounge! Here’s to you, Modern Family! Hats off to you Parks and Recreation, 30 Rock, The Office, even, kinda, Community! Glee, you’re not really so great, but I will watch you, I will, especially when I’m busy grading and so I don’t notice so much how crappy you make songs from my childhood sound! And you, Parenthood – you are in a class all your own! Ya make me misty roundabouts the eyeholes every single time! I love the family Braverman! I love you all and I can’t quit you!

Cathode Ray Image Delivery System, Subsection trois- Documentaries and Classy Stuff. I adore documentaries. Not all of them, of course; some of them are downright BO-RING. But I have seen some really fantastic, inspiring, enlightening slice o’ life telestories. lately I’ve been all in to docs about photographers. I saw one on this paparazzo, Ron Gallela, who was obsessed with Jackie Onassis. Google Images him. Some of his photos are amazing.  He is kind of obnoxious, but his eye is so sharp and the photos, both posed and candid, speak for themselves.

I also saw a documentary on the great Annie Leibovitz, who is the opposite of Langella, in that she is all about the big set up. Her pictures are so crisp, so iconic; I am still completely captivated when I see that picture of a white, naked John Lennon curled like an egg in the armpit of Yoko Ono, her hair shooting up out of the frame like smoke from a smoldering volcano. Again, you just have to Google her. Some of her shots are just incredible. I chose this one to post,   because it is such a good example of how a highly stylized picture can still be so evocative, thought provoking and full of personality and voice. 

Not to beat a dead horse, but I also saw a great documentary on Francesca Woodman on PBS. Her stuff is so fresh, innovative, current and electrical, like a rogue spark that can incite a firework or a holocaust, and it’s all thirty years old. The documentary itself was masterful; there was something her father said that I thought was brilliant, but I forgot what it was. Gotta go to Google, or check her out here: http://photoarts.com/journal/romano/woodman/.   

If you want any information about these documentaries, all of which I really enjoyed, email me.

This is what a guy named Cedric Canard said: “Photography is not about the sense of sight, it’s beyond sight, it’s about what we are, it’s about being, it’s about awareness… It’s about being awareness itself.”  http://www.seeingbeyondsight.org/home

I get that.

Anyway, now I’ve gone on for so long that I don’t have time to talk about all the other classy programs that I watch. Trust me though; I’m super classy.

The NYT Magazine – Death Issue: Every year, right before the new year, the New York Times does a special issue of the Sunday magazine devoted to memorials of people who died during that year, called “The Lives They Lived.” It tells the “untold tales” of the famous and the not-so-famous, and it is written by people who see that fame is not what makes a life extraordinary. I think that what I look for in a story is the slice-of-life factor; there doesn’t have to be a big point or lesson, or a roller coaster plot line full of surprises and adventure. I like stories that are like little windows in the doors of a house at night; in a dark night, you can see through the backlit window just a sliver of the life within. That’s what these stories are; slivers of enlightenment. I look forward to the issue all year. If you missed it, you can read the whole thing online. I have thought about this story again and again since I read it: http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2011/12/22/magazine/the-lives-they-lived.html#view=uneasy_rider

Finally, after much debate, I have come to a verdict, and I am pleased to announce to you all that in 2011, I learned to love my dog. For awhile I didn’t think I would ever be able to say this, but Atticus is a delight. Sometimes when we are in the car, I put my hand through the seats to where he is in the back, and he puts his paw in my palm and licks me. We go for long walks, and when I let him off the leash to run free, he is sooooooo happy I have to laugh. When he is tired, he gets puffy bags under his eyes and puts himself to bed. When there is a fight at the dog park, he cocks his head and assesses the situation, then backs away slowly, even though when he plays, he’s all teeth, like a shark. He runs like a gazelle, and I like to watch his muscles under his fur. I love him!

So, like all of my years, all in all, 2011 has been great. I am planning some adventures in 2012, and I will take you with me wherever I go. I know this blog can be difficult to follow; I write so sporadically, and sometimes the posts are all long and rambly, and also, it is conceivable that may range of interests, vast as it is, may not coincide with yours, especially on epic posts about a specific book or painting or, oh, I don’t know, let’s say a lecture on my television viewing preferences. Still, despite my egocentric nature, some of you tune in loyally, and have for years. It makes me feel that you care and want to know what’s up with me. To paraphrase the great Billy Joel, “[you] don’t want clever conversation” – and, by golly, I guarantee that in 2012 I will continue to not give it to you.

Peace out, homies.

* But not really. Unless you’re into that. Which, of course, is fine. I don’t judge.

A Bit of a List, 2011

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Yay!!!! It’s New Year’s Eve Day! I love this time of transition, where possibility and hope go skipping hand in hand down Life’s Lane, past the corner of History Drive and Future Avenue, into the Park of the Present, and…well, the metaphor grows meaningless, from here, but the sentiment remains – yay, New Year! I like to celebrate by making lists, plans and resolutions that,  for a good two weeks after the champagne’s been popped (thank you, E.D.!) and the drunken midnight kisses have been exchanged (or forced upon…sometimes I get a tad over-enthusiastic), I vow to achieve Here is a picture of me from last New Year’s Eve:. 

They say that whatever you are doing on New Year’s Eve, you’ll be doing for the rest of the year, and I am pleased to say that this year, it was true! In 2011 you could find me dancing by myself in a Peter Pan inspired outfit pretty much any time of the day or night!

Anyway, in keeping with the time-honored tradition of looking backwards while forging boldly (and blindly!) ahead, I’d like to throw down a few lists for ya:

Things I Liked in 2011, In No Particular Order

1. Kale. Big fan of the leafy greens.

2. Liberal, elitist, pretentious, intellectual media : I like it all. NPR, you’re my best friend! You teach me, make me laugh, tuck me in and wake me up! New Yorker, you thrill me! I love your fiction, your overly-long articles, your incomprehensible poetry, and your sometimes-funny- sometimes-not cartoons! New York Times, you old gray lady, thanks for keeping me smart and on the side of the righteous! The Sun Magazine, 6o Minutes, The Daily Show, myriad bloggers who feel the same way about everything that I do, Matt Damon press releases…I can’t get enough of it! Rally on, Righties! We shall overcome, but in a dignified manner, and with a lovely glass of Pinot Noir!

3. Technology, In A Limited Kind of Way:  I love my computer, even though I use only 10% of it, like my brain. My Ipod is great; I walk a lot and it’s always in my pocket or down my shirt. I like to listen to podcasts – love my shows!- and count my steps, for no real reason. I just like to know. I love my camera, but I’ve had it for two years and still haven’t managed to read the manual. I’d probably like it even more if I knew how to take pictures with it. The newest addition is my Iphone. I call it Mike. Mike is so helpful to me, and has phonescrabble on it, and makes noises, and has a camera that takes good pictures and apps that do stuff and are free. I like when people’s pictures pop up when they call, though sometimes I make my sister look like this:  or use this photo for McAdams:

She’s kind of a veg.

I have a lot more to list, but I have to go get ready for New Year’s Eve. I dyed my hair “I Love Lucy” red and painted my fingernails glitter green, because I want to look like an elegant lady tonight. I am either going to year my Morticia dress or this little ensemble I’ve pulled together that’s kind of an homage to Stevie Nicks meets the Frito Bandito. I’ll let you know what I decide.

In the meantime, be safe tonight and whatever you do, smile- remember, what you do tonight could set the tone for the whole year.

I’ve told you I love you, right? I do.   May your wishes come true …

May your travels lead you to adventure, enlightenment, opportunity and epiphany …and may your imagination soar in 2012.

Happy New Year!

 

Merry Christmas, Y’all!

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[tube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6apiyG4haTU[/tube]
Armenian and Greek Orthodox monks fought with broomsticks and fists over which parts of the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem they got to clean after Christmas celebrations and before Orthodox Christmas celebrations, held on January 2nd. The Church of the Nativity is built on the site where theologians believe Jesus was born – you know, where the manger was after Joseph and Mary were turned away from the inn. Palestinian police weilding clubs stormed the church and restored peace. That’s an unexpected twist, right? Sweet Jesus, priests! What the devil is wrong with you?! Can’t we all get along? Peace on earth, blah, blah, blah, blah? You guys need to huff a little frankincense and chill the Hallelujah out! It seems like if the churches really wanted to clean up some shit in the Middle East, there would be plenty of of shit to polish, but, no, modern religion is reduced to a broom-brawl in a holy stable! P.S. Lost the power to embed again. Suffer, people, and just click on the link!

The Rossetti Reader

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In the Bed, Henri Toulouse-Lautrec

So, just to point out sublime serendipitous synchronicity, consider this, if you will: The Rossetti I mentioned in the last post, who painted a version of The Annunciation, is none other than Gabriel Dante Rossetti, who chose to use his middle name professionally, in honor of Dante Aligiehri, of Inferno fame, instead of Gabriel, in honor of Heaven-n-Jesus fame. Rossetti’s Annunciation featured a Mary modeled by his sister, the poet Christina Rossetti, who had previously served as a model in a painting depicting the Virgin’s girlhood. By all accounts, Christina was a religious woman, who worked for the poor and ostracized, and who is famous largely for devotional poems. Here is a poem calledMirage.HE hope I dreamed of was a dream,

Was but a dream; and now I wake

Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,

For a dream’s sake.

I hang my harp upon a tree,

A weeping willow in a lake;

I hang my silenced harp there, wrung and snapt

For a dream’s sake.

Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart;

My silent heart, lie still and break:

Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed

For a dream’s sake.

I wonder if that is how Mary felt about the annunciation. Maybe she thought it was all a dream, but also, if you had to sacrifice your first born to suffer a horrific death for all the sins of all mankind, perhaps it would be more nightmare than dream. I wonder the dream was Mary’s hope for peace, the one she dreamed would come to fruition when she bore the son of God, a link between the Divine and the desperate.

But I digress. Or perhaps, because I have already written about this, I regress. Anyhoo, I shall now attempt to progress:

If Christina Rossetti was angelic, her brother Dante definitely knew some demons. He was passionate and lusty, and there is evidence of Herman Cain-like indiscretions with several of his models, though, let me be clear, I am drawing no lines between Dante and his beatific sister, and I don’t know if Herman Cain even has a sister. However, in my vast research, which includes more than two websites other than  Wikipedia, I found several references to the artists and women who seemed to “…consume and possess him in art, poetry and life.” One of them was his first wife, a beautiful junkie who died of a laudanum overdose after delivering a stillborn child. He adored her, and continued to try and contact her in the afterlife for as long as he lived. When she died, he buried a bunch of unpublished poems with her, but was encouraged to exhume them by friends, which he did. They were published in 1870, and were immediately criticized for being “the epitome of fleshly poetry”, and considered by many to be offensive.

This poem is often cited as an example of that which gave Victorian critics the vapors:

Nuptial Sleep

At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart:

And as the last slow sudden drops are shed

From sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled,

So singly flagged the pulses of each heart.

Their bosoms sundered, with the opening start

Of married flowers to either side outspread

From the knit stem; yet still their mouths, burnt red,

Fawned on each other where they lay apart.

Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams,

And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away.

Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams

Of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day;

Till from some wonder of new woods and streams

He woke, and wondered more: for there she lay.

 

Quite lovely, non? This is a bit from The Kiss:

I was a child beneath her touch,–a man

When breast to breast we clung, even I and she,

–A spirit when her spirit looked through me,

–A god when all our life-breath met to fan

Our life-blood, till love’s emulous* ardours ran,

Fire within fire, desire in deity.

The Kiss, Henri Toulouse Lautrec Kiss, Andy Warhol  * Emulous?

Interesting that Rossetti would choose this word, but not so much, really, when you consider that in later life he assembled an exotic menagerie at his home that included mice, peacocks, owls, kangaroos, armadillos, zebras, marmots, armadillos, a Brahmin bull, and, most notably, wombats. Wombats! Hilarious! He let them sleep on the table like a furry centerpiece and had one ride a llama around the living room! Needless to say, he was often drunk or drugged by this time. But even sober, wombats are funny. Things got way unfunny for Rossetti, who suffered nervous breakdowns and insomnia and a probably psychosomatic eye ailment that impeded his vision. He became a drug addict who drank to mask the bad taste of the chloral hydrate he  consumed nightly. He suffered delusions and attempted suicide and finally died after a stroke that left him partially paralyzed.

Remember what started all of this? Angels, devils, Ross and Rachel’s love child, The Annunciation? After painting the holy, Rossetti died lowly, on Easter Sunday, 1882, and is now resurrected on the 3 week anniversary of my Friends-fest, where I accidentally watched 5 episodes of the hit series back-to-back, and proving definitively, yet again, that no matter where you go, all roads lead back to me.

Emulous: desirous of equaling or excelling; filled with emulation. Duh.

On editing, angels and devils

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I just read over the last post. To paraphrase the words of Jeff Spiccoli, “People on ludes should not write.” I refer more specifically to this sentence:

…It was the plot line where Joey Tribiani fell in love with his then-roommate, Rachel, who, of course, was pregnant by her ex-lover and his good friend Ross’s baby.

Upon review, it is difficult not to notice the discrepancy between what this sentence actually says, as opposed to what I meant for it to say. That sentence, my good friends, is an example of some truly bad writing. Rachel was not really impregnated by two people, neither of whom was the Ross, the baby of her ex-lover. That’s ridiculous and biologically impossible. Thank you to Edie, for pointing this out. You have eyes like a hawk, little lady!

However, as I re-read the original sentence, the more convinced I am that it must stand the way it is, so that you will know that I am human. I make mistakes. Adorable, endearing, harmless, funny mistakes, but errors none the less. It is important that I am not deified, no matter how tempting, or “right”, that may seem to you.

If you want, you can think of me as a lesser saint, or like an angel, maybe, but more of the Clarence from It’s A Wonderful Life kind of angel than, say, Gabriel, who not only foretold the birth of Jesus, but also revealed the Qu’ran to Mohammed, or Michael, who has to fight the devil in Heaven during the Apocalypse. That kind of angeling is just too labor intensive for me. 

This picture is called “The Annuciation”, by Henry Ossawa Tanner. It depicts the angel Gabriel as a beam of light, telling Mary that she is pregnant with Jesus, and that he is the son of God.

I saw this painting in Philadelphia once. It just blew me away. I imagine that the angel is not only telling her the words surrounding the impending birth, but that she is also telepathically receiving the images and feelings of what it will be like to carry and give birth to responsibility, doubt, pain, helplessness and sacrifice. For Mary, there is no choice. Really, I guess it’s the same for many mothers. All she can do is hope for the best and accept that her life will no longer be her own.

There have been many portrayals of the Annunciation by artists much more famous than Tanner, including Boticelli, Rossetti*, and Rubens. They are all beautiful. But none of them show the moment as Tanner does, in such a human and resonant way. Tanner’s Mary is not beatific and diaphonous, wrapped in velvet robes and imbued with a divine glow. She is wan, young, wary and poor. She doesn’t know what to make of the blaze that is Gabriel – is his otherworldy light blinding or warming? Did the news she was receiving marking her as special, unique and worthy, or alien and destined to be alone, misunderstood, and lonely? Hard to tell. When I saw it in the museum, I had to sit down on a bench for a long time. So beautiful. So puzzling. So moving.

Tanner was the first African American artist to get international acclaim. Unfortunately, his fame and skill failed to inure him to the racism rampant in his home country, and he eventually moved to France where he lived as an ex-pat with his opera-singer wife and children. This is from his autobiography, The Story of An Artist’s Life:

I was extremely timid and to be made to feel that I was not wanted, although in a place where I had every right to be, even months afterwards caused me sometimes weeks of pain. Every time any one of these disagreeable incidents came into my mind, my heart sank, and I was anew tortured by the thought of what I had endured, almost as much as the incident itself.

Racism blows. That quote reminds me of that Countee Cullen poem I posted here: https://smalleradventure.com/2011/11/all-the-things-that-fall-in-the-cracks-of-the-couch/

Come to think of it, don’t think of me as an angel at all; think of me as a modern day Serena, Samantha Steven’s hip, sassy, cousin-witch. She’s a self-centered devil-angel, just like me. 

* See next post: The Rossetti Reader

Excited, aren’t you?

This Just In

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First of all, this happened: I fell into this really weird deja vu soma-state where somehow, I watched five episodes of Friends, back-to-back. I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t plan it. It was like a blackhole vortex. I couldn’t keep myself from being sucked in. I’m a strong, independent woman, but somehow, this was beyond my control. In my defense, it was the plot line where Joey Tribiani fell in love with his then-roommate, Rachel, who, of course, was pregnant by her ex-lover and his good friend Ross’s baby.* Oh, the awkward hilariousness that ensued from that crazy love triangle! Who can blame me for my mesmervision? Who could peel her eyes from that?

The only thing that saved me from a sleepless night in front of the 1990’s was that at a commercial break I accidentally switched to the Lifetime Channel and caught a few minutes of “The New Newlywed Show.” That’s like a tsunami on a candle. The wholesome glowing warmth I felt for my friends (Chandler Bing! Aren’t you a funny one?!) was instantly replaced with a fear that bordered on panic for the state of the future. New Newlywed people should NOT procreate, no matter how badly they tell the viewing audience they want to. Really.
  Also, there was this:

Me: So, Julio, do you understand simile? Can you make up an original simile?

Julio: Yeah, miss. Lemme think. What’s a simile again?

The class goes nuts. We’ve been over this 20 times. Julio wasn’t listening, because he was texting Gabbi under his desk while he was supposed to be taking notes. We have been following this conquest for at least three weeks, which in teenager-time, is – well, it’s half a six weeks, which is a long-ass time. Julio doesn’t stand a chance with Gabbi, but he’s not one to give up easily.

Julio, stroking his hairless chin: No, seriously, cayate*! Lemme think! Ok!

School is like sex: you never really get it, but you pretend that you do.

That Julio is brilliant. A philosopher, I tell ya. he’s going to do great things some day…but he’ll never do Gabbi. Fond, fruitless wishes, that.

* “Shut yer piehole.”

*See next post

 

Dear Jon

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Yesterday was Jon Stewart’s birthday. I love Jon Stewart. I am thankful that he hangs out with me Monday through Friday, and that even on his birthday, he wants to be with me, on the couch, in a Snuggie. 

First of all, full disclosure: Jon Stewart is HOT. My thing for him is not – I repeat, NOT – the 100% pure respect of one fake journalist for another. So I’m not merely interested in his mind. So what? I have needs,too! I’m only human!

But I’m fond of his big, muscular brain as well. I think he is so smart and clever, plus he cares about the same things I do. On his b’day ep he railed about stuff that had really been bothering me. We both get angry about the same things, only he’s way more adorable when he’s pissed. The cutest I’ve ever been when I am angry is one time when I climbed on the table and stamped my foot. I know what you’re thinking- that’s typical five-year-old behavior; what’s the big deal? All kids are cute when they’re miffed! Well, take this, Little Mr. Dis-How-Cute-I-Am – I was 44! Suck it kindergartners! I take your baby rage to a whole new level! Bam!

But that’s not really my point. I’m talking ’bout my Jonnycakes. He went  on a tear about the students from UC Davis, who, while peacefully and passively protesting, were systematically pepper sprayed by campus police officers. Like Jonny-on-the-spot, I could not believe my eyes when I saw the footage someone caught on his or her cellphone. That is some messed-up, tin-soldiers-and-Nixon’s-coming-kind-of-shit, right? I mean, those kids were just sitting there, heads bowed like lambs that were resigned to being somebody’s someday cloud vision, when all of a sudden, this boot wearing, helmeted rent-a-cop thug calmly walks back and forth with a bright red socket searing spray unleashed at fist’s length. What the hell? Aren’t we guaranteed the right to protest peacefully?

Jonny-come-lately was upset about this also. We are both very sensitive.

Jonny Angel was also freaked out about the crazy wackadoo who pepper sprayed fellow shoppers for X-Boxes. Me too. That’s crazy! Jumpin’ Jonny no like.

Oh, Jon! I feel your pain! Life is hard for people like us! We just want everyone to be happy. We want goodness, light, and Leo Sayer tunes. Even when this bad old world lets you down, Jonny, just know that I’ll be there for you, because I love ya, Jonny, I love ya deep, I love ya hard, and I’ll love ya forever.

Happy birthday and stay gold.

Ponyboy

Mr. Jones and Me

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“As we express our gratitude, let us not forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.”   – John F. Kennedy

Ok. Perhaps this is not JFK’s most important, nor most eloquent, nor most profound quote. Still, on the 48th anniversary of his death and the cusp of the Thanksgiving holiday, it’s pretty timely and relevant.

There are many people, both famous and ordinary, whom I admire. As I get older, I am more inclined to admire people who try to be good. Being good is not as easy as it sounds. Things (pettiness, jealousy, inhibitions, confusion, apathy, ignorance, blame, fear, insecurity, and lust for revenge, power, acceptance and wealth, to name just a few) get in the way.

Not too long ago, I wrote a post on being engaged. I feel that if you notice what’s going on around you, if you make connections and seek ways to be a part of the great big dynamo hum that is the universal beat, or the oversoul, or the what-lays-underneath of all life, then you will be happier, and you will make others happier in the process, and really, that’s what it’s all about. I’ve never really thought about this in terms of actual words, but yes, this is what I believe.

Anyway, I used to go to Starbucks a lot, and then less, and then not too much at all. Eventually I only went there when I didn’t have time to make my morning vat o’java before work, and had to rush in or spend the entire day decaffeinated, which is a misery on par with hearing Garrison Keillor sing a seemingly endless cover of The Grateful Dead’s “Ripple”, which is heinous on too many levels to adequately discuss at this juncture, but which actually happened on Sunday, and, let me tell you, was traumatic. I’m still getting flashbacks. But I digress.

So, I’d get to Starbucks all in a hurry, with my hair wet and more often than not with my shirt on backwards, and I’d be pissed because it’s morning, and angry because my job sucks, and also already late. And I’d go to get my coffee, and there was this bum, sitting in a wheelchair, like a one-legged lion in wait, ready to pounce on cranky, morning-weak, bedraggled prey. I knew what he wanted. They all want the same thing. And just because I looked like someone who can’t manage to set a damned alarm clock to wake up and get my ass in gear at the same time I’ve been supposed to be getting up for 15 years doesn’t mean I am a pushover.

“Good morning!” he’d say, chipper as hell.

“Mornin’,”  I grunted, eyes down, fists jammed in my pocket.

“Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day!” he’d croon, and I knew what was coming next.

“Sure am glad I’m here and not in Washington, DC,” he’d say. “They have a real mess on their hands there. I’m just happy to be here now, takin’ in the day. Hey! I hear they’re introducing a special Pumpkin Latte Soy Macchiotta! You ought to go in and try yourself one! Have a nice day, pretty lady!”

That dude was smooth.  I said goodbye and went in and bought my coffee and left. He didn’t panhandle me. He smiled and waved goodbye.

All day it stuck with me. I felt guilty and small. He was a nice man, and if he needed a dollar, for whatever reason, well, hell, I have a dollar. Maybe I am a pushover. Still, I felt like I missed an opportunity.

I went back the next week, and the next, and he was always there, and always so nice to me. “Hey, Miss Blue Car! How you doin’ today? Think it’s goin’ ta rain? We could use a soakin’ right? I tell you what, you look like sunshine on a cloudy day! You know that song? I got sunshiiine, on a cloudy dayeeyay!”

It got to where I looked forward to see him.

One day, I asked inside if I could buy him a sandwich and a coffee, or leave a gift card for him. The Starboy said, “Sure, if you want. But he has enough gift cards and sandwiches to last him all winter. People love Mr. Jones. Go sit with him awhile. He likes that.”

Mr. Jones. I would sit with him. Some day. When I had time. What a nice man was Mr. Jones.

Winter came and I set the automatic timer on the coffee pot and slept in. I was still late, but the coffee was hot when I got up. Hot and cheap. Like I like my men. But I digress.

One day in the summer, I made it back. On the little table where Mr. Jones sat, there were a bunch of papers. A shrine. There were letters like this:and ones like this: 

The one on the right is hard to see, but it’s from a girl named Vanessa who got angry at Mr. Jones when he refused to give her money for heroin, so she robbed him. The letter was so poignant and personal that at the time, I didn’t have the heart to photograph the whole thing, but now I wish I had.

Medford Jones was a man who gave kindness to people whether they wanted it or not. He was paid for this service, not because people felt obligated, but because with connection comes kindness, understanding, and the desire to make things better. He was engaged, and the simple act of reaching out and connecting to others made him respected and admired. I am so grateful for my life, and the people who drift into it to teach me things, and to love me, and to grant me gifts and wishes. I am so lucky. I must remember to show my gratitude not just in words, but in action.

Rest In Peace, Mr. John F. Kennedy.

Rest In Peace,  Mr. Medford Jones.

Thanks for the inspiration.

 

All the things that fall in the cracks of the couch

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A friend of mine recently informed me that when I post a lot of pictures, it takes forever to load. That must be a real drag for you, my faithful readers! I did not know that this was the case, and I do apologize for any inconvenience the wait must have caused.

Then again, what’s it to ya? Like you have anything better to do! Plus, one cannot discount the rewards of being patient! And judging from your total lack of commentary on the last post, I  infer that you were left speechless by the Artoween exhibit I posted. I s’pose that ought to hold ya, and you are welcome.

 

Anyhoo, I consulted my web guru, chmchm, who told me that in order to fix the picture problem, I would have to…well, I don’t really know what she said. It was a lot of technical blah blah blah about pixels and software and uploading, and I quit listening right at the beginning. She’s working on it. ‘Nuff said.

In the meantime, I have a bunch of unrelated odds and ends. And no pictures. Which is a shame, because I have a photo essay called “State Fair” all ready to go. If you are thinking that it features snapshots of Big Tex’s penis (also named Big Tex), you got another thing coming, perv.

Here is the first thing: If you like photos like I do – and I do enjoy the photos, I must say – then check out the pictures at this site:

http://www.youtube.com/user/Imagination

I clicked on ‘all submissions’ and sat transfixed in front of my computer for an hour. They aren’t all great, but all are good, and they inspire me. People are so cool and creative, and there is so much beauty, interest and wonder to be seen, everywhere, in the oddest places, in the span of a moment, in the hint of nuance. Check it out and let me know what you think.

Here’s another thing: sometimes seeing things clearly really sucks. The times you walk past a mirror and see how non-sexy you really are. The many instants when you think you are basically an undercover bad guy. Not a bad-ass guy; just bad. The hours you spend figuring out what you should have said. The people you care about who you have let down. The hours spent wasting time. The hours you won’t get back. The missed opportunities. The words that should never have come out. The self-sabotage. That you record ‘Glee’. All the times that you have been petty, or yield power only to prove that you have it. Realizing maybe you really were just controlled by hormones. Understanding why, way too late. Being short-tempered and impatient, even when you have nothing better to do.That you are getting older, but perhaps no wiser. Epiphanies, like: Fat never sleeps. Nothing you can sing that can’t be sung. Maybe this is it. Everything dies.

Reality is overrated.

Grades are due and my insomnia is back full force. Can you tell?

I wrote this when I was trying to rhyme, but not be trite. I’m not sure that I succeeded. What do you think?

I think you have a sexy mind

Swim in your moods all the time

And consider the me

That you think you see

She’s all wrapped up

In poetry.

I think I like this:

I take your ideas

And suck them smooth like pebbles

Until they echo

What I want to hear.

I wanted to be Tipsy Hedren for Halloween, because I don’t really like birds, and I do really like being tipsy.  

How drunk do you think you’d have to be to let a no-good, lying, backstabbing bird light your cigarette? Jeesh!

Here are a few things I overheard:

“I slept with this guy who was a puppeteer on Johnny Carson once. He was not my type at all, and actually the whole thing was a disaster, but still I’m proud … a puppeteer on Johnny Carson!”

“My sister is mean and stupid. She broke her finger poking a fat kid. See what I mean?”

“We had a big Halloween candy exchange. my kid said, ‘I’ll give you two lollipops for a Buttfinger! Haha! A Buttfinger!’ I never heard that in all my years!”

I definitely have a touch of dyslexia. And narcoleptic insomnia. And hypochondria. For sure.

This is a poem I read recently, written in the 1930’s, I think:

Incident

BY COUNTEE CULLEN

(For Eric Walrond)

Once riding in old Baltimore,
   Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
   Keep looking straight at me.
Now I was eight and very small,
   And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
   His tongue, and called me, “Nigger.”
I saw the whole of Baltimore
   From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
   That’s all that I remember.

Damn! That’s one visceral poem! So simple, so telling. Way to go Countee Cullen!

If you told me Rick Perry was NOT high most of the time, I would find that very hard to believe.

That dude’s wasted. Seriously.

Well, I think that’s about it. I have a ton of grading to do. But I think I’ll watch Glee first, even though the singing really bugs me sometimes. And also the story lines. But I like that girl who believes in unicorns in Britney Spears. 

Have a great weekend, one and all!

A Night Out!

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Thank you so much to all of you who wrote (and called) in to cheer me up! I feel MUCH better now! In fact, I felt so good that yesterday I went out! That’s right! Out in the early eve, dusk-ish I would say, for dinner, and then I just followed the evening, dove right on into spontaneous opportunity, and proceeded to boogie-oogie-oogie ’til …well, you know the rest!

I ended up downtown, where there was a music showcase festival thing going on. I saw lots of bands, and heard all different kinds of music, and I loved it! So diverse! So fun!I saw tons of zombies, even though Halloween is two weeks away. This led me to conclude that zombies are weird, scary, and confused about the calender of the living. Zombies… Weird.

My favorite part of night came on my way to the bathroom. I have a bladder the size of a walnut, so I have had the opportunity to visit many a loo in my time. I believe I may have mentioned this before, but that is beside the point. As I was walking through a club I have been to many times before,you know, to get to the pee-pee palace, I decided to check out this room that bands store their gear in. It’s behind the sound booth, and has become an art gallery of sorts, and the exhibition there – well, I gotta say, it delighted me.

As you look at these images, ponder the age-old question, “What exactly is art?” As a supplement to your musings, let me provide you with a few quotes about art from famous folks:

[Abstract art] is a product of the untalented, sold by the unprincipled to the utterly bewildered. – Al Capp

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in. – Amy Lowell 

Art is a collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does, the better. – Andre Gide

In honor of the location of the room, where they mix a lot, I will call this segment of the post “Sir Dix-a-Lot.”

I know what you’re going to say. You are angry that I put you through that. These images will haunt you day and night. There will be no respite, and your dreams will become dickmares. You will probably question your sexuality and may take a vow of celibacy.

You’re right, and I’m sorry. It’s obscene. Worse than that, it’s really childish. I can’t help it. I’m a seventh-grade boy. These aren’t even all of them. I left out “Phil McGroin” and “The Penis Shuttle” and “Hot Prickstrami with a Big Dill Dickle.” You’re welcome for that. There was also some socio-political art that deals with racial unrest in an urban, post-modern society:  Kill Whitey, Obama, and Hannah Montana in one piece? Tell me that’s not profound! That’s gotta be saying something! Still, I am partial to the Artitalia. Ernie Halter, if you are reading this, I think you are a penis genius. I would like to represent you. Or date you. Whatever. And lest the ladies get jealous because this post is so dickcentric, I leave you with this:Again, I apologize.