C’mon, this is a dance waiting to happen. Do it.
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My best side
I googled “ideal bathroom lighting” this morning. A leaky pipe is leading to new fixtures, which means repairing the ceramic tile, which means repainting the walls, which means re-doing the trim, which means the 1917 light fixtures need to go.
The ideal is to have lights on either side of the mirror preferably centered around eye height and between 32 – 36 inches apart. Even, shadowless light means you are less likely to look as if you are off your feed, so to speak. (It’s okay if you have a fixture across the top, just so it lights up the entire area and has translucent glass.)
Whew. Dodged that bullet. I would have always thought it was the wrong color of paint.
Oscar Post Mortem
Okay, I love the Academy Awards, always have, probably always will. I enjoy movies and love to compare my choices against others’ picks and talk about why or why not. It is a kick to see what everyone is wearing; and, I look forward to a show put on by people whose business is show business.
But for crying out loud, get Jeff Bridges and Sandra Bullock to host next year!
As is tradition, the 2010 winners gave out the best actress and actor awards last night. And if they were acting as the perfectly comfortable, articulate and gracious presenters — then they nailed it.
You could see it as the camera lingered on the nominees’ faces when they heard their names. Most sat up straighter and tried not to grin their faces off as Bridges and Bullock reminded them why they were nominated. No matter that a script writer may have helped. It was done right.
If I was in the power seat, I would put my A-Team in this show, it’s no place for rookies. Afterall, performance is what Oscar celebrates.
Just Kids
The third time she meets him, she asks him his name. He tells her it is Bob. She says, “You don’t seem like a Bob to me. Is it okay if I call you Robert?” It is 1967 and for the next 7 years, Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe are pretty much inseparable.
Smith tells their story in Just Kids, a fascinating account of loyalty, joy, love and coming of age for two extraordinarily gifted people who at the heart of it are surprisingly ordinary. But it is Smith’s elegant prose, honest reflection and generous spirit that elevates this book to a must read and a National Book Club Winner in 2010.
Just Kids is gently flattering in the way that a best friend who knows you better than anyone would write a book about you. It’s the depth of their relationship that makes Smith’s book a virtual how-to on friendship: listen, praise, defend, accept, laugh, trust and finally release.
It’s no surprise to discover that it’s Patti who encourages Robert to take pictures, and Robert who tells Patti to turn her poems into songs. That’s the kind of impact good friends end up having on one another.
It’s charming to get to eavesdrop on this couple. How they stand back, look at their work and say, “It’s genius, isn’t it?” “Yes,” the other answers, “It is.” While you know the end of their story, you learn that in the beginning Patti drinks Nescafe and Robert loves Mallomars and their favorite dinner is grilled cheese on rye with tomatoes and a chocolate malt.
New York in the sixties is a fine time to be a young and aspiring hippie. Smith evokes the era without trumpeting its excesses at the expense of a more important tale. Though part of the book’s appeal is definitely the front row seat to people most just read about. How ’bout dropping by your regular bar and Janis, Jimi and Gracie are tossing back a few? Pretty heady stuff.
In March, 1989, Patti gets the phone call she has been expecting. After being diagnosed with AIDS in 1986, Robert Mapplethorpe dies in his loft in New York; he is 43. The last time they speak, he asks, “Will you write our story?” She says, “I will do it.” Just Kids is how she kept her promise.
Been Gone?
My sister’s dog, Pablo, pretty much goes nuts when ever she comes into the house even from short trips like say to the garage. But he is after all, a dog. I’m no Cesar Milan, but I think the average dog really doesn’t get into game-playing other than fetch.
Cats on the other hand are another story.
After being gone for longer than a month, are they at the front door when we wrestle it open with armloads of luggage? Oh, noooo. We have just about emptied the car before they show up. They sit on the top landing looking down, casually grooming themselves.
When we spy them we excitedly call their names; they just stare at us and remain where they sit. It is as if the biggest among them is saying, “Wha— you two have been gone?! OMG, you’re kiddin’ us. Who ‘da guessed?”
They stay strong for a good hour or so; I don’t know which one says it’s time to cave. But all of a sudden, the attitudes are gone and with plaintive meows, they clamor to make sure we have not forgotten them. That’s when we know we’re home.
Befriended
We watched the Cadillac come up to the public bathroom from where we were sitting in the park’s shelter. The driver got out and went around to help the passenger get out. He was unsteady and leaned on her. She slammed the car door shut and together they made their way to the Men’s.
Sig said, “That’s probably us if we last another 10 to 15 years.”
“Ten years? Well, I don’t think so. Maybe You but not me.” We bickered back and forth about our widely different outlooks on the future when the woman suddenly started yelling.
“Damnit! Shit! Damnit! Oh, Damnit.” She was walking around the car waving her arms. “I locked my keys in there, I locked my keys in there. I’ve never done that ever!”
I took my cell phone and we went over to see what we could do.
Well, you see, Edna and Ed were heading home from the hospital after Ed’s knee replacement. They had OnStar service on their car but the number routed them to an automated message center. So Sig and Edna take off to find a mechanic. Ed and I have a nice chat about the usual – surgery advancements, cell phones, retirement, Colorado in the summer.
Sig and Edna return and help is on the way. Just before we leave — they tell us about their really good friends in Kansas City; they own a big funeral home. If we ever need anything, just mention their name.
Think about it, before Facebook this is how it happened.
Daveee, Daveee Crockett
It is comforting to me to learn that the faux fur Davy Crockett’s coonskin hat is still the top souvenir sold at the Alamo. I picture them on 5 and 6 year olds with buzz haircuts and round faces.
I think that’s because my 2 brothers rocked those buzz haircuts growing up and loved their fake fur hats. Myself? I always preferred the long bladed plastic bowie-knife. Which is probably why they occasionally paid attention when I bossed them around.
A Fish Story
Howie was headed to work daydreaming about fishing. He didn’t mind his clerk’s job at the Island Souvenir Warehouse; it was an easy walk from his house. All of a sudden he felt the ground beneath his feet shudder. He half turned expecting to see a semi trailer or a steam roller on its way to a construction site.
But the only thing on the road was a dune buggie. He shrugged and turned back.
After two more steps, he felt it again. There was no mistaking this. It was a wide rolling movement that caused him to instinctively fling out his arms and half crouch as if he was on a surf board.
A network of cracks exploded in the ground ahead of him radiating into the parking lot. The asphalt started to bulge as if someone was inflating a balloon underground. Within minutes it was as big as a car and widening into a triangle.
Without taking his eyes off what was happening in front of him, Howie started edging backward. As the mass grew level with the roof, the asphalt started to split and fall away.
Out emerged a fish the size of boxcar. After poking his head through the parking lot, it took a deep breath, heaved up his body and flipped his tail free. His skin was mostly matte grey, his eyes were spaced a good distance apart, and he had a great mass of pearly white teeth and ruby red lips.
“Oh,” Howie said, “you must be the new guy, I’ll tell ’em you’re here.”
Dining In
I just made a recipe from Epicurious as it was obvious that we were not going anywhere other than the dining room for dinner. In addition to rosemary and wine, it called for beef and garlic.
It is deceptively easy so I am thinking this may not be a keeper. Who uses white wine with beef? But on the other hand, I always have white wine on hand — so if it is good, isn’t that an incredibly happy coincidence?
I put a couple of potatoes in the oven and peeled and sliced some carrots to microwave when it was their time. I cut the steak in strips across the grain, dusted them in flour/salt and pepper and sautéed in batches in olive oil. Then I browned slices of 4 garlic cloves and a bunch of rosemary, added wine and waited for it to reduce.
The beef went back into the pan when carrots and potatoes were ready to serve. I added a TB of butter to the skillet for richness and we were ready for dinner.
“This is better than you could get from any restaurant here.”
“Really? I reply.
Better than a restaurant? I think, Are you kiddin’ me? Of course, it’s better than a freakin’ restaurant, you’re damn right it’s better than a restaurant! A restaurant in this seaside village couldn’t touch it!
I say, “Well, good — I’m glad you like it.”
Cry, Baby
There’s weird news in the San Antonio paper too. That is, a column dedicated to the devotees of quirkiness in this world of ours. The latest I read are two counselors in California who started Men of Tears, a male support group to encourage crying.
Yeah, what is in the water out there?
According to the counselors, crying makes men emotionally stronger and less hostile. Well actually I wouldn’t dispute that. But boys, aren’t we suffering from just a little Over-Simplification?
Sure you cry, but then you eat a pint of Haagen-Dazs or whatever is handy and then you call someone who understands and loves you. After a vigorous round of chat, if you are lucky your perspective is back in place and the world tilts back into its socket.
Plus, c’mon — how are you going to recruit for an organization called Men of Tears. The only thing I think is worst is Clan of the Cave Bear. It’s a plain no-starter.