In my quest for living a well-integrated life in which all ingredients are properly folded in, kneaded, and given time to rise, all future blog posts will be coming from www.EricaSmithMusic.com, which also contains my music stuff.
Hope to see you there!
2.15.2012
2.03.2012
One for Coyote
I am heartbroken to share the news that our dear friend Sean Dolan passed away this week. He died peacefully in his sleep at home.
Sean and I met as work colleagues and became friends. Not long after Sean moved into his office it became clear that his retiring persona belied a depth of intellect and feeling. His bulletin boards were plastered with colorful postcards, drawings, and photos that slowly spilled over onto the surrounding walls. As they say, bulletin boards are the windows to the soul: in this case, a startling bounty of tones, images, and ideas.
About a dozen years ago, Sean shared his writing with me. Epic doesn't begin to describe it: in the pages and pages of writings and drawings he made, Sean ruminated on Crazy Horse, imaginary pirates, haunted trains, winter roses, Sonny Liston, the Apocalypse, Easter Sunday, Henry Kissinger, Patti Smith, sainthood, and silence. He was obsessed with Scripture and Bob Dylan. The coyote was his spirit animal.
When we met I was just getting started writing songs and playing guitar in public, struggling for confidence and for words. He was so encouraging. When I asked Sean if I could adapt some of his beautiful words to music, he agreed -- and never gave me any shit when I needed to edit something to make a line scan or fit onto a commercial CD. (I'm not talking marketing here, I'm talking *fit.* Unedited, one song could easily eat up practically all the audio a CD can hold.)
I remember ruminating with him over a picture of Nina Simone. He leaned back in his office chair, tugged at the leather cords and pendants around his neck, and said, "just look at her. Just look at her face."
We went to see Emmylou Harris together, and cried. He saw an after-hours Bob Dylan show at Tramps, and gloated.
When Sean started playing guitar and singing his own songs, that was huge. He sent me recordings of what he had done. He had a beautiful singing voice, very warm. Unlike me, he didn't edit the songs down. It was like four cassette tapes and he was just getting going.
Sean loathed buffoonery. He was fascinated by his son Brian. Above his desk, he had an enormous color picture of Brian's face: a windswept little blonde boy staring straight at you. If that face didn't drive out buffoonery, I don't know what would.
Like the coyote, Sean was a trickster, showing up when you least expect and always slipping away too soon. He came to so many of our band shows but we never seemed to get enough time to talk as much as we wanted to afterward. I sense he really enjoyed hearing us play, though -- and when we played one of his songs, the guys in the band really made it sound like rolling thunder. I always felt so comforted feeling Sean's presence in the back of the room when I was singing.
Often when I asked Sean how he was doing, he would say, "forget it. I’m through. I'm going to go ride the rails."
The moment I learned of his death, a train whistle blew in the distance. Now he is riding. I'm broken but hopeful. The afterlife may be the only place that can fully realize his ecstatic, tangled visions. Travel safe.
Sean Dolan's writings live here:
http://lonesomecoyote.blogspot.com/
Sean and I met as work colleagues and became friends. Not long after Sean moved into his office it became clear that his retiring persona belied a depth of intellect and feeling. His bulletin boards were plastered with colorful postcards, drawings, and photos that slowly spilled over onto the surrounding walls. As they say, bulletin boards are the windows to the soul: in this case, a startling bounty of tones, images, and ideas.
About a dozen years ago, Sean shared his writing with me. Epic doesn't begin to describe it: in the pages and pages of writings and drawings he made, Sean ruminated on Crazy Horse, imaginary pirates, haunted trains, winter roses, Sonny Liston, the Apocalypse, Easter Sunday, Henry Kissinger, Patti Smith, sainthood, and silence. He was obsessed with Scripture and Bob Dylan. The coyote was his spirit animal.
When we met I was just getting started writing songs and playing guitar in public, struggling for confidence and for words. He was so encouraging. When I asked Sean if I could adapt some of his beautiful words to music, he agreed -- and never gave me any shit when I needed to edit something to make a line scan or fit onto a commercial CD. (I'm not talking marketing here, I'm talking *fit.* Unedited, one song could easily eat up practically all the audio a CD can hold.)
I remember ruminating with him over a picture of Nina Simone. He leaned back in his office chair, tugged at the leather cords and pendants around his neck, and said, "just look at her. Just look at her face."
We went to see Emmylou Harris together, and cried. He saw an after-hours Bob Dylan show at Tramps, and gloated.
When Sean started playing guitar and singing his own songs, that was huge. He sent me recordings of what he had done. He had a beautiful singing voice, very warm. Unlike me, he didn't edit the songs down. It was like four cassette tapes and he was just getting going.
Sean loathed buffoonery. He was fascinated by his son Brian. Above his desk, he had an enormous color picture of Brian's face: a windswept little blonde boy staring straight at you. If that face didn't drive out buffoonery, I don't know what would.
Like the coyote, Sean was a trickster, showing up when you least expect and always slipping away too soon. He came to so many of our band shows but we never seemed to get enough time to talk as much as we wanted to afterward. I sense he really enjoyed hearing us play, though -- and when we played one of his songs, the guys in the band really made it sound like rolling thunder. I always felt so comforted feeling Sean's presence in the back of the room when I was singing.
Often when I asked Sean how he was doing, he would say, "forget it. I’m through. I'm going to go ride the rails."
The moment I learned of his death, a train whistle blew in the distance. Now he is riding. I'm broken but hopeful. The afterlife may be the only place that can fully realize his ecstatic, tangled visions. Travel safe.
Sean Dolan's writings live here:
http://lonesomecoyote.blogspot.com/
7.18.2011
Muppets and Puppets
Today, out and about:
To the organic, fair-trade coffee bar in the site of the former Joe Jr's diner, with the perfectly weathered blue barn boards and multiple compost stations bearing instructions, with tiny tables and raw wood stools that are too high for your feet to rest comfortably on the ground, and yet have no lower bar on which to perch a foot: your coffee tastes like cold-brew dirt. However, your barista (barrister?) is very handsome and your organic peaches are very juicy.
Elsewhere, in the mental sphere, it occurs to me that "The Muppets Take Manhattan" might have been more than just a movie to me, it might have been an unconscious life choice.
In the physical sphere, I note that the fine network of collagen that holds my body more or less together is showing subtle signs of breaking down. Thirty-nine and a third. Not bad.
To the organic, fair-trade coffee bar in the site of the former Joe Jr's diner, with the perfectly weathered blue barn boards and multiple compost stations bearing instructions, with tiny tables and raw wood stools that are too high for your feet to rest comfortably on the ground, and yet have no lower bar on which to perch a foot: your coffee tastes like cold-brew dirt. However, your barista (barrister?) is very handsome and your organic peaches are very juicy.
Elsewhere, in the mental sphere, it occurs to me that "The Muppets Take Manhattan" might have been more than just a movie to me, it might have been an unconscious life choice.
In the physical sphere, I note that the fine network of collagen that holds my body more or less together is showing subtle signs of breaking down. Thirty-nine and a third. Not bad.
12.27.2010
Whiteout
The snow started early yesterday afternoon -- first just a few wet, scattered flakes. Then dirty slush piles started to gather on the black pavement. Then the snowflakes started to swirl, whip, and pelt crosswise in the wind. Then the wind started to scream.
The view from our window went white, then pinkblack as dusk set in. Lightning stuttered. Thunder and wind.
I curled up on the couch, writing and watching Marilyn Monroe movies, an odd John Candy drama and later, together with John, remastered old Super-8s of Wings. All of the window blinds were pulled all of the way up. Snow filled in the corners of the windows.
We stayed up late and, when we turned out the light, the bedroom lit up in pink snow-glow.
I woke up late to bright white walls and icy blue sky, the smell of coffee brewing, and Wings on the stereo in the other room.
All of the blinds were still pulled all the way up. Sun warmed the apartment: the honey-colored floors, the baby blue couch, the white blanky.
John continued with Wings on the headphones and I curled up with a novel and some coffee. No plans.
All is well.
The view from our window went white, then pinkblack as dusk set in. Lightning stuttered. Thunder and wind.
I curled up on the couch, writing and watching Marilyn Monroe movies, an odd John Candy drama and later, together with John, remastered old Super-8s of Wings. All of the window blinds were pulled all of the way up. Snow filled in the corners of the windows.
We stayed up late and, when we turned out the light, the bedroom lit up in pink snow-glow.
I woke up late to bright white walls and icy blue sky, the smell of coffee brewing, and Wings on the stereo in the other room.
All of the blinds were still pulled all the way up. Sun warmed the apartment: the honey-colored floors, the baby blue couch, the white blanky.
John continued with Wings on the headphones and I curled up with a novel and some coffee. No plans.
All is well.
12.05.2010
The 2010 mix is here
Hi all:
So, at the end every year I make a music mix. Many people compile their "best of" the new releases of that year, but I tend toward capturing the songs that were in my head and in my life, and the new memories that have formed around them. Usually I keep these mixes strictly for personal use, but here -- have it and enjoy it!
[Clicking above will start a download of "2010.zip."]
I hope you enjoy these 51.2 minutes. It was a pretty terrible year, but if the music is good, it can't be all bad.
So, at the end every year I make a music mix. Many people compile their "best of" the new releases of that year, but I tend toward capturing the songs that were in my head and in my life, and the new memories that have formed around them. Usually I keep these mixes strictly for personal use, but here -- have it and enjoy it!
[Clicking above will start a download of "2010.zip."]
I hope you enjoy these 51.2 minutes. It was a pretty terrible year, but if the music is good, it can't be all bad.
11.12.2010
The Big Ride, Part 3
Corlears Hook Park and the ampitheater. I had to go back and take pictures since they weren't on the original roll. The park has mellowed nicely as autumn has rolled along.
Park entrance looking east from Cherry St.
Looking southeast from the park entrance
The mall as you enter
The bridge over the FDR drive lifts a little
Park entrance looking east from Cherry St.
Looking southeast from the park entrance
The mall as you enter
The bridge over the FDR drive lifts a little
10.26.2010
The Big Ride, Part 2
Once you get outside with the bike, there is a decision to be made: Right or left. I usually go right, which is the opposite direction from my destination, but has its advantages.
Unlike other people, who seem to accept riding in traffic as a necessary danger, or a welcome thrill, I avoid it at all costs -- sometimes even doing the Bad Thing and riding on the sidewalk. The choice comes down to a quick equation involving how many other objects you are likely to encounter. Under the bridge there is a bike lane, but there are also cars backing out into the lane without looking (on the right of it), cars whizzing by (on the left of it), and double-parked cars and even schoolbuses (on top of it). I'd prefer not to get a rear-view mirror stuck in my ribs, so up on the curb we go. Unless a corporate softball game has just ended and there's a small mob coming back from East River Park to party at Boss Tweed's, you're unlikely to encounter more than one or two people.
There are times I've continued straight on Delancey and pedaled up and over the bridge that spans the FDR Drive. I don't like it, though. The bridge has a steep incline and then a few hairpin turns on the descent. The first day I started riding again after 25 years, embarking on this bridge was goofy indeed. I was still piddle-paddling with my feet along the pavement every so often, trying not to fall over. Once I hit that first angle on the bridge, it was hard to keep upright and keep my dignity.
So instead of hitting the bridge, I cut right onto Lewis. There is a bike lane here, but far less activity -- it's a side street. And after a few beats, I make the momentous (for me) left turn onto Grand, and then cut behind onto Henry.
This part of the neighborhood is unfamiliar to me. It's behind the supermarket, so I never need to go there. It's nice and quiet. I can hop the sidewalk without encountering anyone. And within the space of a few pedals, I'm at Corlears Hook Park, with its long, virtually empty mall and slow ascent to a run-down ampitheater. Heaven.
Unlike other people, who seem to accept riding in traffic as a necessary danger, or a welcome thrill, I avoid it at all costs -- sometimes even doing the Bad Thing and riding on the sidewalk. The choice comes down to a quick equation involving how many other objects you are likely to encounter. Under the bridge there is a bike lane, but there are also cars backing out into the lane without looking (on the right of it), cars whizzing by (on the left of it), and double-parked cars and even schoolbuses (on top of it). I'd prefer not to get a rear-view mirror stuck in my ribs, so up on the curb we go. Unless a corporate softball game has just ended and there's a small mob coming back from East River Park to party at Boss Tweed's, you're unlikely to encounter more than one or two people.
There are times I've continued straight on Delancey and pedaled up and over the bridge that spans the FDR Drive. I don't like it, though. The bridge has a steep incline and then a few hairpin turns on the descent. The first day I started riding again after 25 years, embarking on this bridge was goofy indeed. I was still piddle-paddling with my feet along the pavement every so often, trying not to fall over. Once I hit that first angle on the bridge, it was hard to keep upright and keep my dignity.
So instead of hitting the bridge, I cut right onto Lewis. There is a bike lane here, but far less activity -- it's a side street. And after a few beats, I make the momentous (for me) left turn onto Grand, and then cut behind onto Henry.
This part of the neighborhood is unfamiliar to me. It's behind the supermarket, so I never need to go there. It's nice and quiet. I can hop the sidewalk without encountering anyone. And within the space of a few pedals, I'm at Corlears Hook Park, with its long, virtually empty mall and slow ascent to a run-down ampitheater. Heaven.
10.25.2010
The Big Ride, Part I
On Saturday afternoon I was feeling a bit restless. The house was kind of a mess, but it was nice out! The perfect day for a ride. But there was just one problem: traffic on the bike paths. I've only been out a handful of times and don't feel ready for the weekend warriors. From the kitchen we can see a serious uptick of riders on the Williamsburg Bridge once Saturday rolls around. Would the East River path be the biking equivalent of the Cross Bronx Expressway on a Friday afternoon?
As I was mulling this over John and I drove down the east side to drop stuff off at the storage space, and we didn't really see that much bike traffic on the path! So John encouraged me to go, as he was heading off to Brooklyn for a few hours anyway. So I suited up in my Saturday best: leggings and t-shirt and track jacket and windbreaker and sneaky sneaks and, of course, helmet. The helmet, as well as the bike, belong to John. He also has leather riding gloves, but they're too big so I don't bother with them. In my backpack I put house keys and water bottle and wallet.
When I get the bike out it's a bit of a procedure, as I have to roll it around the boxes of books on the floor awating rearranging and then across the apartment and into the vestibule, and then press the elevator button and wait for the elevator which is an extra-long wait on Saturdays because of the Sabbath, and once the elevator comes it is sagaciously slow, and once the digital numbers count from 12 to B and the car touches down I roll the bike through the gray-painted cinder block hallways and out the door into the sunlight. And we're off.
10.21.2010
A Note on Hegel, and women and men, courtesy of Rebecca West
From BIRDS FALL DOWN, in which the 18-year-old female protagonist is being lectured on the dialectic:
“The dialectic,” echoed Laura. It was one of those words to which she never troubled to attach a precise meaning. Teleology, oolitic, proportional representation, symbiotic; what they stood for was part of the world, and might once have been bright like the world, but the dust which falls wherever there are males had buried them in its dingy drifts.
Oh, SNAP.
“The dialectic,” echoed Laura. It was one of those words to which she never troubled to attach a precise meaning. Teleology, oolitic, proportional representation, symbiotic; what they stood for was part of the world, and might once have been bright like the world, but the dust which falls wherever there are males had buried them in its dingy drifts.
Oh, SNAP.
9.29.2010
9.22.2010
Pins and Needles
Once a week I lie on the acupuncture table with some combination of needles sticking out from my body parts.
Today:
one needle in each ear
one in the crease between each big toe and second toe
one in the soft concave spot under the knob of each ankle.
Lucy the acupuncturist is very small and slight, like a needle. After getting me all set up, she turns on 2 gooseneck heat lamps and positions one over my torso, the other one over my legs, and sets the timer. Then she turns on bland Chinese music and slips out.
Three seconds later the florescent lights go out. I cook for thirty minutes or so until the timer dings.
This is supposed to be a time of meditation and relaxation, but often I feel profoundly anxious. As your body lets go of tension, it sometimes feels as if you are in an elevator that has just gone into a 5-floor freefall. I grip the sides of the table, then ungrip. Grip, ungrip. I study the black squiggles on the ceiling tiles.
Once Lucy put a needle in the underside of my wrist and advised me not to move my hand. That was hard. Sometimes I get needles in my belly, and after the needles plus heat lamp, my belly looks pink as a piglet.
Last week I didn't feel anxious at all, but I had spent time the few days before upset and yelling. (Lucy softly tells me that I have a lot of stress "inside.")
Score one for emoting.
Today:
one needle in each ear
one in the crease between each big toe and second toe
one in the soft concave spot under the knob of each ankle.
Lucy the acupuncturist is very small and slight, like a needle. After getting me all set up, she turns on 2 gooseneck heat lamps and positions one over my torso, the other one over my legs, and sets the timer. Then she turns on bland Chinese music and slips out.
Three seconds later the florescent lights go out. I cook for thirty minutes or so until the timer dings.
This is supposed to be a time of meditation and relaxation, but often I feel profoundly anxious. As your body lets go of tension, it sometimes feels as if you are in an elevator that has just gone into a 5-floor freefall. I grip the sides of the table, then ungrip. Grip, ungrip. I study the black squiggles on the ceiling tiles.
Once Lucy put a needle in the underside of my wrist and advised me not to move my hand. That was hard. Sometimes I get needles in my belly, and after the needles plus heat lamp, my belly looks pink as a piglet.
Last week I didn't feel anxious at all, but I had spent time the few days before upset and yelling. (Lucy softly tells me that I have a lot of stress "inside.")
Score one for emoting.
9.21.2010
The Big Drop
It's a good thing I have my husband, family, and friends, as well as (perhaps to a lesser extent) my wits. So much else seems to have slipped away.
Earlier this year: Medical issues (all better), the loss of our beloved Dave, and finally in June, laid off. Wow.
My employer gave us 24 hours to leave the premises. After that: exhilarated, confused, elated, free. (And freelance.)
Today, 3 months later, is the first day I felt bored and anxious.
After a brutally hot summer: It's finally 72 degrees, breezy, and clear, and I'm freaking?
It's time to start sizzlin'.
(ABOVE: Confetti courtesy of Sir Paul McCartney. NOT PICTURED: Magical Mystery Tour piano, McCartney's Hofner bass, well-timed fireballs)
8.06.2009
Vow
Dear John,
Holy smoke! We are getting married. I can’t believe it. This is just crazy.
Let me begin by saying that I always kind of liked you. It was a very innocent kind of “like.” I remember one Beefstock – I think it was the flooded one -- Jill and I commented to each other how nice it would be to find a guy like John Sharples. Perhaps it was because of all of your fancy guitar moves, or your jumping all over the stage and banging on the keyboard singing “Lawyers, Guns, and Money.” You took a real bite out of that song, and I giggle with delight now, just remembering it. I think it was simply because you were a cool and intelligent person to talk to. Sorry I can’t be more specific, honey. Sometimes it’s very difficult to remember conversations from Beefstock!
Well, needless to say, the more I got to know you, the more I liked you. That night we went to Galapagos together, we were gossiping about Paul McCartney and his new record. And here we are, still geeking out over McCartney. As evidenced in your many friendships, this discussion could go on for decades. I think this is a good omen for us.
And even though that shared Beatle passion might sound trivial, we soon found out that we not only liked the same stuff, we liked to do the same stuff, pretty much all the time. And whatever was happening at any given moment, we pretty much saw it the same way. Hang out at Freddy’s till 2? Cool. Drive miles for the perfect shish kebab? Awesome. Dirty Rotten Scoundrels? Hilarious. Jazz standards? Yum. Take me on a date where I have absolutely no idea where we’re going? Yippee!
And of course, as we shared so much time together doing all of this barflying and jazz listening and shish-kebabing, it became ridiculously clear that our deeper ideals were totally in sync. I have a lot of respect for you, John.
I am not only impressed by the depth of your music geekery – even though that level of knowledge is, indeed, awe-inspiring. I am not only impressed by your musical aptitude, in which you can play pretty much any instrument you pick up with a very uncanny intuition for how a part “should go,” even with very little direction – or vague direction – such as “like Badfinger on acid!”
I’m most impressed that in life, you have a history of going for it. You believe in what you do, and push it to the hilt, and if it no longer works, you don’t get stuck for long – you adapt and evolve.
You took your musical gift and you really went for it, living a musician’s life for so many years. I’m impressed that when it was time to move on, you earned your Columbia degree while also working full-time. And when that era came to an end, you challenged yourself yet again by going to law school in your 30s. And now I get such a kick out of seeing you lay down roots and thrive as a lawyer.
I respect you because you work hard to see the best in people. And you help me see the best in myself. You give me unequivocal boosts of confidence when my fervor lags; measured insight into recurring conundrums; and always, the best remedy ever: food and wine. Lots and lots of food and wine. Seriously, is it any wonder that I wag my tail when I see you? You feed me bacon!
And perhaps more important than the deep, complex, multilayered levels of respect I have for you. . . you make me laugh my butt off. Coffee shooting out of my nose at Zafi’s when you do your Ringo Starr impression. Fresca spraying out of my mouth when we play and rewind and play one scene of “Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story” a half dozen times and mimic our favorite parts. Falling out of our chairs laughing, just talking about something that happened that day.
And whether it’s one of our good days or our cranky days, you have never, ever bored me. I don’t think you ever will.
Without a doubt, each of us has been through so much in life. This is a polite way of saying that each of us has kind of been around the block. So be it. I would do it all over again, if it led me again to you.
I’m so happy we have the chance today to gather all of our loved ones in the same room, and have a big party, and get married.
I love you!
Erica
7.22.2009
Goin' to the
You are all so lucky, so very very lucky, that I have spared you the wedding crap on this blog.
If you're desperate to hear all about the final countdown, I invite you to find me on Facebook (where video has clearly not only killed the radio star, but disemboweled it).
But what can I tell you. We're getting married on Saturday. This has been the grandest few weeks of my life, just feeling happy about everything. And last night the McCartney show was exhilarating. No eyerolls -- the man can bring it.
I keep thinking of what the next phase of life will bring. Surely it will bring some form of poverty after all the wedding bills are paid. I want to keep boxing and doing the horrendous kettlebells, but maybe add something new. Learn Spanish finally? Take a modern dance class? See more movies?
I sound like an idiot, but I'm tired.
The suggestion box is open. In the meantime, I finally got wind of Google Reader, which means it will be infinitely easier to keep up with all of you.
If you're desperate to hear all about the final countdown, I invite you to find me on Facebook (where video has clearly not only killed the radio star, but disemboweled it).
But what can I tell you. We're getting married on Saturday. This has been the grandest few weeks of my life, just feeling happy about everything. And last night the McCartney show was exhilarating. No eyerolls -- the man can bring it.
I keep thinking of what the next phase of life will bring. Surely it will bring some form of poverty after all the wedding bills are paid. I want to keep boxing and doing the horrendous kettlebells, but maybe add something new. Learn Spanish finally? Take a modern dance class? See more movies?
I sound like an idiot, but I'm tired.
The suggestion box is open. In the meantime, I finally got wind of Google Reader, which means it will be infinitely easier to keep up with all of you.
1.18.2009
Taggin' Your Ass!
The previous feature led me to start tags for the blog. Now I've started to go back and tag everything. It's interesting to see how the themes have emerged. So far these are the categories:
99 Cent Dreams
Alien Octopus
Anxiety and Terror
Art
Books
Boxing
Cats
Concerning My Ass
Drunk Again
Eros
Family
Faves
Food
Grammar and Etymology
Grief and Suffering
Household
Interludes
Interspecies friendship
Love and Friendship (Human)
Movies
Music
Pampering
Public Service Announcements
Remembrance of Things Past
Style quest
Tautologies
Wedding Saga
Work
Yoga
99 Cent Dreams
Alien Octopus
Anxiety and Terror
Art
Books
Boxing
Cats
Concerning My Ass
Drunk Again
Eros
Family
Faves
Food
Grammar and Etymology
Grief and Suffering
Household
Interludes
Interspecies friendship
Love and Friendship (Human)
Movies
Music
Pampering
Public Service Announcements
Remembrance of Things Past
Style quest
Tautologies
Wedding Saga
Work
Yoga
New Feature: Interspecies Friendship
Witness the love.
Cat Adopts Rabbit!
Rat Loves Cat!
And, perhaps oddest of all, Kitten and Crow!
Cat Adopts Rabbit!
Rat Loves Cat!
And, perhaps oddest of all, Kitten and Crow!
1.02.2009
12.31.2008
Two Kinds of Sick (But Very Well Overall)
Lately I keep waking up at 4am. This happens a lot in December, now that I think about it. Usually I'm just garden-variety anxious and/or looped into some kind of solstice-related biorhythm. Tonight (this morning) I am anxious with the added bonus of feeling sick and gross, one sickness self-inflicted, one not.
About the former: Please remind me never, ever to drink before dinner. This is very bad. How did I get to be this old and not learn this lesson? ¡J! and I had toodled up to Queens for a tour of a swankaroo restaurant (in which we could get married -- warning -- more bridey-bride blog posts to come!) and we had to wait a few minutes at the bar. What the heck, bartender! I'll drink what he's drinking! A Manhattan? On a stomach full of lettuce and popcorn? No problem!
The sweet, delightful wedding expert for the restaurant gave us a tour of the appropriate rooms -- the bridal suite, the ceremony room, the cocktail hour nook, the walls that could be folded away to make a big-ass room bigger-ass. With a breathtaking view of Manhattan, this place seriously kills. But as the whiskey seeped its way into my system I started to get overly fascinated by the carpeting, the mirrors, the bunny hutch-ness of the bridal chamber, the copious artwork in Impressionist colors. (They are renovating the place for spring and it's going to be much more clean and modern. Less like Laura Ashley and more like Mitchell Gold. Whew!) I got distracted by the stall size in the ladies' room and peppered our girl with important, relevant questions (Post-reno, will it be big enough for two -- one to hold the bride's dress while she pees?). Later, we moved the party downstairs and we went over a lot of details (menus, pricing), almost none of which I can recall, having become deeply enamored of the twinkly lights and the piano player's choices (did he switch to Cole Porter to help seal the deal?), so it's a good thing ¡J! is on top of everything and our girl had a very nice packet with everything all written down.
This is all a long way of saying I got drunk off my ass on this wedding tour. We went to a really nice dinner afterward and I was still kind of drunk off my ass (salad and steak, alas, not that absorbent). It was fun while it lasted -- the car ride to dinner was inexplicably hilarious -- but I woke up feeling totally nasty.
The second illness is merely the cold that has taken hold as a result of having compromised myself thus. The only interesting thing about the cold is that it has a lot of gusto. I had a big sneeze in bed and was whiplashed by its force, volume, and trajectory. Basically, imagine being pelted in the face with a boomerang slug. This happened twice, so I'm inclined to believe it's a bonus feature of this particular strain of virus.
Stay tuned for further adventures. For now: water crackers all eaten up. One more glass of water. Beddy-bye!
About the former: Please remind me never, ever to drink before dinner. This is very bad. How did I get to be this old and not learn this lesson? ¡J! and I had toodled up to Queens for a tour of a swankaroo restaurant (in which we could get married -- warning -- more bridey-bride blog posts to come!) and we had to wait a few minutes at the bar. What the heck, bartender! I'll drink what he's drinking! A Manhattan? On a stomach full of lettuce and popcorn? No problem!
The sweet, delightful wedding expert for the restaurant gave us a tour of the appropriate rooms -- the bridal suite, the ceremony room, the cocktail hour nook, the walls that could be folded away to make a big-ass room bigger-ass. With a breathtaking view of Manhattan, this place seriously kills. But as the whiskey seeped its way into my system I started to get overly fascinated by the carpeting, the mirrors, the bunny hutch-ness of the bridal chamber, the copious artwork in Impressionist colors. (They are renovating the place for spring and it's going to be much more clean and modern. Less like Laura Ashley and more like Mitchell Gold. Whew!) I got distracted by the stall size in the ladies' room and peppered our girl with important, relevant questions (Post-reno, will it be big enough for two -- one to hold the bride's dress while she pees?). Later, we moved the party downstairs and we went over a lot of details (menus, pricing), almost none of which I can recall, having become deeply enamored of the twinkly lights and the piano player's choices (did he switch to Cole Porter to help seal the deal?), so it's a good thing ¡J! is on top of everything and our girl had a very nice packet with everything all written down.
This is all a long way of saying I got drunk off my ass on this wedding tour. We went to a really nice dinner afterward and I was still kind of drunk off my ass (salad and steak, alas, not that absorbent). It was fun while it lasted -- the car ride to dinner was inexplicably hilarious -- but I woke up feeling totally nasty.
The second illness is merely the cold that has taken hold as a result of having compromised myself thus. The only interesting thing about the cold is that it has a lot of gusto. I had a big sneeze in bed and was whiplashed by its force, volume, and trajectory. Basically, imagine being pelted in the face with a boomerang slug. This happened twice, so I'm inclined to believe it's a bonus feature of this particular strain of virus.
Stay tuned for further adventures. For now: water crackers all eaten up. One more glass of water. Beddy-bye!
11.26.2008
Happy Birthday Saro!
Today little Saro is ten years old. She is 56 in people years.
Here's my favorite pic of Saro. She was so small then. The piece in the upper left corner was the bottom of a guitar stand!
Here is Saro as many of us usually know her.
And we would be remiss without linking to the Saro Multimedia Site. The audio is especially fun!
Hugs to Annie and Dave for bringing her into my life, and to all of you who show kindness and care to the Saro.
I love you, Saro! Happy birthday!
Here's my favorite pic of Saro. She was so small then. The piece in the upper left corner was the bottom of a guitar stand!
Here is Saro as many of us usually know her.
And we would be remiss without linking to the Saro Multimedia Site. The audio is especially fun!
Hugs to Annie and Dave for bringing her into my life, and to all of you who show kindness and care to the Saro.
I love you, Saro! Happy birthday!
10.23.2008
Spirit and Flesh
The saying goes, the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. I find this baffling, for over the course of a lifetime, I have personally found my flesh to be more than willing.
If you consider it, willing can connote determination, stubbornness and focus. Because you will something to happen, will it happen?
My spirit continues to will my flesh into becoming less and less flesh. By now the process has carried over years and years. It's become a kind of hazy mandate, an outdated law that still lingers on the books. By now its obscene prejudices have simply been absorbed into the rhythm of my daily life. The thought of putting on weight sends me into a preemptive panic. I eat a lot of leaves and apples.
Not that I feel completely deprived -- waiter, more wine please -- but it is kind of sad, because I always have felt that voluptuousness of flesh connotes a certain generosity of spirit.
Let's hug.
If you consider it, willing can connote determination, stubbornness and focus. Because you will something to happen, will it happen?
My spirit continues to will my flesh into becoming less and less flesh. By now the process has carried over years and years. It's become a kind of hazy mandate, an outdated law that still lingers on the books. By now its obscene prejudices have simply been absorbed into the rhythm of my daily life. The thought of putting on weight sends me into a preemptive panic. I eat a lot of leaves and apples.
Not that I feel completely deprived -- waiter, more wine please -- but it is kind of sad, because I always have felt that voluptuousness of flesh connotes a certain generosity of spirit.
Let's hug.
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