Monday, April 30, 2007
The End of An Era
I've been working for a restaurant, a single, 75-seat occupancy restaurant, for two years, two months, now. It's been a long-time inside a small-space with a lot of faces coming in, in, again and again, and a few that went out.
I said goodbye to two coworkers earlier. One, Whitney, had already left us four months ago and I was saying goodbye again after having not seen or spoken to her since Christmas. Poof! Gone. I also bid farewell to my friend, Eliza, who just recently turned in her badge, said I'm outta here, going to Texas to see them stars (not at all like that, of course.)
I felt two months, two years slide by as they walked out the door. I have seen others leave before these, but I was content then where I was, and I will miss these two individuals like none that have walked before.
There are many more important goodbyes to be made when it is my turn to exit (so soon). These people that you play home with, call Tio and Abuelo, call sister and girlfrien', compadre and culo, become as family...
...and the thing is, see, that we're all really terribly bored with each other sometimes...
...Whitney's birthday was Friday. She'd been in town a couple days. The friday objective was to get wasted...everyone succeeded in their goal. Whitney and I were the last wasters. She already claims not to remember much of the conversation. I am close to finishing a poem to remind her. It was so weird. After so much time, we spoke of things we had never spoken of before. We were mean and nice and it was so utterly frank. We held hands on our final walk through sunrise. We held each other's backs against the strangers we both attracted...it is (was) our job to invite company. We clipped roses and placed them in vases and deflected parasites and peddlers with love from a distance.
Dear Catastrophe Waitress by Belle & Sebastian
Dear Catastrophe Waitress
Dear Catastrophe Waitress
I'm sorry if you seem to have the weight of the world over you
I cherish your smile
There's a word of peace on your lips
Say it and with tenderness I'll cherish you, I'll cherish you
Dear Catstrophe Girlfriend
Dear Catstrophe Girlfriend
I'm sorry if he hit you with a full can of coke it's no joke
your face is bleeding
you'll soon be leaving this town to the clowns
who worhsip no one but themselves, no one but themselves
I hate feeling this way, O,
I hate feeling this way, O,
I know that you hate it too, O,
now that your coffee's going cold, O,
all of the customers look so old, O,
honey, if I could be so bold
Dear Catastrophe Waitress
Dear Catastrophe Waitress
I'm sorry if the kids hold you in cold disregard
I know it's hard
Stick to what you know you'll blow them all to the wall
when they realize what you've been working for, what you've been working for, what you've been working for
Eliza is going to work on her Aunt and Uncle's ranch outside of Dallas for the summer. After her sister marries in August, she will be applying for the Peace Corps to be deployed by winter. Whitney is applying to commence Med School this autumn. I'm so happy for them!...even though my happiness is tempered by the sadness of their parting. O, when will we share Super Nachos again? O when, O when again, will I console a girl as beautiful and bold because some frightened little boy had hidden his ugliness and fear in a guise of control?
The two of them were a tag-team. Blondy and the Brunette, with their blocky bangs and identical stature (towering over children at 5'3'') they could've been sisters from another mister. Whitney was frequently playing with her hair in the mirror (we were really terribly bored with each other somtimes) and Eliza was laughing hysterically to all of Whintey's rants and raves (we had some of the most fun of our lives together) and when Whitney left, something wasn't right, like Eliza had lost her shadow in the broad sunlight.
And now Whitney has returned, to retrieve Eliza, and they are both bound for the next chapter of their lives, turning over the page on the Santa Fe Grill. I am going to miss being really terribly bored with them so much. I am going to miss eating and drinking together, holding hands at the end of long-ass nights, and holding each other's backs against the strangers we were (are) paid to attract.
from Sonnets to Orpheus by Rainer Maria Rilke
Every happy space through which they walk marveling
is child or grandchild of Separation. And the transformed Daphne,
feeling so laurel-like, wants you to change into wind.
Don't worry, girlfrien', darling, my little beautiful sister. I will turn into wind any day now and breeze across your face and you will bend your heavy branches to embrace my formless air. I will never ever forget two years, two months, the two of you.
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I said goodbye to two coworkers earlier. One, Whitney, had already left us four months ago and I was saying goodbye again after having not seen or spoken to her since Christmas. Poof! Gone. I also bid farewell to my friend, Eliza, who just recently turned in her badge, said I'm outta here, going to Texas to see them stars (not at all like that, of course.)
I felt two months, two years slide by as they walked out the door. I have seen others leave before these, but I was content then where I was, and I will miss these two individuals like none that have walked before.
There are many more important goodbyes to be made when it is my turn to exit (so soon). These people that you play home with, call Tio and Abuelo, call sister and girlfrien', compadre and culo, become as family...
...and the thing is, see, that we're all really terribly bored with each other sometimes...
...Whitney's birthday was Friday. She'd been in town a couple days. The friday objective was to get wasted...everyone succeeded in their goal. Whitney and I were the last wasters. She already claims not to remember much of the conversation. I am close to finishing a poem to remind her. It was so weird. After so much time, we spoke of things we had never spoken of before. We were mean and nice and it was so utterly frank. We held hands on our final walk through sunrise. We held each other's backs against the strangers we both attracted...it is (was) our job to invite company. We clipped roses and placed them in vases and deflected parasites and peddlers with love from a distance.
Dear Catastrophe Waitress by Belle & Sebastian
Dear Catastrophe Waitress
Dear Catastrophe Waitress
I'm sorry if you seem to have the weight of the world over you
I cherish your smile
There's a word of peace on your lips
Say it and with tenderness I'll cherish you, I'll cherish you
Dear Catstrophe Girlfriend
Dear Catstrophe Girlfriend
I'm sorry if he hit you with a full can of coke it's no joke
your face is bleeding
you'll soon be leaving this town to the clowns
who worhsip no one but themselves, no one but themselves
I hate feeling this way, O,
I hate feeling this way, O,
I know that you hate it too, O,
now that your coffee's going cold, O,
all of the customers look so old, O,
honey, if I could be so bold
Dear Catastrophe Waitress
Dear Catastrophe Waitress
I'm sorry if the kids hold you in cold disregard
I know it's hard
Stick to what you know you'll blow them all to the wall
when they realize what you've been working for, what you've been working for, what you've been working for
Eliza is going to work on her Aunt and Uncle's ranch outside of Dallas for the summer. After her sister marries in August, she will be applying for the Peace Corps to be deployed by winter. Whitney is applying to commence Med School this autumn. I'm so happy for them!...even though my happiness is tempered by the sadness of their parting. O, when will we share Super Nachos again? O when, O when again, will I console a girl as beautiful and bold because some frightened little boy had hidden his ugliness and fear in a guise of control?
The two of them were a tag-team. Blondy and the Brunette, with their blocky bangs and identical stature (towering over children at 5'3'') they could've been sisters from another mister. Whitney was frequently playing with her hair in the mirror (we were really terribly bored with each other somtimes) and Eliza was laughing hysterically to all of Whintey's rants and raves (we had some of the most fun of our lives together) and when Whitney left, something wasn't right, like Eliza had lost her shadow in the broad sunlight.
And now Whitney has returned, to retrieve Eliza, and they are both bound for the next chapter of their lives, turning over the page on the Santa Fe Grill. I am going to miss being really terribly bored with them so much. I am going to miss eating and drinking together, holding hands at the end of long-ass nights, and holding each other's backs against the strangers we were (are) paid to attract.
from Sonnets to Orpheus by Rainer Maria Rilke
Every happy space through which they walk marveling
is child or grandchild of Separation. And the transformed Daphne,
feeling so laurel-like, wants you to change into wind.
Don't worry, girlfrien', darling, my little beautiful sister. I will turn into wind any day now and breeze across your face and you will bend your heavy branches to embrace my formless air. I will never ever forget two years, two months, the two of you.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Morning Glories
These tiny little sprouts will become long, intertwining vines in a few months, crawling up the iron trellis that was once window bars on our house. And every morning, June through October, their flowers open in shades of pink, blue, and white to greet the dawn.
I had seeded Moonflowers beside these a few weeks ago, but none have yet shown signs of germinating. These, the glories counterparts, would shimmer white flowers with a fresh, sweet smell in the pitch of night. We're hoping to still get some poking up in the next few days.
I also just learned a new technique for working lettuce, spinach and other leafy greens that will keep us in salads plentiful all summer.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Patio Garden Part Deux
So, this is what approximately 1/5 of our patio garden looks like right now. It is the rightmost raised bed, located on the right rear corner of the patio; it is constructed of brick, pulled up cement tile, and dirt, dirt, dirt - and now, flowers! Annuals mostly: marigolds, snapdragons, impatients, ruby and orange glow . . . .we've had a strange mix of sun and cloud, cool and heat, wet and dry! Already we've got some morning glory sprouts peaking up - 'sewn' less than a week ago! So we'll keep an eye on those . . . .
Also to keep an eye on: we have plans for a garden fountain! The dead stumps that have so decorously stood guard over our patio have been given purpose, meaning, an architecturally pleasing task! They are to house a small pool that will then trickle, no, pour, overflow, joyously babble from bamboo spout to spout, collecting in a smallish lovely container, only to be steadfastly pumped back up to the top of the stoic stump! Observe as our progress is made . . . . .
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Reading Raymond Carver
Just had a new book gifted to me by Faith - the gifting itself was memorable:
"Here, but you have to give it back . . no, no keep it, keep it forever and always."
So it goes with books that we love and feel an urgent need to share.
The book is "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love" by Raymond Carver. It's a collection of stories, most of them only 3-5 pages long - I like this emphasis on the short, short story! I love snippets - love reading them and love writing them, so this indirect encouragement is nice.
The stories in "What We Talk About" have a tremulous quality of saran wrap stretched over a gaping maw - a sparcity that shimmers over the surface of the text, allowing for only a hesitation, a mere breath of peace before the reader vaults down into a well of solitude, pain, and yearning. Somehow, this sketching of a damaged society is fiercely beautiful; even while admitting defeat, the characters seem to be striking out against their loneliness.
As this post is feeling more and more like a review, at this point I should probably select one or two or several of the stories out of the whole bunch for further recommendation or scrutiny or censure, but I dont' want to. It's the kind of book that can (and maybe should) be opened at random - the stories short enough that you are very likely to have landed on an opening paragraph - and devoured, piecemeal , in that way. My first inclination with a book is usally to read from front cover to back, but I think the secret of this book may lie within the rereading of the snippets, hundreds of times over. I feel as though I want to study each story's structure, pull apart its sentances, discover the mystery of its bare (like a brilliant spot light is bare) makings - lean, sculpted, exact, exacting.
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"Here, but you have to give it back . . no, no keep it, keep it forever and always."
So it goes with books that we love and feel an urgent need to share.
The book is "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love" by Raymond Carver. It's a collection of stories, most of them only 3-5 pages long - I like this emphasis on the short, short story! I love snippets - love reading them and love writing them, so this indirect encouragement is nice.
The stories in "What We Talk About" have a tremulous quality of saran wrap stretched over a gaping maw - a sparcity that shimmers over the surface of the text, allowing for only a hesitation, a mere breath of peace before the reader vaults down into a well of solitude, pain, and yearning. Somehow, this sketching of a damaged society is fiercely beautiful; even while admitting defeat, the characters seem to be striking out against their loneliness.
As this post is feeling more and more like a review, at this point I should probably select one or two or several of the stories out of the whole bunch for further recommendation or scrutiny or censure, but I dont' want to. It's the kind of book that can (and maybe should) be opened at random - the stories short enough that you are very likely to have landed on an opening paragraph - and devoured, piecemeal , in that way. My first inclination with a book is usally to read from front cover to back, but I think the secret of this book may lie within the rereading of the snippets, hundreds of times over. I feel as though I want to study each story's structure, pull apart its sentances, discover the mystery of its bare (like a brilliant spot light is bare) makings - lean, sculpted, exact, exacting.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
All The Raindrops
The flow of water, after a storm, or after the thaw, is an awe-inspiring wonder of these tiny moist hands of nature that are constantly at work cleaning, carving, nourishing, exchanging...
After last week's earlier minor storm (compared to the weekend's noreaster), I was walking home from the YMCA through the park along the familiar 9th Street Path, past the bandshell and the playground, descending into the vast meadow, past the dog pond and the lake's srping, over hill and down again into the Nethermead, ever down down down to the Boathouse and the Lullwater, past Camperdown Elm, under the Cleft Ridge Span, up the cobblestones to the Oriental Pavilion, alongside the Council of Busts, down the long stone steps, across the Inner Drive, under the wisteria-draped Pergola, across Ocean, down Parkside, up the Court, and until I was on the inside of the great orange doorway of our apartment, everywhere the water was flowing and babbling, clear, mustard, mud-brown, flowing, in tiny rivulets that reflected the tiniest bumps and cracks in the asphalt, in roaring gutters that filtered debris and sewers that gulped and gulped, in ponds that were murky and bloated, waterfalls fast and furious, trees and structures that were steadily dripdripdripping from their crowns...
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After last week's earlier minor storm (compared to the weekend's noreaster), I was walking home from the YMCA through the park along the familiar 9th Street Path, past the bandshell and the playground, descending into the vast meadow, past the dog pond and the lake's srping, over hill and down again into the Nethermead, ever down down down to the Boathouse and the Lullwater, past Camperdown Elm, under the Cleft Ridge Span, up the cobblestones to the Oriental Pavilion, alongside the Council of Busts, down the long stone steps, across the Inner Drive, under the wisteria-draped Pergola, across Ocean, down Parkside, up the Court, and until I was on the inside of the great orange doorway of our apartment, everywhere the water was flowing and babbling, clear, mustard, mud-brown, flowing, in tiny rivulets that reflected the tiniest bumps and cracks in the asphalt, in roaring gutters that filtered debris and sewers that gulped and gulped, in ponds that were murky and bloated, waterfalls fast and furious, trees and structures that were steadily dripdripdripping from their crowns...
nature in the city
Was reading 12 Parkside Ct's bathroom notebook (being, at the time, otherwise engaged) this morning and re-read Johnny's brief writings on the hawks roaming Prospect Park.
(by the by, anyone fortunate enough to visit our bathroom should definitely pick up the notebook and lay down a few lines of their own - don't worry, Jess, John, and I are now all on a rotating cleaning schedule that ensures our bathroom gets scrubbed pinkly raw on a regular basis!)
something he wrote about feeling awe for nature that survives in a city . . . .
Anywhere I've lived, I've never taken enough advantage of the broad outdoors - however, I think living in Brooklyn has indeed, ironically, instilled in me a new appreciation for any scrap of tree, sky, sparrow, hawk I can get. Living next to the park has been a saving grace. I was too big of a wuss to get out in it much during these crazy cold months, but now that there's a least a hinting of spring around the corner (i actually haven't seen any weather reports recently - are we in for more snow or suN?), I hope, I plan, I WILL be in Prospect Park AND the Botanical Gardens on a regular basis.
Seeing dirty little sparrows on subway platforms always engages me, lifts my thoughts from the darker depths of commute, work, commute. These little birds dont' care that their butts should be white and not sooty grey - they pick and eat and live and chirp and fly amongst the refuse of the train tracks, making nests between the station overhangs and signs for Manhattan bound trains. They hop and explore and sing like there's something they know that I don't . . .If these little guys can be happy, productive, inspiring in their day to day livings in The Big City, why can't I? why oh why can't I?? sorry, drifted off into judy garland land there . . .
Spring has never been my favorite season (I associate these coming months with the agony of barely controllable allergies), but I think that may be changing . . . .the recent warm, wet days (albeit, they've been interspersed with cold days, snow even?) have awakened a new feeling of possibility in me, an uncurling, uncrusting of my hibernating self. It seems rain has played a special role in melting away the shell that's been protecting me; this shell, useful for things like getting a job, getting used to being a part of the work day commute, (battling the worst in people that seems to rear up in situations involving public transportation) I think has been dulling a part of me, of the things I like, like to do, like to see -- Caitlin has been a little stifled by this slightly smaller, coffee-driven, go-through-the-motions, make-it-through-the-work-day Caitie. This is coming out slightly wrong - It's not as bad as it sounds, lots of every day is good, great even - and I haven't even gotten to the part about the rain! Writing again is making me get side-tracked . . . .
so the rain . . .we had had a lot of snow, perhaps it was january or february, and the snow was old, crusted and piled up everywhere, clinging to surfaces more than blanketing them. Then, one morning, the rains came. It's amazing, now that I think of it, I don't even know if there WAS rain - I DO know that it was a warm day, warm enough to melt all that old snow. I was waiting at the Parkside Ave station for the Manhattan-bound Q train, and all the snow was melting, furiously.
Remember that scene from Hero where two of the main characters fight it out in the hall filled with fountains, stones, and Go players (huge stone Go boards! shuffleboard-like as the opposing stones are pushed back and forth with long poles!)?? Water is everywhere, dripping, dripping, making a simple, impossible music. It was like that, Parkside Ave transformed into an indescribable expression of Nature. From each overhang, water fell, steadily, unendingly, not in sheets, but individual strong drip drip drips, the sounds of it echoing in the tunnels, up at the faces of the few passengers standing there with me. I was transfixed. I listened and watched, for as long as I could, feeling clean and brightly fresh, enjoying the cold that was not goose-bump producing, but one that the folds of coat could easily block, that tightened my cheeks and cleared my vision, cold that my turned-up collar welcomed with tiny crystal joy.
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(by the by, anyone fortunate enough to visit our bathroom should definitely pick up the notebook and lay down a few lines of their own - don't worry, Jess, John, and I are now all on a rotating cleaning schedule that ensures our bathroom gets scrubbed pinkly raw on a regular basis!)
something he wrote about feeling awe for nature that survives in a city . . . .
Anywhere I've lived, I've never taken enough advantage of the broad outdoors - however, I think living in Brooklyn has indeed, ironically, instilled in me a new appreciation for any scrap of tree, sky, sparrow, hawk I can get. Living next to the park has been a saving grace. I was too big of a wuss to get out in it much during these crazy cold months, but now that there's a least a hinting of spring around the corner (i actually haven't seen any weather reports recently - are we in for more snow or suN?), I hope, I plan, I WILL be in Prospect Park AND the Botanical Gardens on a regular basis.
Seeing dirty little sparrows on subway platforms always engages me, lifts my thoughts from the darker depths of commute, work, commute. These little birds dont' care that their butts should be white and not sooty grey - they pick and eat and live and chirp and fly amongst the refuse of the train tracks, making nests between the station overhangs and signs for Manhattan bound trains. They hop and explore and sing like there's something they know that I don't . . .If these little guys can be happy, productive, inspiring in their day to day livings in The Big City, why can't I? why oh why can't I?? sorry, drifted off into judy garland land there . . .
Spring has never been my favorite season (I associate these coming months with the agony of barely controllable allergies), but I think that may be changing . . . .the recent warm, wet days (albeit, they've been interspersed with cold days, snow even?) have awakened a new feeling of possibility in me, an uncurling, uncrusting of my hibernating self. It seems rain has played a special role in melting away the shell that's been protecting me; this shell, useful for things like getting a job, getting used to being a part of the work day commute, (battling the worst in people that seems to rear up in situations involving public transportation) I think has been dulling a part of me, of the things I like, like to do, like to see -- Caitlin has been a little stifled by this slightly smaller, coffee-driven, go-through-the-motions, make-it-through-the-work-day Caitie. This is coming out slightly wrong - It's not as bad as it sounds, lots of every day is good, great even - and I haven't even gotten to the part about the rain! Writing again is making me get side-tracked . . . .
so the rain . . .we had had a lot of snow, perhaps it was january or february, and the snow was old, crusted and piled up everywhere, clinging to surfaces more than blanketing them. Then, one morning, the rains came. It's amazing, now that I think of it, I don't even know if there WAS rain - I DO know that it was a warm day, warm enough to melt all that old snow. I was waiting at the Parkside Ave station for the Manhattan-bound Q train, and all the snow was melting, furiously.
Remember that scene from Hero where two of the main characters fight it out in the hall filled with fountains, stones, and Go players (huge stone Go boards! shuffleboard-like as the opposing stones are pushed back and forth with long poles!)?? Water is everywhere, dripping, dripping, making a simple, impossible music. It was like that, Parkside Ave transformed into an indescribable expression of Nature. From each overhang, water fell, steadily, unendingly, not in sheets, but individual strong drip drip drips, the sounds of it echoing in the tunnels, up at the faces of the few passengers standing there with me. I was transfixed. I listened and watched, for as long as I could, feeling clean and brightly fresh, enjoying the cold that was not goose-bump producing, but one that the folds of coat could easily block, that tightened my cheeks and cleared my vision, cold that my turned-up collar welcomed with tiny crystal joy.
Ryan Cookes It Up With "The Adventures of Shroom Man"
jimmymaker, also known as Ryan Cooke in some circles, has done it again. he's brought film-making to the outer limits of man's wandering, the tragic circumstances that lead to his madness or ruin, and painted a beautiful world in its passing.
for those of you who have never seen Jimmy Maker (in which the underground sci-fi classic "The Useless Robot" is featured) or The Grand Pianist, or any of the future movies yet to be made, let me know, I can get you copies (but not of the future ones, of course.)
the talented and nutty (c'm here, squrul!) writer/director/editor really outdid himself this time by taking a day off work to become a team-ster combination writer/director/editor/cameraman/actor all-by himself...
alone in the woods...
where it is never certain...
you will find your way home.
As in all good pieces of cinema, this one's sparse but spectacular soundtrack is perfectly placed.
where will you go when this day is over
a gambler's purse
lays on the road
straight to your door
snakes have gone crazy tonight
winding their way out of sight
a laugh, a joke, a sentiment wasted
seasons of strangers
they come and go
doldrums are pounding
cheapskates are clowning this town
who could disown themselves now
engineer, slow down this old train
cinders and chaff
laugh at the moon
nightbirds will cackle
rotting like apples on trees
sending their dead melodies
to me
Beck- Dead Melodies
Watch The Adventures of Shroom Man on YouTube!
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for those of you who have never seen Jimmy Maker (in which the underground sci-fi classic "The Useless Robot" is featured) or The Grand Pianist, or any of the future movies yet to be made, let me know, I can get you copies (but not of the future ones, of course.)
the talented and nutty (c'm here, squrul!) writer/director/editor really outdid himself this time by taking a day off work to become a team-ster combination writer/director/editor/cameraman/actor all-by himself...
alone in the woods...
where it is never certain...
you will find your way home.
As in all good pieces of cinema, this one's sparse but spectacular soundtrack is perfectly placed.
where will you go when this day is over
a gambler's purse
lays on the road
straight to your door
snakes have gone crazy tonight
winding their way out of sight
a laugh, a joke, a sentiment wasted
seasons of strangers
they come and go
doldrums are pounding
cheapskates are clowning this town
who could disown themselves now
engineer, slow down this old train
cinders and chaff
laugh at the moon
nightbirds will cackle
rotting like apples on trees
sending their dead melodies
to me
Beck- Dead Melodies
Watch The Adventures of Shroom Man on YouTube!
Sunday, April 15, 2007
The Sexiness of a Good Shampoo . . .
. . that is, shampoo the verb - not shampoo the noun - as in "that was a great shampooing" and "she shampooed the beejeezus outta me." There is just something somewhat sinfully luxurious about getting your hair cleaned, rinsed, and cut by a professional. The total submission into another's hands, the surprising comfort of a molded sink basin against your neck, those fingers that scratch while the suds flow! Ok, ok, so it is sexy, but most of all, it's complete relaxation - to a degree that still surprises me when I go to a "salon" every other year or so (laziness+finance=multiple years between trims). Once you've properly reclined in your seat, a towel wrapped around your shoulders, head back and exposed throat feelings slightly vulnerable, you hear the first hiss of high-pressure water jets against the sink. Your shampooer tests the water, waiting for the temperature to be just right (hot, but not scalding), and then the barely felt pull of the rushing water as it soaks your locks, your roots, tickles your forehead and back of the neck. All strands are soaked, none are missed - she gets at the back by cradling and lifting the back of your head in one sweeping motion, dashing the water against it, a curtain of water cushioning the small of your skull. (This sweeping, lifting motion is expertly repeated throughout the soak, shampoo, shampoo, rinse, conditioner, rinse order of events.) Once your hair is sufficiently wet (this delightful process takes longer, obviously, for a long-haired lady than, for example, jesse), the hiss of the water fades as the pressure is decreased to silence. The absense of roaring water is replaced by that first sound of shampoo being pumped into a cupped hand. I wait, breathe held, for that first smell of salon quality shampoo - the smell of clean, soft hair. Strong fingers squeeze the shampoo into your hair, massaging, scratching, gathering the wild flocks of natty, straw-split hairs into a sudsing, slippery warm bundle. The rinse is pleasant, but brief, as a second round of shampoo and massage are soon to follow. The second rinsing is longer, more thorough, a cleansing of magnanimous proportions as grease and dustbunnies and subway slime and smog are washed away, down the drain. The water, again, hissed down to a gentle pause. The conditioner is decanted, and again you wait for that first, slightly different, sniff. This is the stuff that will coat your locks, hugging them in a fresh and soothing big bear hug, wrapping delightful pro-vitamins and silky soft softeners around you. This conditioner is massaged into your head in a slightly different way - not the energetic, soap sud producing vigor of the shampoo cycle, but a rich, slower, more mindful infusing of the botanicals into your freshly scrubbed scalp. The next and final rinsing is more subdued, a winding down of the cleansing process, a gentle return to silence and stillness. The experience has been both emotionally exhausting and invigorating. You are torn between wanting to fling your fresh de-stinkified hair into the wind and taking a long nap. A happy compromise is reached, as you spend the next good chunk of time decompressing in the cutters/trimmers/stylists chair . . . . .
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Saturday, April 07, 2007
Go Mets!
Now, I've traditionally been a Yankee fan, having grown up during the classic years of Mattingly, Winfield, and Reggie Jackson. I remember cheering for Mattingly's home run streak in the summer of '87 with the boys playing poker in the background and Mom sitting next to me munching on wings and dip.
My interest in baseball has long since waned, but how can I not be stunned at the beginning the Mets have had this year? In 4 games they have gone 4-0 and outscored their opponents 31 to 3! It is the second best offensive beginning in the last century! They destroyed the defending World Champs St. Louis Cards and kept them in three games to just 2 runs. Now, Damian, you still planning on getting those tickets throughout the summer right? Cause I'll sure be interested in seeing some exciting action if this is how our orange and blues is going to play this year.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Falafel Tomorrow!
I've always been a little shy of the deep fryer. That much oil sitting on the stove and tossing things in it to cook doesn't seem like the healthiest of cooking techniques. However, I've always been a huge fan of the middle eastern food falafel. Almost any food item from that area of the world piques my culinary and cultural interests -- hummus, tabouli, stuffed grape leaves, turkish coffee, hookahs.
It only seems right that my first attempt at deep frying should come this Easter weekend, honoring the food stuffs of that land from where the religious holidays of this week are rooted. A big beautiful spread of falafel, pita, yogurt sauce, tomatoes, hot sauce, and tahini to make messy delicious sandwiches is just what this weekend is all about. And Jesus rising from the dead, of course.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Wii-niors
Seniors are getting together at bars and having Wowling leagues. Hopefully they're in better shape than Damian and don't throw their shoulders out.
