Brooklyn, New York on January 2, 2021

Sun shines through windswept clouds, 

my favorite kind of fireworks.

The silent pulses of light 

no one notices to look up or gasp at.

These don't cause animals fear or pain.

These don't spew sulfur into the air.

These don't blow off the limbs of

human idiots or night birds. 

These just gently warm, like a smile from heaven

and warn that rain may be coming.

 

A summer in the park, long ago

Trader Joe's Ecdemiomania

The last word in the title means wandering (Mania).

I wanted to put megalomania, since there seems to be a profusion of self-important shoppers at Trader Joe's. Perhaps not as many as at Whole Foods, but Whole Foods is more expensive so it just catches the oblivious megalomaniacs without budgetary constraints. Or those (not necessarily megalomaniacs) that just want a tasty muffin. Whole Foods does have better baked goods.

Each time I venture into Trader Joe's it is an exercise of patience. There is only one in New York and it is in the East Village and caters to the NYU student, the die hard artists that have been in the area since the '70's, the senior citizen --- why am I wasting my time stereotyping? You name it any type goes there. The only set requirement is you have to be a little crazy to deal with the craziness. Most times the line is a 20 minute wait that spans a 3/4 perimeter of the store. There are 2 lines: an express for 12 items or less (and they will send you to the back of the other line if you go over -- not that I have seen this happen or that it has happened to me. I have heard the warnings.); and the 'Anything Goes' line. An experienced shopper will get what they can from the center of the store than get on line and shop along the edge while inching toward the cash registers. Both Lines used to parallel the whole way, but yesterday they rerouted the 12 item or less line to the next aisle westward, that which contains organic soaps and toiletries. paper goods, pet food, and syrup and canned goods. I was hoping to snatch some Greek strained 2% yogurt and a box of Trader Joe's Shredded Wheat Cereal, which wouldn't be a problem if the line snaked along its usual path. I debated whether to leave my basket for the 15-20 seconds my go and grab would take. I have seen this happen all the time. And it is common courtesy to let this go, even to take care and push the person in front's basket or cart in their absence. I hemmed and hawed. And then I decided to go. I thought I'd believe in the consideration and understanding of my fellow man. I returned with the cereal and yogurt in the aforementioned time frame only to see that a skinny, pale, dark haired coed with a pixie cut and an Indian man and his white wife in Muslim garb pushing a baby carriage had over stepped my basket. A wonderfully lively black woman in her 50's calmed me with her condemnation over the rudeness displayed. She was outraged on my behalf. I calmly said that it was okay, which it wasn't, that things that go around will come around and I have to feel sorry for their selfish sensibilities. I am not sure if I said that last part. I wish I did. My anger curveted my tongue and I knew I would only be able to safely speak in platitudes. I also wished I would have thanked the lady, my protector, more. I praised her good sense and kindness. As well as hinted at my own. In our discourse I would check to see if any of it was overheard by the rude ones. It didn't seem so. But if I was in their shoes, I would act like I wasn't hearing to avoid confrontation or the obligation of apology.

I know I left the store before the mixed race couple and child. I am not sure about the downtown Laura Flynn Boyle type. I don't care. I suppose it was good to find another considerate soul. But it is upsetting that there were at least three that weren't, and who knows how many behind Milady would have stepped over me? But there is also the unknown of how many chivalrous were behind. It is hard to have the benefit of doubt when the hard numbers show differently. But it was a small random sampling that yielded such numbers and those samplings have a lower accuracy.

The thing that bothers me the most is how does one change bad behavior in another? Even calling it as it is puts the offender on the defensive and so repels any advice or knowledge to mend his ways as arrows in an attack. Then there is the anger that the one affronted feels, and this anger wants blood and aggression. The beast inside must be tamed first and then usually there is no energy or time to tame that in the others.

Horizontal Blue

The literal translation of the Navajo word for sky. Horizontal blue. I look at my last post and wonder at my lapse in spell check. Alas, I am not perfect. I am my own worse critic. And I shall let it lay. There is no hot water in my apartment today. It happens. I am trying to be zen about it. So, the dishes can wait. List for tomorrows trek to the Farmer's Market: Eggs, butter, milk, maybe chicken. I feel the need for more coffee. I am sluggish in getting into gear and my getup for work. I want a slothful weekend. But no. I don't. That is fear talking. I have things to do. Important things. And I will do them, after I get the eggs, butter and milk.

3 Witches and the Bald Brute

Walking home from the Williamsburg Saturday Farmer's Market, through the park, I am almost out, and a Grey Great Dane lumbers toward a Collie Shepherd mix, the owner of the latter a woman in her 50's screams at the bald/sunglassed/wannabecool dude to get his dog on a leash--he is the owner of the former. He cooly ignores her and She gets hotter & louder, screaming at his dog 'Elsie' (she knew her name since Elsie had taken a bite out of her collie's ear before -- she has the Vet bill), Elsie is play pouncing on the other dog, but by virtue/vice of her size Elsie could do damage. Elsie lumbers off. Another woman with a smaller dog screams at Bald Man to put his dog on a leash. And first Lady, who was walking away, while speaking the same leash sentiment, and other venting, decides to turn around and go after this guy. The Bald Man yells, "Shut the F__k up!", he is also pushing a stroller occupied by a two year old, curly haired, girl with a mix of emotions passing across her face. I stand quietly at the apex of the this triangle of women, waiting to throw down my fresh veggies, eggs & butter, pears and peaches if the ladies need back up. Then a voice on a bull horn tells the man to Leash his dog. And then he does. I continue on my trek home thinking the leash is temporary, he will unleash, he will teach his daughter disrespect, he will not be the pack leader of his dog, and in this wimpy way he abuses both, as well as his fellow man.

I love to see dogs run free. In a yard, in a field, in the woods, if they have a good custodian. I hate that term master. My Dad and his family have bred dogs, hunting dogs, and trained them. I helped train, with a bunch of bound feathers on a fishing reel. I love animals, and I respect them, I think they have ways of interspecies/interkingdom communication human beings had once but forgot when we invented words. I don't blame an animal when they misbehave. I blame its human. Likewise, I don't blame a child, I blame the parent -- I am not talking about crying and whining children I know that a strong parent has to withstand that and stifle the urge to whack and are the stronger for withstanding a tantrum in public.

What a wonderful world it would be if everyone taught their children and dogs well.

Kat and Kaboodle

I am waiting for my cat to pee. The Vet needs a sample. She thinks I am being horrible in not letting her use her usual litter box. No. I had to fill the 'traveling' one with No Sorb which looks like little black plastic pellets, so they can sate the something to dig instinct/behavior cats have.

She is sweet 2 year old black tiger. She likes to reach out her paws to touch my face or grab my hand. She can be held for a very long time, unusual for a cat. She is a speaker. She fetches. She is now talking to her reflection in the door mirror. She knows it is just a reflection. She is trying to get to me.

I have to change my cats' diet. I had not realized feeding them dry food was inhumane. Cats and Carbs na-uh! Thank goodness I don't buy store bought Friskies and etc, or they would go through sugar withdrawal. I got eight pages of informative scary stuff. You don't want to know what the meat by-products are . . . I am not sure I am glad I know. Soylent Green. But I ain't going near it and neither are any animals of mine, if I can help it.

This Vet, and I have had many, has an abrupt manner. Not warm but not off-putting, she is honest with her thoughts and I respect that. I am that way. It isn't the popular way. Why is that? Why do people always prefer a fake smile to reality? I don't.

Two Tall Beams of Light

I saw them last night. Not tonight. Is it too soon? This afternoon, the Pres. and First Lady placed their two respectful wreaths of red, white, and purple carnations in the two temporary reflecting pools (symbolizing the Two Towers -- hello unintentional Tolkein reference). The two news anchors kept saying the same things over and over. "Gov. Pataki, Michael Bloomberg, the President and First Lady and Rudy Guilliani, ditto, ditto, reflecting pool, ditto, ditto, 911, 911, 911, 911, the President and First lady look somber, ditto, you can see they are moved, ditto, very saddened, ditto, Tomorrow breakfast at the Fire House, ditto, ditto, they will be there to observe the actual times of the planes hitting the Trade towers, ditto. Today, after they are done here, to a service at St. Paul's Episcopal Church, ditto, ditto, tomorrow they will also go to the Pennsylvania field, and then to the D.C. at the Pentagon. ditto, ditto, ditto, President Bush will not talk about the War in Iraq in respect for the 911 tragedy, ditto, ditto. . . I loved it when these news commentators decided to do color commentary? NOT! Couldn't they be silent? Do they perceive their audience is blind? There should be a news network that has very little sound, just pictures people can decipher on their own. "President Bush and the First Lady look very emotional"
"If they were stoics," was my thought.
I observe, and no new commentator dares to say, "As the President and fellow Politicians pile into the SUV Michael Bloomberg had to walk around the car and get in at the other side. Who wouldn't slide over?"

Petunias

Oh my Aching Back!

What did I do this morning that, has given my lower back a stabbing imp with a prod on bending over? I don't know. I should have done Yoga. I went for a run. Ah, well. Tomorrow I will do Yoga. And Practice the Guitar. And Paint a kitchen wall. And Clean. And. . . . Oh so many things I should have done today. Yes, I will get coffee filters and flour. Yes that too!

La a note to follow sew

When Style Journalists and Literature collide

Just caught the NY Times in a spelling error.
In an article on the new welcoming of maturity in fashion, an article citing examples: Catherine Deneuve's partnership with MAC; Sharon Stone with Dior and Kim Bassinger with Miu Miu written By Mary Tannen, she concludes her essay with the point that throughout history mature women have iconoclastically hit their scenes. One example is Euripedes' Medea. She misspelled Euripides. Thankfully she didn't misspell Media. Oops.

While on the subject of contributors to the NY Times, I have to mention Manohla Dargis, a toughie to spell in its own right.
I don't like her reviews.
She uses purple pansy prose to illustrate paragraphs of mostly catty content.
In her article on the Sundance Film Festival, it wasn't anything but an epitaph. I didn't read past the second paragraph, so maybe she changed her tone somewhere along the way. I hope.
So what if the festival is commercial!
It still does the work of fostering less commercial projects, which is its purpose.
I suppose critics don't have to be unbiased journalists.
No, they can print their bitterness on pages and vent out the fact that they get paid to watch and comment on 90 bad movies to 10 good ones, and put the blame on Robert Redford.

Well, he is still taking leaps off cliffs in waters he is sure he can't swim in.
What about you Manohla?

Finding some pathos for Sarah Jessica

I was reading the New York Times this morning and decided to scan the review of the new Heather Graham show. It exemplified what is wrong with reviews now-a-days. It is all about the slash and burn. Bloody words and multiple stabbings are marketable in print form just as they are on the big and little screens.
So Heather's show lay in a chalk outline.
Hopefully, she has a rebounding ego that parallels her screen personas' ever-present optimism. I like the Heather that I see: bubbly and effervescence, her pout or a silly tantrum the only sign of a bad mood that would be short lived and yet she isn't an annoying pollyanna.
Though I do prefer more multi-dimensional, tortured characters at war with the dark side in them and in others. I guess I need the fluffy to balance out the edgy.
Within the article Heather's TV character is compared to other single women leads in TV Land. Sarah Jessica Parker was mentioned. Which bothers me. I don't like Sex in The City. I find it silly and trivial and slightly misogynistic in its pigeon holing women into stereotypes. Why would I want to root for a woman whose main and longest love affair is with a pair of shoes?
Well, there I go criticizing. But that is my personal opinion that anyone is free to dispute, I am not getting paid to harm the show.
Iput this here to just explain that I have no love for Sarah Jessica. I didn't like her Gap ads. I won't smell her perfume. I won't see her movies. She is a competent actress. She knows how to wear designer clothes. But she has something about her that turns me off. Nothing personal only chemical.
But back in the review the writer mentioned Sarah's charm being jolie laide. I looked it up. I like the phrase. But I felt some compassion when I imagined Sarah reading the review and seeing that adjective describe her.

jolie laide
Pronunciation: zho -le-led
Usage: foreign term
Etymology: French : good-looking ugly woman : woman who is attractive though not conventionally pretty

The following word I heard on Nature: Death Valley.
It is a nice image.
vir·ga
Pronunciation: 'vir-ga
Function: noun
Etymology: New Latin, from Latin, branch, rod, streak in the sky suggesting rain
: wisps of precipitation evaporating before reaching the ground

Karman Alecto

I fortunately work in a restaurant in which the owner, in order to safeguard his waiter's gratuities, has allowed us add an 18% tip on the checks of foreigners. When we do this it is clearly marked on the bill. On rare occassions a customer will question this, and demand the tip to be removed. When this happens we deal with these people calmly and kindly which strangely causes them to reveal more of their total asshole being. The few times the tip has been taken off it is by a sweet waiter of mild temperment who suffers from post tramatic stress disorder.
So, a couple days after Xmas I was bartending and a Japanese woman sat at my bar. She spoke in a thick accent and read a book that was written in Japanese. She drank a bottle of Pinot Grigio and before she finished her final glass she asked for a menu and ordered a salad appetizer followed by the pasta special of the day. When she asked for the check, I questioned adding the tip. I was still filled with the season's feeling of giving and good will. But logic soon rode to my rescue waving a banner saying, "January is coming!" January is the slowest month in my restaurant as it is in many others. Her check was close to $60 and the tip on it could treat me to a movie or pay off 1/50th of my Visa bill.

Side rant:
I have been in this business long enough to know the facts of its life. At least 70% of foreign tourists do not tip. Most of these nontippers enter a restaurant with a guide book in hand which is sure to have a section about tipping. I have friends who have come from all over the nontipping parts of the world, these friends have friends and family that deliberately do not tip because they know they can get away with it here. It isn't a malicious act. It is selfish and cheap because they see it as saving a buck. They don't see that they are directly affecting someone's take home, that they are refusing to pay someone for a job that has been done for them. How would they feel if their employer told them, "I need some extra money so I am not gonna pay you this week." In my rough estimate Nontipping/badtipping foreigners cost a waiter a week's pay in a year.
End of Side Rant.

So I added the tip. No big deal really. Just a wish that in a perfect world populated with decent people I wouldn't have to. I took her money and placed her change in front of her. What do you know but sweet, smiling, silent Japanese lady speaks sharply. "Did you think I was a tourist?" she says closing her Japanese book, with her, I repeat, very thick accent. Knowing that she is remarking about added tip, I explain the restaurant's policy as if I was explaining long division to my niece, my only intent is to get my point across as benignly as possible. She is still insulted by my assuption that she didn't know how to tip.I tell her that it was not my intent to insult her and I am sorry she feels that way. I explain we get a lot of tourists. That even she had admitted that her English was not very good. I add that she must understand how I could have assumed that she was one. I think I can turn this around by asking her to help me, maybe she can give me some advice on how to tell the difference. This request is legitamate not as patronizing as it reads. She is still insulted, and says I should have known she had been living in New York for 2 years. I ask her sincerely, "How?"She stops and thinks and then says, "You could have talked to me."
"You were reading. It would be rude to disturb you. You made no indication to me that you wanted to chat."
"You should have known." she repeated. Then she added,"You should also know I have worked in a restaurant."
"Then you should know that people that are not from this country rarely tip. Right?"
"Yes. It is true. But I know to tip and you should have known that. You should know the difference."
This conversation travelled in a spirograph that was dizzying and only caused more frustration for both of us. By the way--I,in writing her side of the conversation, am not writing it as she actually said it. If I did I would feel catty and it would seem to demean her. She wasn't stupid. Just stubborn and self-righteous but then so am I. She left stating that we should change our policy, adding that she would have tipped more.
However, as any server with experience knows, most people that say they would have...WOULD NOT!
People that will tip over an added tip do it without complaining, without a question and sometimes without a word and only a wink and a smile.

An very wary orphan Christmas

I will start this blog off by listing the things I am thankful for on this day after Christmas.
1. That I do not have a hangover.
2. That I can have pie for breakfast.
3. That I have the day off and have been writing a good two hours so far. (Not at this.)
4. That my video store is downstairs and one door away, so I can treat myself to "The Best of Youth" later.
5. That I have great family and friends that know me well enough to know that this list is not made in order of importance. Well, except, perhaps for #1.
6. That I have a computer. I love my computer.
7. That I have two of the sweetest and silliest cats in history. Who also know me well enough to know that this list is not made in order of importance.
8. That I have taught myself to type without looking.
9. That I have the choice to not go to an orphan Christmas ever again.
10. Hand lotion

There, I put down ten things I am thankful for.
There are more. But ten is enough to balance out the negative tirade about to come forth.

Commence carping now.

I start my trek to my friend's orphan Christmas dinner. It is a rainy, rocky, nut and bolty laden 9 block walk to my friend's place.
I am pushing a granny cart filled with gifts, cookies, two pies, cranberry sauce, crudites and dip. The pies are having epileptic seizures along the bumpy path, and are perched at an uncorrectable slant.
I arrive. I unload.
The apple pie is now lopsided and lost some of its juice. I shift the center.

11. Thank God for crumb topping!

My friend's roommate, Mason, and his friend Darla greet me. Then my friend, Shelly, greets me. Our mutual friend, Diana, is doing the cooking even though she doesn't live there. She waves a mitted hand and follows through with a hug.

12. Thank God for aliases.

Mason is a nice enough prick of a prince, who has an artsy commercial job that affords him his superior air and a upscale boho chic lifestyle. His voice is also appropriately colored with the pinched nasality of the United Kingdom's more proper foothold in the Southern hemisphere -- the one that doesn't export extra large canned beer.

Darla is a doe-eyed doll, but with blue peepers. She is dressed a bit like a Carol Burnett sketch: gloved and glamorous; edged in farce. She smiles more often than not. Except when Mason barks at her to do her job and decorate the tree. She breaks two ornaments.

Diana is a multitalented up and coming star, whose new album made the charts. She keeps it real and is a great friend.

Shelly is a powerhouse and taking more and more successful steps in her career behind the camera. She is also a dear friend, but I am sometimes jealous of the attention she pays on her blackberry.

Diana, and I as her sous, prepare the meal while more guests arrive and the hosts shower. Mason says he blow waved his hair. I ask if that means the same as blow dry? An honest question served up honestly. But he answers with the defense of a thousand porcupine quills and an icy stare. And soon 'blow wave' will pop up in conversation throughout the night to remind me of my quaintness.

Eighteen, my lucky number, people arrive. We need another place setting! We make room. Whew!

One of the arrivals who is Jewish, atheist and gay, we'll call him Jag, enters with a saute pan in hand. It contains some pale sausages and even paler (green not white) asparagus stalks no tips. He takes a burner. He then heaps four ladlesful of rice pilaf into his pan -- he did ask nicely for the rice.

I am squeezing limes, lemons and oranges to make a citrus sauce for the scallops.
Jag seeing the scallops, has pushed his way into the job of flouring and panfrying them. He sporadically asks if he is doing it correctly.

Jag is a scary Rumplestiltskin of a man. I was repulsed and annoyed by him, mostly. I also pitied him. He has to push or he will get run over. Still, he annoyed me, at times, to a point where I wanted to do just that with my granny cart!

Dinner was great.
Dessert was devoured.
Jag had to cut his own piece of pie even though there were precut slices all over the place.

13. Thank God for granny carts and the insanity defense.
14. Thank God for yogic breathing.

Diana and I straightened up the kitchen, while Mason sincerely piped in "You shouldn't be cleaning up, you have done too much already." & "Thank You," in alternating repetitions.

My stomach was overfilled with food and the pumped out pomposity and self promotion that filled this loft.

Charles the cat kept his distance from the pretenders, and held a flirtatious gaze on me.

15. Thank God for the silent knowing of old friends and cats.

Then I hit the road.
Glad to get out of there.
Glad to get home to my two furry sillies.

Glad to drift off to a dream of leftover turkey sandwiches, and a simpler, whiter Christmas next year.

Malamood

Dusky Flycatcher
One thing I learned today is Bernard Malamud's correct pronunciation of his last name. Hence the title.

Fig Filled

Syconium.
What is in a fig.
A fig is made up of many tiny fruits that are held together by sticky stuff.
A figtree doesn't bloom. Its flowers are the tiny fruits within each pod.
Caricous means fig shaped as does sycosiform.
Other words for fig.
eleme, fico, mamme, pipal, rig, sinconus, syconus.
Fig bearing tree: Banyan

Capote

Saw it last night. Good, very good. Made me want to redecorate. Oh the slivery quilted shams, and the tiny, tall pedestal end tables, the leather bound books on organized bookshelves.
Can a writer be really that organized?
I suppose if anyone Truman could.
Ah, and the curtains and sofas.
Yes, Well.
Bergdorf's

Cloudy

caverns canyons clouds critics cold cough cough coffee cacophonous calm cause creedless calamity cyclone cozumel cancun carefilled chatter control coast cast call carry ch-ching c'mere chameleon cozy carrot casserole cassolet costume cornucopia cope counting caberet clandestine collision confide confirm confiscate confound confront conviction convulsion crusade

clear

Red Tape

At the Williamsburg post office wanted to buy stamps and pick up a package.
After I got the stamps I was told to stand in the 'Pick up' window's line.
I pointed out that had not been the case before, and it was rather unfair.
She said it wasn't her, but the managment's decision to keep the other line down.
I said I understood if I was just getting a package, but why should I have to stand in line twice?
She decided to get my package.

More red tape on the mailing front.
A package is being sent to me from Overstock.com via DHL.
I decided to see when it would be arriving.
It arrived yesterday, left at my door.
It was not.
So I called DHL.
They said it was.
I said I was here and I didn't get it.
She said she would contact the driver and call me back.
That was 6-1/2 hours ago.
So I contacted Overstock.com.
After repeating my story 3 times. And twice being told DHL left the package I finally asked for a supervisor, since I thought I was talking to a brick wall.
It took 4 more times asking for the name of the supervior before I got it.
I won't use it.
She finally understood and put out a trace and told me what that entailed.

It is really frustrating for an honest person in an age of mendacity.

Prospero at The Gates