Tuesday, April 29, 2008

The Devil and Mr Johnson

The night was black as burned flesh.  Robert stood at the front of the room, draining a watery beer and feeling its meager coolness dissipate inside him, slaking his thirst and soothing his parched throat a little but mostly accentuating for him how hot it was inside the packed roadhouse.  He’d played a solid set, old songs as well as his own stuff, and the rhythm of his guitar and of dancing madness still seemed to resonate off the unfinished boards of the walls and roof.  The crowd, charged by his art and mysterious energy, still milled restlessly.  They wouldn’t leave till the kegs were kicked, but Robert wouldn’t be sticking around so long as that.  He was being pestered by hoochies whose charms had long since worn thin; the men were drunk and seemed to be growing increasingly frustrated and belligerent about the diminishing supply of alcohol and female attention. 

He’d sung enough songs and smelled enough sweat for the night.  Grabbing his hat and his guitar, he pushed his way out the back door.  A few partygoers had congregaed there but they didn’t slow him down - though a few tried with come-on queries and jaw-thrusting challenges.  “Back off, back off,” he barked at them all, seeking the refuge of the night’s anonymity.  “Y’all don’ wan’ nothin’ from me, I’y burn right through ya - don’ tempt the devil ‘less ya ready fo’ hell!” Though his curse produced a few giggles from the women and some mutters from the men, they left him be.

As he walked, the clean air, rich with the scents of the earth, filled his senses and cleared his mind.  Still warm in the sweltering night, a clarity arose within him, an energizing cleanliness.  All was still and dark, yet he felt static crackling just beneath everything.  Things felt portentious.

A few minutes of wide-striding lopes through the moonless night put him at the crossing of a rough country road and a crude dirt track.  Once the spot had been shaded by a large tree; he sat down on its stump, pushed his hat back on his head, wiped the sweat from his brow, and sat for a moment, absorbing the quiet through his skin.  When the laughter and footsteps came up from behind him, they seemed to have arrived out of thin air. 

******

Jimi’s hand ached, but it was way down over there, at the end of an arm that seemed impossibly long.  His skin was hot; he lapped the sweat from his upper lip with a snake of a tongue.  There were people; he knew some of them, had flashes of recognition of others.  Chicks lay like cushions on the flowing paisley carpets and some dude had a joint and an eyedropper.  He reached for the dropper with that aching hand but had difficulty navigating the distance back to his eyes, so a chick rose up and helped him get two drops per pupil.  He mumbled a thanks that sounded like a cat trapped in a piano and managed to snag the j; three deep drags and the colors kicked in. 

Details congealed: he’d been recording some tracks, after a show, not sure where - not Seattle, or New York, or London, or any of those cold damp city places - this was a hot damp place in the country, and it felt like it was getting hotter by the second.  He discovered himself standing, his axe in his hand.  His head rotated and he sensed the atmosphere in the studio closing in on him.  “I gotta get some air,” his voice said, and though the sound echoed in his ears no one seemed to have heard him.  The door was before him; miles away, a hand he’d once owned turned a burnished, grinning knob.

Fresh air bathed his face.  He realized it was almost as hot outside as it had been in the studio, but the blackness of the night was tranquil and soothing, and a whisper of a breeze eased his burning head.  The strat in his hand hung almost to the ground; he observed dispassionately that a shorter man would be dragging it along the rough road down which he found himself ambling.  He pulled off his bandanna and shook out his afro.  Fresh air, real colors, the absence of sound, the billowing of his wide lapels and flared trousers and extravagant hair… He felt refreshed, but something more as well - a pregnant potential, as if he were at some kind of precipice, the edge of a cliff or a diving board, and everything around him was calling on him to jump into something new.  A crack opened in the earth before him and he leapt it, both feet landing in twin puffs of dust.  He was looking at them and laughing when a voice came from outside his head to interrupt his reverie: “Who the hell are you, boy?  And what the hell is that? 

*****

A wiry man sat on a stump, beads of sweat rolling down his dark skin and beams of power shooting from his fingertips and eyes.  He wore a suit the way a fieldhand wears dungarees and his broadbrimmed hat sat well back on his head, forming a black halo that made the whites of his eyes gleam all the more preternaturally.  An expression of wry disbelief was on his face and a battleworn acoustic axe waited at the ready by his strong right hand.  “Can you hear me, boy?  Are you for real?”

Jimi smiled big and nodded.  “I’m a voodoo chile,” Jimi replied, “runnin’ wild on a country mile.  What’s your story, man?”

Robert was relieved and smiled back; he’d honestly not been quite sure that this lanky devil in the crazy outfit was really for real.  There was something about this guy that seemed unusual, besides the bizarre hair and the strange clothes.  Robert had been mouthing off lately about doing some summoning - mostly to give the mamas a thrill and get a little sugar off’em.  This guy, though, seemed summoned, and now that he was there, Robert wasn’t sure what to do about it. 

Part II later this week.  as if you can’t tell what happens. 

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Redeem This, Local Merchant!

Hey welcome back and I hope you’ve had a good weekend.  Mine was delightful.  I could wax eloquent about the wonders of vacuuming under my dresser or catching up on an old episode of Lost, but really, why should I rub it in?  The weather was perfect, we had a good time at the beach and in the park, and I’m all geared up to see old friends this week before jetting off to my ol’ college town for a good-natured bacchanal at the bowling alley.  Meantimely, I thought I’d remind you that passover is now past and over for one more year.  In case you were paying attention to, I don’t know, your cuticles or something, here’s a recap:

First night, first seder: we went down to Shariar and Helena’s lovely Palo Alto condo for a solid ceremonial fix.  Highlights included one total newbie (always a big plus), a very active and engaged reading of the hagadah with some damn fine questions and comments at along, a symbolic “pesach” consisting of a small ewe-shaped magnet (heaven forfend it be mistook for the real thing), both traditional (yum) and nouveaux (yeaum) charoset, the best damn chicken soup with matzo balls I’ve ever made, both standard gefilte fish and awesome tuna poke (sashimi chunks in sauce), double tzimmes, a spectacular sephardic spinach omlette thing, and this brisket, man, you would not believe how good it was - and we wrapped up with a flourless milk chocolate cake and a flourless dark chocolate cake, with Kel’s famous lemon bars for a little zest.  (re-reading this, I realize I left out the 12-hour-roasted eggs, that I, a non-hard-egg-eater, found totally irresistable.) The kids failed to find the aphikomen (I put a time limit on it) so we all split the surprisingly delicious grand prize of chocolate covered matzo, and they all got fun light-up animal keyrings that seemed to placate them.  We were there till after 10, and felt the glow for many days thereafter.

(note: nouveaux charoset contains fuji apples, pecans, wanluts, pistachios, dried cherries, sultanas, honey, cinnamon, salt, black pepper, and garnacha red wine.  traditional style was apples, cinnamon, and some left-around zinfandel.  They both rocked.)

Kick it forward a few days - I get an email from Mitch, who’s hosting seder #2 - he’s looking for matzo.  As you may not have known, there was a serious shortage of the bread of affliction all around the bay area and we couldn’t scrape up a scrap of the damn stuff.  At the last minute, basically, his mom airlifts (via fedex) a five-pack to him, and we meet for lunch so he can lend me a box wherewith I have been making my favorite matzobrie breakfasts (mixing in cinnamon and jelly with the egg and soaking it in honey, what a deadly way to start a morning...) So I’m feeling pretty good about the passover scene in general. 

Then we get to Mitch and Catharine’s seder this saturday just past (day 8, the official final night).  We hit the “ghetto farmhouse” where they make their fabulous crib and start socializing with a cubic buttload of awesome folk - we wind up being a crowd of about 23, I think.  The house seems a bit under-prepared for the ceremonies, though, and I’m surprised… till Mitch orders us all outside where, by their carriage house (yes dude they have a carriage house, this place totally rocks) (they even have a “safe room” but it isn’t particularly secure, it just actually has a huge old safe in it!) by their carriage house, as I was saying before so rudely parenthetically interrupting myself, where they’ve set up a gorgeous al fresco table for us in the warmth of the evening.  We read Mitch’s hagadah with vigor and enthusiasm, because it’s funny and interesting, and we enjoy a meal which Mitch cooked all by himself for all of us, consisting of:

* Duck soup with duck confit matzo balls (the meat minced and mixed into the dough for the balls)
* Morrocan matzo brei with peas, topped with house-made harissa
* “Franks and beans” - house-made seafood sausage with cannilini beans, marinated pickled veg and watercress
* Intermezzo: house-made campari granita
* Braised short ribs (to die for) with sweet potato and horseradish mash and greens
* Chocolate cheesecake (house made, of course) with whipped gorgonzola dulce creme fraische sauce

Wines included: Gattinara Traviglini Giancarlo 2002 (a powerhouse), Arbois Pinot Noir 2004, Marea cinque-terre 2005 (a white that totally stood up to the intense reds surrounding it), Artesia 04 Cab Sauv (Napa), and a really noteworthy Paolo Bea Montefalco Rosso Riserva 2000 (and let’s not forget the plentiful house-made seltzer!).  Little Olivia found the aphikomen and got a grab bag of prizes, and the other kids got good consolation gifts; we tore ourselves away at 11 pm but could have stayed there laughing and drinking and talking - mostly about the exodus, of course, we’re very focused on the essentials - all night long. 

So now you’ve been updated till your gills are ready to burst, I suppose.  I’ll try to follow up with some sort of short story-ish thing.  I thank you for your time, and congratulate you all on a well-deserved redemption.  Moses out. 

Thursday, April 24, 2008

You don’t look a day over… urm… you’re looking quite well-preserved, anyway

Well I’m glad you’ve had a restful time of it; some of us have to work for a living.  However, it’s worth noting that today* marks a special anniversary.  (pause for confused googling.) In addition to which, it also happens to be my birthday.  (pause for irritated groans of understanding.) As is my traditional wont, I have prepared a moving self-testimonial in the form of rhyming crap to celebrate the occasion.  You are welcome to search my archives and find previous such poesy - I refer you to april 03, april 04, may 05 (april was not a good month that year), april 06, and april 07.  I don’t have the time to hunt down the links for you; I’ve got an army of angry mutants to subdue.  But not before I share as follows:

Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute
ten pound sack with twelve pounds in it
but a man of rare accomplishment can fit a little more -
Find his digits, call his pager
wake him from an all-night rager
yes the man you want is Daniel-san, for Daniel’s 44.
He can see you crawl and cower
from his awesome perch of power
and his trophybelt’s a-dangle with the prizes he has took;
Gird your loins and say your prayers
city keys from all the mayors
get your king into the castle or he’ll play you for a rook.
With a grip of tensioned steel
squeeze the juice and smoke the peel
don’t exceed the standard dosage or you’ll surely pay the price -
Buildings shiver when he passes
melts the lenses from your glasses
fills your heart with questing hunger and your veins with boiling ice.
He’s the sober blade of justice
makes you understand what lust is
you’d be wise to leave him leeway or he’ll mow you to the ground;
Trials for your tribulation
he’s a walking celebration
of the everloving victory of fury over sound.
Half-piano, quad-eleven
he’s a little slice of heaven
he can give you what you’re wanting if you know how to implore;
Meet your favorite kind of trouble
rising raging from the rubble
forging forth to force the fortresses, for Daniel’s 44!

So go out and party on my behalf already.  I have a planet to save.  If you’re lucky, it’s yours!

* okay I posted this a day early.  sue me.  I freakin’ dare ya.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Inside the Animated Children’s Actors Studio

I’m posting this for me, okay?  Not for you.  You don’t know what it’s like here.  You haven’t had a chance to get good and sick and tired of the cloying, bug-eyed, repetitive characters on kid’s cartoons like I have.  Diego and Dora and Caillou all that noise has really worn out my patience, and still Zach wants to watch them all the time.  I make an exception for Quack, from Peep and the Big Wide World.  He’s cool.  The rest, I can really do without.  And so I have suffered in (relative) silence so far, but my mind has been churning the sour milk of weak children’s animation and now I have formed, I suppose, brain butter, in the form of this imagined interview from Inside the Actor’s Studio:

JL: Tonight we have the extraordinary opportunity to meet a presence that is too large to be constrained by the small screen of television.  Though he has only had the opportunity to offer us one role, it is a role which has become iconic.  It would be unimaginable for this production to exist without him, for anyone else to take over for him, or even for us to face the challenges of our own lives without invoking his presence.  Theatrical history is replete with antiheroes, from Burbage’s Shylock to Shreck’s Nosferatu and Peter Lorre’s touching portrayal of the unspeakable Hans Beckett in M, all the way through De Niro in Taxi Driver and Pacino in Scarface… the shackled power broker, the personification of evil, the object of execration is rightly seen as a “juicy” role, but also recognized as one fraught with challenges and risks for any actor.  For tonight’s guest to have taken such restrained and feeling possession of such a role so early in his career, clearly obliges us to invite him to share a few words with us.  From Disney’s Little Einsteins, I am very proud to introduce our guest: Big Jet.  Thank you for joining us, Big Jet.

BJ: De nada.

JL: You are the first in your family to take up acting, are you not?

BJ: I’m a cartoon.  In fact, not only am I a cartoon, I’m an animation of a machine, animated by machines.  So I’m not sure what you’re getting at here. 

JL: Tell me about the audition for Little Einsteins. 

BJ: It was disconcerting, really.  They had me come in, rev way up, tip my wings a few times, and then hide behind a cloud that was in the shape of a harpsichord.  It was surreal.

JL: Did they have a harpsichord-shaped cloud for you to use?

BJ: No, I had to use a ukulele in a pillowcase.

JL: Ouch.

BJ: Hey, that’s why they call it acting.  I acted the hell out of that uke. 

JL: What’s the schedule?  How does Big Jet “do” Big Jet?

BJ: We film three days a week; the rest of the time the graphics team is doing that crazy stuff with the musical roller coasters and armies of Russian nesting dolls and that kind of thing.  So, three days, and I’m only in like three or four episodes per season - but when I’m there, I’m totally there all day long.  Then, the rest of the time, you know, I have free for, like, other pursuits.

JL: Pursuits?

BJ: Yeah, c’mon, I’m an F-16 Falcon.  I can pick up some freelance shit every so often when Leo doesn’t need me. 

JL: Freelance?

BJ: Look, I’m not here to talk geopolitics, I shot that wad on the Ollie North show.  I’m here to talk about acting.

JL: Tell me about being an F-16 Falcon on a children’s television program.  Your work is very gentle.  Is it hard to hold back? 

BJ: You know, it can be.  I can’t crank up to a full 27,000 pounds of thrust, I can’t get anywhere near my rated Mach 2 top speed… I don’t go faster than that gumball of a rocket ship that the kids fly around in , even when it turns itself into a train - the slowest goddamn train in the history of trains… and then I even have to make it look like I’m having trouble keeping up with them.  That’s hard as hell.  That’s like, isometric exercises or something.  Of course, no guns.  My standard armament is an M-61A1 20mm multibarrel cannon with 500 rounds; six air-to-air missiles, conventional air-to-air and air-to-surface munitions and electronic countermeasure pods.  All that stuff’s off the table when it comes to working with little Leo.

JL: Tell me about working with Leo.

BJ: Oh, there’s nothing to tell.

JL: That’s not how I hear it.

BJ: Yeah well whatever, it’s his show.

JL: You’re being very diplomatic. 

BJ: What, you want me to break down in tears like June did on Oprah?  That’s not me, man.  That’s not Big Jet.  Her folks pushed her real hard; she never felt like she could speak her mind, and there Oprah was, all warm and comforting… I felt bad for her, really.  At first, anyway.  Those “private dancer” videos were obviously a cry for help. 

JL: And you think that had something to do with Leo?

BJ: Everything comes back to Leo.  It’s his show. He sets the mission.  He’s got that wand, you know -

JL: Baton.

BJ: Whatever, he’s not afraid to use it and I like getting paid so that’s all I’m saying about it. 

JL: The grabby gloves. Tell me about them.

BJ: Oh yeah, they were sort of my idea.  I had just joined the cast and I was feeling my way into the work, you know, just sort of maneuvering around the set with my gunbays and missile stations all naked and empty, and here comes Leo riding up on his Segway and he says something smart about how I’m unarmed, like how he’s had his kitty declawed, so I say, like, “Remember, a cat without claws is that much more likely to bite you,” and he says, “Don’t be silly, dipshit, you haven’t got a mouth,” and as much as it pissed me off I had to admit he was right, and then that night I was playing some racquetball, I remember that, and it occurred to me, I could have them give me giant iron fists, and that way I could, you know, punch that little bastard’s face into osso bucco, or whatever, but they wound up not going for that part of it.  I’m only allowed to use them to pilfer tureens of soup or to switch crucial turn signals, stuff like that.  But the gloves are still cool.

JL: Tell me about Quincy.  Did he come out first to the cast members before the story broke?

BJ: First, no, he didn’t give us some kind of “this is me” speech.  And he did not “come out.” Leo made him gay.

JL: Really?  How?

BJ: Dude, I’m an animated jetfighter on a children’s program.  Why would you think I know how any of this shit works?

JL: Good point. I think that brings us to the Pivot questionnaire portion of our interview.  What is your favorite word?

BJ: Mission.

JL: What is your least favorite word? 

BJ: Retrothrust.  So inhibiting.

JL: What turns you on, creatively, spiritually, or emotionally?

BJ: Clear weather.

JL: What turns you off, creatively, spiritually, or emotionally?

BJ: Pilots who rely on autopilot for everything.  And snotty flight traffic controllers. 

JL: What sound or noise do you love?

BJ: The Star Wars theme.  The one they play for Vader.  That’s cool.

JL: What sound or noise do you hate?

BJ: Packing tape.  Pulling it off the roll, it sort of screams?  It’s just creepy.  I hate it.

JL: What is your favorite curse word?

BJ: Ramjet.  But I usually just rev my engines really loud and bust some eardrums when I’m pissed off.  Very gratifying. 

JL: What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

BJ: Pastry chef.  I think that would really be fun. 

JL: What profession would you not like to do?

BJ: Consierge, or mid-air refueller. 

JL: If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates? 

BJ: That Wonder Woman’s invisible plane has been waiting for me.  Sort of a fantasy of mine, really.  With the cockpit hatch wide open. 

JL: Big Jet, thanks for being with us this evening.  I’d throw this open now for questions from our audience, but Dan is just making this up so there’s no one else there.  Goodnight. 

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

A Bedtime Story

It’s exorcism time, my peeps!  Today’s demon: The hag who used to live next door. 

(note: the old next door, not the present next door.)

Our first San Francisco apartment was a classic jazz-age 1-BR in a nice-enough part of town.  Our building was on the corner; turn uphill and it was all mansions and manicured parks, turn down and you’d find a wide sloppy avenue of tourist restaurants and innumerable sketchmeisters.  Our place, though, was sweet and petite, with original multipane windows and built-ins right down to a sawdust-stuffed icebox.  We didn’t have any extra space, and we used everything we were renting, except, I guess, for the fire escape.

The FE hung outside our bedroom window, and it wasn’t purely ours - the apple-cheeked granny next door shared it with us.  We didn’t have much truck with her; occasional smiles and nods in the hallway were the extent of our face-to-face relationship.  But after about a year there, she started sharing a little more with us - indirectly, but vociferously; disturbingly, and thusly:

It was late at night; we’d long since crashed out in our cozy bed.  Traffic had faded to a gentle lapping of white noise, and our world was at peace.  Then a sound, new and thick, floated into our consciousness - a voice, almost human, wracked with anguish.  We bestirred ourselves, creeping with reluctant disbelief back to consciousness, trying to distinguish this haunted howling from the reality of our dreams.  But soon enough the dreams were forever banished and we both lay still and nervous as the moaning and keening built. 

A woman - old, sad, and drunk.  The sound of her despair filled our little bedroom.  From the alley downstairs?  The building facing ours?  No, the sound was conductive, it was in our walls and surrounded us as the weeping sea embraces drowning men.  It was applegranny next door, and she was pissed.

Inarticulate at first, words and themes soon resolved for our edification.  Time has further obscured the already-garbled jumble of imprecation she uttered that night, curses and calumnies we tried to sleep through, then to ignore, then to excuse as the ranting of a lost soul wrestling with demons, but it was not possible.  She was right next door, just the other side of the wall from us, our rooms even linked by a common fire escape that gave her a proximity amounting to immediacy.... and in the midst of her abjection, it was I that she cursed. 

“Mwargh… fukin jew assho… kike bastards… g’dam christkillas… hate you… ooaugh evil scumjew....” It was hard to understand her but impossible not to hear, and in the hearing, to listen and try to divine the germ of her words.  The verbs we could make out were violent; the adjectives, cruel; the nouns referred insultingly to my five-thousand-year-old family - vile words rendered darker and more putrescent than I’d ever heard them by her drunken vituperation.  I lay still under my familiar old comforter with my wife and my cats, my eyes wide open, the gorge rising in my throat and my heart turning to burning stone within me. 

After ten minutes or so the tirade petered out and silence again returned to the room - but sleep evaded me.  The next night we retired with misgivings, wondering whether what we’d heard was an anomaly.  Turns out, it wasn’t.  It wasn’t every night she went harpy on us, but it was a couple-three times a week, each time the same hateful bile, sometimes with an accompaniment of thumping and crashing that made our floor shiver beneath us.  I began to dread the bed.

We’d still sometimes see her in the hallway.  She remained diminutive, puckered, sweet as an apple pie on a windowsill… but well we knew by then that those apples were sour and wormy, and the sill could come crashing violently down at any moment with a shattering blow.  She’d give a little wave and say hi; we’d say hi back.  What else could we do?

Turns out, there was something we could do - after several weeks of enduring her hateful ravings, we told our landlord that we were being constructively evicted.  We couldn’t sleep in our own bedroom; we were filled with loathing and anxiety every time we walked off the elevator to our home.  He argued with us but I’d done enough homework to move him to a negotiating posture.  We settled for a full return of our deposit without penalty for breaking our lease. 

It was about this time that Heidi moved to SF and found us a roomy, airy, non-bigot-ridden flat on the west side.  We’re there still, and loving it.  Maybe I should thank that kindly-faced jew-hating dypsomaniacal shrew for moving us on to the next phase of life, but actually, I’m still having a little trouble feeling the love. 

Sunday, April 13, 2008

The Smell of Deliciousness; The Taste of Inedibility

The song tells us, “what a difference a day makes.” Well then, how much more of a difference can be made by four of them?  Since Wednesday I’ve suffered the lows of working my butt off at 2 am on a weekend trying to make sense of poorly executed paperwork for the good of my office, and then seven hours later I was frolicking in the cool waters of Chrissey Field lagoon, watching my beautiful boy making friends, exploring hydrodynamics, and generally delighting himself and thereby me on a sweltering morning the likes of which this town all too rarely sees.  Sure, I got a $50 parking ticket, but I also met a friend-of-a-friend and the baby boy she’d just adopted from Korea, and we all wandered through the Conservatory of Flowers where the orchids were thriving in 95 degree heat and 98 percent humidity, and even got to visit the new live butterfly exhibit.  Sure, I had trouble finding some of the ingredients I’ll need for passover cookery (first night is coming up on saturday - get yer redemption in gear!), but then again, a very dear old friend stopped by out of the blue and refreshed my soul as I’d almost forgotten such encounters can do.  It was not the world’s greatest weekend, but it needn’t have been.  It was just a damn fine weekend, and I’m damn well okay with that. 

While he was visiting, I asked my old friend (Brian, for those of you keeping track) what my next post should be about.  He picked “candy, again” and Kel concurred.  Who am I to argue with such wisdom as theirs?  Yeah, well, true, I could argue, but I won’t.  It’s candy-time, blogville.  Let’s have at it:

It’s always a little disconcerting to enter my area through the rear door.  Did that come out wrong?

Off the elevator in my office building, turn south and you’ll come to a T-intersection of hallways.  My usual route to my cube is to the right, down the hall to a firedoor through which my department is located.  Entering thereby, a series of sharp turns will bring you eventually to my desk, near the back of that general area.  However, the hallways and department spaces are structured so as also to allow me to turn to the left, to a more closely-placed doorway in the hallway that leads to the finance department, from which I can traverse their warren to an interior pass-through into the depths of my department’s area.  This is the “back way” but it does bring me quickly quite near my desk.  It’s a handy little walk-around, this rear entry route.  But in one important way, it’s a little disconcerting: it smells wrong. 

Some office spaces smell of old food, or bleach, or cleanser.  Some bear the enervating reek of febreze or faux floral sprays that invariably bring to my mind a question of what’s being hid, and why.  Some smell of their inhabitants - sweat and anxiety and the compulsive overapplication of odoriferous handlotions and colognes.  I don’t much care for any of these; I like the air I breathe at work to be devoid of scent, especially when that air is recycled and stale and trapped by windows mortared permanently closed.  But when I take the back way to my area and open the heavy firedoor into the finance department, I am consistently confused by the smell I smell there.  I don’t actually dislike it, that’s not the problem.  However, as you might be able to guess, it has begun to weigh a bit on my mind. 

When I enter through the back door, why do I smell chocolate? 

Milk chocolate, rich, smooth, maybe European.  Not the lame chalky stuff that passes for chocolate for so many American palates.  It’s a genuinely delicious smell and it’s been there every day, all day long, for at least six months now.  There’s no tray of chocolate out on display, no hidden stash (believe me, I have reliable contacts there and they would know).  As far as I can tell, the smell has no source.  It’s just a scent, hanging heavy in the air, taunting me with intangible deliciousness.  It’s there first thing in the java-steeped a.m., and during the tuna-and-meatloaf-laden lunch hours, and in the gloaming of the night when I walk alone amid the deserted countertops and cabinets of that neighboring department.  Finance is Chocolate City, or at least, it smells that way right at their doorway - and I have no clue why. 

Though it’s hardly overwhelming, most people don’t even seem to notice it - yet I’m actually beginning to tire of it.  A whiff of candy is nice for a change, especially when that whiff presages an actual candy-eating experience, but as a permanent fixture it’s gone from amusing, to cloying, to a little nauseating. It’s getting so that I’ve almost grown to appreciate the small stink of cumin and laundryhamper that tends to linger at the door leading into the front entry of my work area.  That one does not make me hungry, but at least it delivers what it promises. 

oh that’s nice.  No you philistine, not the olfactory variations of my office building - I’m talking about the two beautifully roasted chickens, stuffed with lemon and rubbed with garlic and salt, that I just pulled out of the oven.  I’ll be carving them up and then boiling the carcasses, together with a third I’ve been saving, for chicken soup.  THAT is nice. 

Okay, I get the hint.  Catch ya later, candy raider.

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

Love Notes

Sigh.  This has already been a very long week, and it’s only Wednesday.  The work has been challenging and less than gratifying - lots of numbercrunching and answering for long-past mistakes.  My eyeballs hurt.  I have not had time to attend to many of the things I wanted to get to, mostly personal things, but those are the important ones, right?  The area around my office was infested with bad feelings today, too, as we’re a block off of the original route of the Olympic Torch, which ultimately bypassed us but not without leaving many angry activists in its wake who filled the air around me with ungratified protestations.  I feel like my trip to Tahoe was a very long time ago and lasted only for a couple of minutes.  I just want to watch some escapist dvds tonight but I don’t think I’ll have the energy once I get Z to sleep, which I am guessing will be around 9 pm after 45 minutes of quiet time in his room.  I’ve got to break that pattern.  I’ve got to break something, damn it. 

When I feel like this, the best thing I can think to do is remember nice things people have said to me in the recent past.  And - this is theatrically pitiable - the very best ones were written on candy.  Yes, I got a little box of candy hearts about two months ago and they said the most thoughtful things.  I don’t care that they were printed by filipino illiterates in a third-world sweatshop (mmm, sweaty candy) - they came to me, they were meant for me, and I appreciated them - so much that I writ them down so as never, ever to forget.  And now that I’m on the verge of believing the hype and writing myself off as yet another self-rightous blogger with a glucose chip on his lonely shoulder, I think I’ll revisit those tender messages and lucky you, I’m dragging your hapless asses along with me. 

The following list is ordered by frequency of mention, from fewest to most.  Where different candy-heart-borne messages occurred an equal number of times, such messages have been ordered alphabetically.  The number of candies bearing any given message appears in parentheses following the message, together with the color or colors of said candy or candies.  Where multiple candies bore the same message, the various colors of such similarly-messaged candies are stated in alphabetical order. These instructions will not be repeated.  Do not open your candy until your proctor tells you to do so.

Be Mine (1, peach)
Call Home (1, white)
Call Me (1, green)
Dear One (1, purple)
I Hope (1, white)
Kind (1, green)
Love (1, yellow)
Marry me (1, purple)
Miss You (1, peach)
My Girl (1, yellow)
My Man (1, purple)
My Pet (1, white)
One Kiss (1, pink)
Smile (1, purple)
First Kiss (2; white, yellow)
I (heart) You (2; pink, pink)
Go Fish (3; green, pink, white)
Purr/Fect (3; peach, yellow, white)
URA Tiger (3; green, purple, purple)
(Illegible) (8; green, green, green, purple, purple, purple, white, yellow)

Gives me a warm fuzzy just to think back on those good times we had together.  Anyway, it’s a lot better than remembering the experience of actually eating those bastards.  What horrible candy.  Goes to show, you can kiss up till you’re green, peach, pink, purple, white and yellow in the face, but if you’re made of chalk and recycled newsprint, you’re going to leave an unpleasant taste in somebody’s mouth.  Likely, mine.  I have to learn not to eat everything that people give me just because it’s a holiday.  That hollow chocolate farmworker I got for Cesar Chavez Day was a real mistake. 

Monday, April 07, 2008

Miscellany: Braindribbles and the Tahoe Pix

As I’m awash in brilliance and genius the likes of which would leave you jabbering and blinded, I opt this evening to share a few pieces of nonsense and some photos that exceed standard cuteness quotients by a significant margin.  Consider yourself warned. 

I typically keep my RSS feed open, which is to say, if I’m parked (as usual) in front of the computer all day long, I have a screen open that tells me when my favorite blogs have updated.  I even have myself on my bloglines roster so I can see if I, myself, have updated my own site during some sort of fugue state.  I’ve noticed, when clicking between my feeds, that one of the databits that’s shared is the number of people who subscribe to any given blog’s feed.  Some have dozens, some have hundreds, and my political blogs have subscribers into the thousands.  I have: seven.  And I’m really okay with that, because up till recently I had six.  Yes, a newbie has signed up!  Who it is, I cannot say, because most of my subscribers keep their data private.  Of the seven, I am one and I know of one other.  So if you’ve got me on bloglines, drop me a note and say hi, okay?  Because otherwise I’m going to drive myself up a goddamn tree wondering who the hell you are. 

While recently recycling a cubic jebus of cardboard and plastic from Z’s recent birthday party, I noticed that the box of Play-doh contained information that I think is worth sharing.  Turns out, Play-doh is not “clay” - it’s a “modeling compound.” And here I was thinking that’s what they called the apartment where they film the “off-hours” segments of ANTM. 

I am pleased to report that today we accepted delivery of an outsized box from Amazon, sequestered within which was an entire tramampoline.  Was it fully assembled?  Bwahahahaha I chortle my retort: it was not; rather, it was in a box the exact size of a not-tramampoline.  We’d noticed, when ordering this boon to health and childcare, that several of the people who’d reviewed it complained bitterly about how hard it was to assemble.  “Three able-bodied adults” was how the instructions read.  Well, they were not counting on CHUCKLES.  It took half an hour; I perspired through two shirts and most of a time zone; at one point I spoke in a sharp voice to my child, whose curiosity and excitement were entirely reasonable - but I put the damn thing together all by myself.  And then I bounced on it a few times, and it works very well indeed.  I am trampomaster.  Hear me bounce!  But not too loudly because there are no springs and we don’t want to wake the child.  For god’s sake man, think of the children. 

TAHOE PICTURES: because secretly you wish you were me

As you recall (just nod and act knowing) we went to Lake Tahoe recently.  (Note: the Tahoe Tourism Council’s recent campaign, “GoTahoe.com,” just reads to me as “got-a-hoe.com.” Some people, eh?) ANYWAY, here’s some visual stimuli to remind you of how much fun I had:

We toasted marshmallows in the fireplace and then slapped some s’mores together.  Did Zachary care for them?  Exhibit A: 

We were staying on the west shore of Lake Tahoe.  Therefore, when I arose, inexplicably, at goddamn DAWN every day, instead of seeing the backyards to which I’ve grown accustomed, I saw this:

One good thing about this vacation was that we were protected by evildoers.  Oh my mistake, from evildoers.  To wit:

and let’s not forget the caped crusader, looking coy as a bat caught out of his cave:

Saturday Z went skiing - I stayed at home and read my goddamn time-travel novel, which I’m sorry but I’m not apologizing, it’s about time I read something just because it was fun - and this really was.  However, later that day we stumbled out and found a sledding hill, with authentic abandoned sleds, for our low-friction amusement:

And here’s Z taking a solo run:

That is all.  I’ll post something even more pointless next, so don’t come back too quickly! 

Friday, April 04, 2008

Street Theater

I’m trusting you to believe me when I tell you this, but I don’t usually notice first off whether another dude is cute.  That’s just not where I usually go.  So I was actually a little surprised at myself to be thinking, first off, that this was a truly handsome young man.  The next thing I noticed was that he was talking on a cell phone, then his ballcap, perched awkwardly on his big anachronistic afro.  His other hand, at his waistband, held pants that drooped in back well past his knees, exposing comortable-looking black boxers.  His track jacket was slung deeply off both his shoulders and the team jersey underneath was ruched voluminously.  His pristine court shoes sported thick heavy laces that he had left eblaborately untied.  He walked slowly, his knees mired in his track suit, both hands immobilized in ungainly, opposite positions, openmouthed, wide-eyed, slackjawed, slump-shouldered, shuffling, vacant.  He looked a little like a young Will Smith, but the overall effect was pretty damn ludicrous. 

He turned, confusedly, exposing a designer’s name written in large white letters across his ass, and checked in with a young woman standing nearby.  She stood near a a sapling that was just coming into leaf, wearing well-maintained form-fitting jeans, black leather boots with heels, a designer T and a denim jacket.  She seemed a little younger than he, also attractive though clearly still in sight of her childhood.  She looked, regardless, like she meant business.  She gestured toward the young man with agonized frustration, hunching, reaching forward, both hands outstretched; then she stood quickly back up, hip cocked, arms crossed, lip curled in a disappointed sneer, and her eyes began to scan. 

Our eyes met, just for an instant.  I was just walking past, after all, ears plugged with wires, looking at stuff as it went on around me on my way to the bus stop, just another dude going home.  Her eyes registered my presence but glided right past, kept turning towards something nearby, something that whithered that sneer right off her cheeks and sucked all the starch from her spine:

A woman, white, normal, on her cell phone.  She’s sensibly dressed for having spent her day in an office downtown, light on the make-up and moderately long in the tooth.  Did she carry an attache’ case?  Was it leather, or cloth?  I don’t recall, it made no difference.  Everything about her read “mainstream moderate.” Her personal credo, I couldn’t guess, but she was the personification of the downtown everywoman, a starling noteworthy mostly for being isolated from its anonymizing flock. 

She was putting away her cell, watching the lanky, painstakingly disheveled young man, and laughing her ass off at him.  She made no pretense of subtlety; she stared and guffawed.  And truly, he was ridiculous; it took willpower for me not to join her.  But I had seen the hurt look in that young girlwoman’s eyes, and I’m really glad that this time, for a change, I restrained myself. 

Wednesday, April 02, 2008

THE TALE OF NOSY MCSCHNOZZERSTEIN

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?  The lake trip was delightful; cute-as-hell photos will be forthcoming.  The best part of all was the company of old friends, new friends, and my dear family.  The extended time with Zach (and his little friend Eli) in particular have inspired me.  A week or so ago Z asked me to tell him a bed-time story, rather than having me read him one.  I made up a story for him on the spot and I rather liked it, so I’ve fleshed it out a little and now I’m going to share it with you.  I’ll have some grown-up stuff further on down the line, but for now, I hope you enjoy:

THE TALE OF NOSY MCSCHNOZZERSTEIN

Nosy McShnozzerstein was a straightforward guy, broad at the bottom and bridged up high.  If you caught him from the side he had a certain flair, and he always kept up a rosy disposition - but deep inside, he felt empty.  He roamed about, with no special spot to call his own.  He just ran from place to place, never settling down, never making his stand.  He was a nose alone, and he was sad.

One day as he was running along he bumped into another nose coming the other way.  “Sniffle!,” they both shouted together in surprise.  That made them both laugh.  It had been a long time since Nosy had laughed, and it felt good.  “I’m Nosy McShnozzerstein,” he said to the other nose.

“Honker Snotski,” the other nose said back.  “Are you headed anywhere special?”

“I’m not,” Nosy admitted.  “I’m just a nose that roams alone.”

“That’s tough,” Honker replied. “It used to be the same for me.  But then I met some stand-up guys; we’ve been nosing around together ever since.  Wanna meet them?”

“Do I!,” Nosy answered with excitement, and he and Honker went off together to meet the others. 

Not far away, they found a dozen other noses blowing off steam.  Back and forth and hither and yon the random noses roamed, laughing and shouting and having a snuffload of fun.  “Hey, everybody,” Honker announced, “This here’s Nosy.  He’s gonna stop up with us for a while.”

“Alright, Nosy, welcome to the Tooter Brood!,” another nose in the group said welcomingly.  Everybody seemed friendly enough, if a little rambunctious.  Nosy got some hearty slaps on the back and even a couple of eskimo kisses, as the others all introduced themselves.  There was Honker, whom he’d met already, and all his friends: Septum Fleshbeak, Nostrils Proboscoid, Sniffer Dripsalot, Snout von Trunkula, Nares Sneezemeister, Booger Naselle, Snorkles Mucusflume, Sinus N. Gristle, Misty Blowhole, Harry Facecaves, Olfactory Sam, and Bob (the Nose). 

After meeting all the noses, Nosy thought to himself, “This has to be the place for me.  We noses have to stick together.  They’ll know what’s going on.  They’ll take care of me.  I will be a nose alone no more - a nose among noses, that’s the life for me!”

After the introductions were complete, Sam asked Nosy if he knew any jokes; the other noses crowded around to listen.  Nosy was delighted - he knew some doozies.  He cleared his passages and began: “My dog has no nose.” But before he could get to the punchline, Misty and Snout shouted out, “But he still smells awful!”

Nosy was sorry that the other noses already knew his joke, but he tried again: “My nose is running...” “Catch it quick!,” interrupted several of the others, laughing as hard as they could.

Nosy tried once more, with his very favorite joke: “How can you tell that an elephant...” A chorus of nosybodies piped up gleefully - “Because he’s carrying his trunk!” The Tooter Brood all rolled around, laughing till they could barely breathe.  But Nosy didn’t feel like joining them.  He hadn’t been able to finish a single joke.

By the next morning, Nosy had had a crawful.  The other noses knew all his jokes, but that was just the beginning.  They were picky, stuck-up, and full of themselves.  But most of all, there was all the running.  They ran and ran and never settled down, which was what Nosy wanted most of all.  It was enough to make him dizzy, and things got pretty slippery, too.  Nosy didn’t feel like being just one more nose in a whole bouquet of noses.  He had to admit it - this wasn’t the right place for him. He needed a spot to call his own, where he could be special just by being himself. 

The next morning, he thanked the Tooter Brood for their hospitality and sadly ventured off once more on his own.  Again, he was a nose alone.  He wandered far that day, over cheeky hills and under towering brows.  He saw marvels and mysteries he’d never imagined, and found an inner peace he’d always hoped was within him.  By the end of the day he found himself overlooking half of creation.  Even though he was still a nose alone, he felt okay.

“Hey, look who we found!” Nosy turned around at the sound of the voice.  Just behind him were two friendly eyes, one on either side ofthe ridge behind him.  “I’m Eyegor; that’s Eyeleen.  You look comfortable.”

“I’m Nosy McShnozzerstein.  And yes, I’m very comfortable.” From over a gentle rise to one side, an extravagant ear peeked with friendly curiosity.  “Hey!  Snuck past us, did ya?  Well, good for you!  Been here long?”

“That’s Eustace-Ian, and I’m Lobelia,” a giggling voice from another ear called out from the other side.  Both ears waved a little hello and then ducked back away.  “They’ve set themselves up on either side,” Eyegor said.  That way they can really keep tabs on things for us.”

From down the hill, a couple of lounging lips smiled upwards to say hello to their new neighbor.  “We’re Lucius and Chappy,” they said with a grin.  “Can we tell you something?  You look fabulous up there.  We’re not kidding - we’ve tried that spot, it’s been crying out for something forever, but we just looked silly up there.  But you - you look like you were born to be right in the middle of things here.  Are we right, features?” And the eyes and ears cheered in agreement. 

Nosy felt himself swelling up - but not with allergies.  He realized that he had stopped running.  He’d found hinmself a spot of his own, smack dab in the middle of six new friends.  Okay, so none of them looked anything like him.  Instead, they looked like themselves - just who they were supposed to be.  Each one was special, and he, Nosy McShnozzerstein, was special when he was with them.  With him there, they felt complete.  Nosy was truly no longer a nose alone.  He was, at last, a nose at home.