April 27, 2008
Right now there isn't any smoke out in the hills, so I'm assuming things are somewhat contained in Sierra Madre.
But it's ninety degrees out there, and there's a bit of a wind. Bad combo, so please be careful with those cigarettes, okay?
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April 24, 2008
I long for the Person from Porlock
To bring my thoughts to an end,
I am becoming impatient to see him
I think of him as a friend,Often I look out of the window
Often I run to the gate
I think, He will come this evening,
I think it is rather late.I am hungry to be interrupted
For ever and ever amen
O Person from Porlock come quickly
And bring my thoughts to an end.
Personally, I have the Internet from Porlock, though I hear the Television Show from Porlock is also popular.
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Now that you've mentioned The Poem by name, I shall spend the rest of the night wondering how much of it I can recite by memory. Oddly, it's easier than "The Highwayman" or "The Kubaiyat of Omar Khayyam," because it changes tempo midway, but I think I only have 90% of it these days. Maybe 80%.
But my favorite part is right after the damsel with the dulcimer.
Weave a circle 'round me thrice,
And close your eyes in holy dread,
For I on honeydew have fed,
And drunk the milk of . . . Hey! It's SWEEPS WEEK!April 22, 2008
The other problem I have is that some vegan foodstuffs go overboard on ingredients like seaweed, and though I like a bit of seaweed—say, in a Japanese pastry—there's a delicate line: I don't eat fish at my most omnivorous, so anything that has too fishy a taste is right out. The exceptions are miso soup with just a whisper of bonita shavings that I can pretend not to know about, or an omelet with a splash of non-vegetarian Worcestershire sauce that I can likewise ignore.
Gosh, I hope Megan is wrong about women in Manhattan. I would love it if her upbringing there were a minority experience. Personally, I'd hate to feel guilty about eating. I take a distinct delight in food, though when I'm reading or writing (which is always) there's a point beyond which I simply don't want to fuss with it. If I could take a pill that would keep me from being hungry, I might well starve, since I can go for days or even weeks without being in the mood to mess around with the eating idea. Not because I'm against it, but because I don't have much of an attention span for anything whatsoever. The best thing that ever happened to me is the book rack I got in college, which I can use to prop up a book or magazine in front of me while I eat soup, cold cereal, or anything else that requires two hands.
I'm perfectly willing to cook, but not if I'm in the middle of reading or writing a hot chapter. Or even a hot blogpost. Let's not be ridiculous.
Which is to say that food is lovely, but if I had to choose between interesting food and fine words, I'd take the words: they are more satisfying than food, and more intoxicating than any drug.
But I do live in a human body, and my stomach is growling. So off I go to eat, rather than composing a kick-ass villanelle. This is, of course, the world's grave loss.
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April 20, 2008
Who knew there was a blogosphere out there?
My obsessions:
(1) doing a bit of laundry by hand every night, since our washing machine decided to die 5-6 weeks before we move;
(2) figuring out how cheaply we can move to the new place, and begin to furnish it in accordance with its 1974 leanings/our own tastes/the cheapskate side of my nature;
(3) picking out paint colors for same in the correct blend of 1960s/1970s/1980s hues for each room; setting up a guest bed plus two home offices in, like, no space; selecting window treatments; scienceing out the flooring (Pergo-equivalent, wood laminate, hardwood, or carpeting? Factors are: cost, speed of installation, degree of noise-muffling each will bring; ease of upkeep; hypo-allergenic qualities given that the "lady" of the house [who isn't, of course] is the worst. Housekeeper. Ever.)
Escrow closes on May 21st. I suspect I won't be making it up to either Shell Beach or the Bay Area until after we move— especially since I'm out of commission the first week in May (trip to Oregon, for which I'm on ice-fetching duty after Attila the Hub runs his next marathon).
We went to mass down in Glendale this evening, and then had dinner at one of the local restaurants near our new digs—a chain, but one that serves decent food. Too noisy, but I was able to get a small pizza with spinach and artichoke. For some reason, I crave vegetables lately; probably the changing of the seasons.
Mmmmm: spinach.
Dessert/midnight snack will be either mango slices or fresh strawberries.
You people out in reader-land must be good, now. For I . . . shan't.
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April 18, 2008
It's convenient that (small-l) "libertarian" suits me fine, because it tends not to set people off. I like "classical liberal," but (today's left) liberals often seem to think you're trying to dress up as one of them while being a closet fascist. ("Yeah, you're a liberal in the sense that, like, Mill would have meant it," someone sneered at me once.) And while my positions on many issues align with what we now consider "conservatism," I'm not fundamentally a conservative. (Well, I am when some gross guy is hitting on me. Then I identify myself as a "conservative" in a clear, forceful tone and mention that I'm a registered Republican. You movement conservatives don't mind the fib, do you? It's to the end of preventing casual homosexual intercourse, after all. And I really am a registered Republican.)The only problem with calling yourself a libertarian--besides, as Eric alludes to, being invited by supposed fellow travelers to engage in poker-faced debates over the most inane hypothetical situations imaginable--is that a lot of people don't understand that it doesn't mean "libertine" or "anarchist." I can't count the number of times I've had to explain that no, I don't think all governing bodies should be dissolved so we can frolic naked in meadows all day and subsist on game and wild berries. In general, though, even those who conclude I'm just a closet right-winger seem to give me a fair hearing without rancor.
Yeah, well. Most of my friends are so far to the left that it doesn't matter that I'm a small "l" libertarian/classical Liberal. Any support for military action makes me Very Misguided Indeed.
"Well, of course," one of my pals said once. "You were so far to the left—a Communist, and all that. It makes sense that if you went over the line you'd be at the other extreme."
I'm at "the other extreme" because I think free markets are the least-inefficient way to lift people out of poverty, I'm willing to wage selective wars to liberate women and protect the people of this country, and I don't think the government has a place in my bedroom, my diet, or my humidor.
John Stuart Mill—I'm comin' to join you, Honey.
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(1) lining up a home inspector (the seller would like the contingencies out of the way as soon as possible;
(2) researching hypo-allergenic flooring that also muffles sound a bit (I'd like to go to Pergo, but I don't know how well that will work on a third floor, particularly given my ability to stomp around);
(3) going to the gym, and maybe
(4) buying a book. Someone packed up every shred of reading material in the house and took it to storage. Now that I've finished Liberal Fascism, I'm dying for reading material that doesn't blink at me like a laptop screen.
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April 12, 2008
But now there's some guilt emanating from those who have benefitted from the "first come, first served" approach to my uncle's den:
My babynow looky here
you have to call me late Friday or early Sat
Q1: do you want to ride with Wendy an I??
Q2: do you wish to save $ and sleep in the Shell Beach suite and
Wendy and I camp at Oxford with no Tivo???
love dad
I believe that is what they call "noblesse oblige." This is what he got back:
I'm not gonna call tonight; I'm going to bed early. We just put a bid in on a condo, and I'm stressed out. I may be in double escrow by the end of the weekend.1) no, thank you; I have errands to do on the way there and on the way back, and I need to come back early-ish Sunday for the home inspection [I want to be on hand to answer questions];
2) no, thank you very very much; I have some work to do for a client, and I need silence/the internet/no one around to do it. So this isn't the right time. But perhaps I can take a rain check and make the swap next time I'm going up solo? (The husband would NOT get along with an air mattress.)
Your son (1) has a racquetball tournament this weekend, and (2) is engaged in his annual happy-birthday overtime extravaganza at work (those stupid performance reviews they want to all be done at work). I'm sure you know this; it always seems to wrap up around his birthday.
But surely we could all get together sometime after that?
It might also be cool if you could get my half-sister out here in the fall or something; I'd like to meet my youngest nephew.
If you let all my scheming slip to the enemy, you will be executed.
Love,
J
He likes being addressed that way; he really does.
Hi Executioner:I've always wondered what stress is!!
Unless you call me to the contrary--you will drive independently??
You will sleep at Oxford Suites and my wife and I will air-mattress it!!
If you sleep so late--why do you go to bed early??
I really look forward to seeing you!!
love dad
He ought to know that I don't really go to bed early; I'm always just trying to go to bed early.
Dad:I will drive independently; I cannot be harnessed to another person's gasoline-powered conveyance. I'm a free spirit. And stuff.
I'm sorry that life is giving you a hard choice like: (1) air-mattress, but TiVo and no little doggie on the trip, vs. (2) real mattress and little doggie, but no TiVo.
I'm sure our ancesters are crying over what we've come to in this family. Shall we hold a seance and hear how sorry they are for us?
--J
You'll see what I mean. He loves my edginess. The most he ever says is "did your parents not spank you enough when you were a child?" This line is usually employed at dinner parties.
My baby,I am very proud of your command of the marvelous English language!!
Go to bed. Go to sleep. I really really look forward to
seeing you up in Shell Beach with the rest of the family.Happy traveling
I have great feelings about the weekend!
love--dad
But he does have a point; it could be that in a few select senses I'm a spoiled brat. I can't imagine how a thing like that could happen.
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April 10, 2008
I check my watch. Of course: It's 1:30. That is "lunch" for a sane person. For those like me, however, it isn't really lunch until 2:00 p.m.
"Vaya con dios," I tell him. "Save some for me. Might make a great supper of champions."
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April 09, 2008
Tired.
Just don't feed the spammers, mkay? I'll get to it when I get to it. Best I can do.
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April 07, 2008
How is a girl supposed to choose between her two truest loves? She cannot, of course:
Sonnet XXV
That Love at length should find me out and bring
This fierce and trivial brow into the dust
Is, after all, I must confess, but just;
There is a subtle beauty in the thing,
A wry perfection; wherefore now let sing
All voices how into my heart was thrust,
Unwelcome as Death's own, Love's bitter crust,
All criers proclaim it, and all steeples ring.
This being done, there let the matter rest;
What more remains is neither here nor there.
That you requite me not is plain to see;
Myself your slave herein have I confessed.
Thus far, indeed, the world may mock at me,
But if I suffer, it is my own affair.
I weigh the matter out in my mind: my livelihood, or gin? Cannot one have both, with judicious applications of raw carrots and Bausch & Lomb vitamins?*
I decide that Edna St. Vincent Millay was not simply pathological, but clinical, and mentally prescribe her some antidepressants.
And yet I am not yet at ease. I come home, and see that my roommate has brought some cake back from an AA meeting. I cut myself a slice, and discover that the local bakery whose name adorns the box did not use Miracle Whip in the frosting. Oh, no.
But how can I be sure? I make sure. Two slices later, I sit down, open up my book, and make myself a classic Martini.
Very dry. With an olive.
There is a subtle beauty in the thing,
A wry perfection.
Within a week I expect to be in double-escrow: as a seller, and as a buyer.
* No. I do not take them. But only because (1) I can't afford them; (2) if my father caught me taking vitamins, he'd kill me, because he has decided that all supplements are a racket. [The dad and nuance are not the best of friends.] (3) My rather wistful desire to never lose my eyesight is related to my rather wistful desire to never lose my teeth, which is in turn related to my rather wistful urge never to die. If I were to be caught taking vitamins and killed by my dad, that would rather pervert the whole project, no?
Instead, I'm taking Braille classes, memorizing my favorite poems, and buying books on CD. I am not, after all, stupid.
I may learn sign language, just to hedge my bets.
* * Whaaaaaaaaat?
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April 06, 2008
"I thought I was," I told him. "But apparently I hadn't been out on the hills in months. I just remembered that I should take advantage of 'em, since we'll be out of here in June."
"Well, we'll be closer to Griffith Park, then," he remarked. "You might find a trail up there that you'll like even more."
"I'm, like paralyzed. Don't you have any stretches I should do? How could three and a half miles do this to me, even with the incline?"
"You want my advice?" he asks.
"Of course I want your advice. You're a coach. Help me. I won't be able to take the stairs normally for, like, two days."
"Ice your legs," he suggests.
"I can't understand you when you use those big words," I tell him. "What is this, an SAT-preparation course? You're supposed to be helping me."
"It's a small word. There are only three letters in it. And they are little letters."
"Yes." I flounce out of his office, calling over my shoulder, "and, by the way: it's a noun. You're using it as a verb. But I don't know what you're talking about. La la la la la!"
And then I look at the staircase. I bite my lip, and I step.
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I'm the caves/enclosed places/feeling of entrapment or engulfment -phobic person. Not heights; not generally. (I was afraid for a moment that the person with the "helmet cam" was going to go into the passageway within the mountain, and that might have upset me. But she or he didn't, and all was well.)
Still, I don't quite get this. If we can maintain the paths that go up to Yosemite Falls or Half Dome, why can't the Spaniards just fix this?
I mean, I hate to sound like a Gringo—and I hate to upset Jonah Goldberg and go all fascist/CCC—but just fix it. I mean, well-maintained hiking trails are a goddamned human right. Sort of.
(Sorry. My brain isn't functioning well. I might be having a statist moment; I get that way in Tijuana, when I see the gaping, dangerous holes in the sidewalk, and wonder why they can't just charge some taxes to the people who sell me my cappuccino, cigars, and tortilla soup, and fix the fucking sidewalks with it. I mean, how many stupid college kids go down there for spring break, get loaded, and bust their freakin' ankles? Fix the sidewalks! Fix the walkways! Fix the trails! Just fix it!
Sorry. I think I'm done.)
Of course, it's easy to die in Yosemite; the code words are granite, water, and wildlife. Ultimately, one has to have some respect for Mother Nature. For gravity. For slippery surfaces. For human fragility. And for oneself.
I climbed those same cables up to Half Dome as a child. But it was hard. And I was concentrating; not laughing.
I don't want to blame the victim, but that's part of the secret, I think.
But Spain should fix their fucking trail; did I say that?
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April 01, 2008
If she's serious, she should just get either a belly pack/fanny pack, or a wallet-on-a-string. (Brighton makes some good wallets-on-a-string, or cell-phone-holders-on-a-string.)
In my twenties I tended to carry my wallet on my body, to avoid losing it to muggers. Or I'd take my money, ID and anything else essential and put it in a pocket so as to deprive any muggers of my valuables.
And, of course, when I'm a student I carry a backpack, so throughout a lot of my 20s I was doing that during the week, and only carrying a purse on the weekends.
In general I have trouble packing lightly at all, and I drive an overstuffed car. I carry an overstuffed computer bag and an overstuffed purse—and, usually, an overstuffed bookbag, as well. Usually it's a question of time: when I run out of time I just start throwing things into bags in the interest of getting out the door.
I hate having to plan for an outing as if it were a backpacking trip. On the other hand, a person can take the mega-cluttered lifestyle a bit too far. And she generally does.
It's harder when I'm travelling in some offbeat way (that is, without a car): at that point, not only do I need to "edit" my possessions to keep the weight down on my luggage, but I need to plan ways of getting around Real Cities (places other than Los Angeles) without everything I own close at hand.
The impulse, of course, is to start throwing into the suitcase every possible means of conveyance (purses, bookbags, backpacks), so that I can schlep stuff around with me while I'm sightseeing. Of course, then I realize that if I want room for my stuff, I need to pack fewer carrying devices in which to put that stuff. Or, perhaps, a bigger suitcase. Or a travelling trunk like those that women had in centuries past.
But the main thing? Pants need to have pockets. Especially back pockets. And then, one can travel light: In a pinch all you need is a phone and a pen in one back pocket, and Kleenex in the other. Left-front pocket holds I.D., money, and maybe an extra business card to write on; the right-hand front pocket contains lipstick and/or chapstick. Most keys stay in the hotel room, at home, or in the car. One key (the car key or the home key) goes in the watch pocket on one's jeans. And that is it.
UPDATE: Oops! Forget the hat tip for Dan Collins over at Protein Wisdom.
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"Have you seen the "Current Events" shelves?" I asked him, horrified.
"It's like ten or eleven to one," he replied.
"Even the chain stores are only four or five to one," I responded. "The whole section is listing . . . badly."
After escrow closes I'm going to go "pay rent" at the store [for hanging out there all day every day this week and last] by buying . . . Goldberg's Liberal Fascism. Then they will have to go get a second copy of it! They might even take it off the bottom shelf in the nonfiction section.
Might.
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