My dog Lola has a secret power. She can see directly into the soul of any human being. She can discern the content of your character in the time it takes me to learn your name. This is both extremely helpful and slightly awkward. As most people are fundamentally decent she either ignores them, explores the aroma of their shoes or seeks their affection with an adorably upturned face and wagging tail. Every once in a while though, she takes an instant dislike to someone. (If you fail the Lola test - no offense - but I don't want to be around you either.) As our daily travels take us through the mean streets of the Central City, her second sight makes for some very enlightening encounters.
Shortly after My Man and I moved downtown we breakfasted a familia at JJ's Sandwich Shop - a fave cafe of ours with sidewalk seating. Lola, excited as always to be on an outing, lay next to Man's chair, quietly guarding her beloved pack. A homeless man approached us and tried to befriend her.
"Hey, little dog. What you doin'?"
She firmly rejected his advances, moving swiftly away from him and turning her side toward him - a protective move that translates roughly as, "I don't like you. Not one little bit. I know I'm super-cute but get away from me now or I will turn mean."
He didn't get the message and took a step toward her. "Aw, come on. Don't be like that," he said with a hardness in his tone that made me strangely anxious. She darted as far in the other direction as the leash tethering her to the chair would allow and resumed her defensive pose - this time adding a threatening growl to help make her point. Undeterred, he moved again in her direction, extending a hand.
(Friendly tip: When someone clearly hates you, don't put parts of your body in their face.)
Her growling now intensified to the point where most people would show her their palms and back away slowly. But not this guy. He was on a depraved mission. He kicked it up a notch by attempting to touch her head (a critical error when dealing with any dog. I am amazed at how few people understand that dogs, like people, don't like total strangers touching them on the head.) and the growl became an angry bark.
The angry bark is the final warning Lola gives you. If you don't take the warning, you are an idiot. My Man intervened.
"You should really leave her alone."
So what does he do? He takes off his black leather jacket, reeking of the piss-soaked gutter and his own dark rage, and shoves it authoritatively in her face. She responds by racing back to the other extreme of her leash zone, facing him, hunkering down, baring her teeth and barking like a chained-up, junkyard dog.
"Look, she obviously doesn't want anything to do with you," My Man offered, nearing the end of his own patience.
The guy turned angry cold eyes on him, inquiring, "And why is that?"
"I don't know. Why don't you ask her?"
The guy responded by shoving his jacket into her snout again, this time adding an ugly command: "Smell it."
She did not smell it. She barked with utter rage, leaping at him with little jerking movements that signal the beginning of her attack mode.
I was terrified. How could he stand to be so close to such naked aggression? How violent was his day to day existence that he was able to bear the very real possibility of teeth ripping at his flesh?
"Smell it," he repeated, determined to bend her to his will.
"Look! Buddy!," My Man snapped - all done dealing with this guy. "You're bothering my dog. Go somewhere else."
"Well," he replied with all the wounded pride of a snubbed debutante, "I will do that." And he gathered his jacket protectively around him and walked away, muttering to himself.
I felt bad for him. I wished he had some idea of how to make friends. I wished his life were not so unforgivingly difficult. But Lola was untroubled by such thoughts. She resumed her post, excited and proud of herself, tail wagging extra hard.
She's not judging you. She can't help it if there's darkness in your soul. She's just doing her job.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
So Long, Artwalk
Yep. They did it. They killed Artwalk. I was sure it was just some vicious rumor but it's true. The official website says:
"In recent years the Downtown Art Walk has grown so large that it has become too costly to manage in its current form. Effective immediately the Downtown Art Walk will go on hiatus, ceasing all event operations until January 2011, at which time it will be reborn as a quarterly, weekend, daytime, gallery-focused event which will appeal to both patrons of the arts as well as the general public." (http://www.downtownartwalk.org/)
Booo.....
Am I to believe that it will be less costly because it's during the day? Or on the weekend? Cuz I don't. I think it will only be less cool.
You don't have to tell me that Artwalk's a pricey pain in the ass. I live here. I still think this is a monumentally stupid decision. In a city known for elevating isolation and solo car travel to a "lifestyle," Artwalk got people out of the house and on their feet. It made public transportation the sensible choice - even if just for one night. It provided a functional marketplace for creative work and a launchpad for fresh ideas. It funneled cash into local businesses. But most importantly - it created a community. That's hard to do in a city as sprawling and uncrossable as ours. It should not be treated casually. Yes - it drew plenty of irritating drunks but their presence is always the price of admission to the destination of the visionaries. And there were visionaries in droves.
"angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night"
Now the visionaries will stay home and Artwalk will become the new thing for armchair innovators to do on the weekend. It will become just another street fair offering credibility for purchase.
Come January, it will be their party. On our streets. Which will be jammed not with pedestrians but with minivans. Not for one night a month but for an entire weekend every quarter. It will still be a pain in the ass. But instead of a massive grown-up urban event, it will be a massive gathering of suburbanites venturing bravely into "the city" for the day to "get some culture."
Count me out.
I shall stay home. And invite people over. Smart, interesting, creative people. People who will challenge me, trigger runaway thoughts, make me laugh too hard and feed my soul.
An Algonquin Round Table for the New Millennium.
The first one should happen on October 9. I encourage you to host your own. Invite over a small group of people you truly want to see but never do. Or at the very least - go outside, walk for a while and take a good look around. Don't go home until you've seen something inspiring.
The Diva's Vegan Round Table Dip
1 15 oz. package of soft tofu
4 T. soy sauce
4 tsp. yellow mustard
1 clove garlic minced
2 T. minced onion (dehydrated)
Dash cayenne
1 T. Old Bay seasoning
1 T. dried chives
Whirl everything up in the blender until it's smooth.
Serve with Kettle chips and conversation.
"In recent years the Downtown Art Walk has grown so large that it has become too costly to manage in its current form. Effective immediately the Downtown Art Walk will go on hiatus, ceasing all event operations until January 2011, at which time it will be reborn as a quarterly, weekend, daytime, gallery-focused event which will appeal to both patrons of the arts as well as the general public." (http://www.downtownartwalk.org/)
Booo.....
Am I to believe that it will be less costly because it's during the day? Or on the weekend? Cuz I don't. I think it will only be less cool.
You don't have to tell me that Artwalk's a pricey pain in the ass. I live here. I still think this is a monumentally stupid decision. In a city known for elevating isolation and solo car travel to a "lifestyle," Artwalk got people out of the house and on their feet. It made public transportation the sensible choice - even if just for one night. It provided a functional marketplace for creative work and a launchpad for fresh ideas. It funneled cash into local businesses. But most importantly - it created a community. That's hard to do in a city as sprawling and uncrossable as ours. It should not be treated casually. Yes - it drew plenty of irritating drunks but their presence is always the price of admission to the destination of the visionaries. And there were visionaries in droves.
"angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night"
Now the visionaries will stay home and Artwalk will become the new thing for armchair innovators to do on the weekend. It will become just another street fair offering credibility for purchase.
Come January, it will be their party. On our streets. Which will be jammed not with pedestrians but with minivans. Not for one night a month but for an entire weekend every quarter. It will still be a pain in the ass. But instead of a massive grown-up urban event, it will be a massive gathering of suburbanites venturing bravely into "the city" for the day to "get some culture."
Count me out.
I shall stay home. And invite people over. Smart, interesting, creative people. People who will challenge me, trigger runaway thoughts, make me laugh too hard and feed my soul.
An Algonquin Round Table for the New Millennium.
The first one should happen on October 9. I encourage you to host your own. Invite over a small group of people you truly want to see but never do. Or at the very least - go outside, walk for a while and take a good look around. Don't go home until you've seen something inspiring.
The Diva's Vegan Round Table Dip
1 15 oz. package of soft tofu
4 T. soy sauce
4 tsp. yellow mustard
1 clove garlic minced
2 T. minced onion (dehydrated)
Dash cayenne
1 T. Old Bay seasoning
1 T. dried chives
Whirl everything up in the blender until it's smooth.
Serve with Kettle chips and conversation.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Products I Love - Private Label Skincare
I make my living as an artist. A lot of people assume that means I starve. They are mistaken. (Starving artists, for the record, are just wastoids with no talent for living.) I live well. But only because my dollars work hard. Nothing can be wasted when paychecks are small and irregular. My ship is tight.
One of the tricks I've learned over my frugal lifetime is to gravitate toward private label products. Private label or generic or no-name products are on the stores of your supermarket or drugstore right next to the name brands you know and trust. They are usually packaged similarly to the names and often contain identical formulations. But they are considerably cheaper. They can afford to be because they don't have to advertise.
Not all private label products are the bomb. But I'm here to sing the praises of my generic skin care regimen.
Rite Aid Cleanser - a similar formulation to Cetaphil. This stuff is gentle, moisturizing and doesn't irritate. I use it to remove eye make-up without tears. You can use it with water or just massage it in and tissue it off. It makes my face feel like velvet and it costs practically nothing.
Kroger Oil of Beauty - a no-frills knockoff of Oil of Olay, this light moisturizer doesn't clog, irritate or leave a film. It absorbs beautifully, makes a great make-up base and has SPF 15.
These two standbys, along with Garnier Skin Renew Awakening Face Massager - a reasonably-priced gem of a product that is worth every penny - form my basic daily skin care routine.
Skin care is the basis of any decent beauty regimen. Your skin tells all. Do not skimp on skincare. But for heaven's sake, don't spend more than you have to.
One of the tricks I've learned over my frugal lifetime is to gravitate toward private label products. Private label or generic or no-name products are on the stores of your supermarket or drugstore right next to the name brands you know and trust. They are usually packaged similarly to the names and often contain identical formulations. But they are considerably cheaper. They can afford to be because they don't have to advertise.
Not all private label products are the bomb. But I'm here to sing the praises of my generic skin care regimen.
Rite Aid Cleanser - a similar formulation to Cetaphil. This stuff is gentle, moisturizing and doesn't irritate. I use it to remove eye make-up without tears. You can use it with water or just massage it in and tissue it off. It makes my face feel like velvet and it costs practically nothing.
Kroger Oil of Beauty - a no-frills knockoff of Oil of Olay, this light moisturizer doesn't clog, irritate or leave a film. It absorbs beautifully, makes a great make-up base and has SPF 15.
These two standbys, along with Garnier Skin Renew Awakening Face Massager - a reasonably-priced gem of a product that is worth every penny - form my basic daily skin care routine.
Skin care is the basis of any decent beauty regimen. Your skin tells all. Do not skimp on skincare. But for heaven's sake, don't spend more than you have to.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Seen on the Street - Woman in Garbage Can
This morning as I walked to my parking garage, I saw a woman sitting - no - lounging in a garbage can. Totally chill. Head back. Satisfied smile. Cigarette dangling casually between her fingers. Her butt was in the can. Her feet hanging out. And she watched the pavement pounding losers mill by, her face laced with arrogance, pity and contempt. Her lips pressed together in self-satisfied bliss.
She looked like she'd just discovered how incredibly comfy a city garbage can could be, moments before the secret got out. She'd figured it out and beaten us all to the trash can paradise.
She looked proud. And sorry for us.
She looked like she'd just discovered how incredibly comfy a city garbage can could be, moments before the secret got out. She'd figured it out and beaten us all to the trash can paradise.
She looked proud. And sorry for us.
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Sound of Silence
Vocal rest. It sounds so peaceful. It isn't. It's a relentless barrage of unvoiced thoughts, trapped in the mind and locked in the jaw. The feeling that you're disappearing from view as the noisy world goes on around you, without you, oblivious to you. The isolation of enforced silence within a culture built on verbal exchange.
Wait. Lemme bring you up to speed.
Last week I played a gig with my cover band. We are called Reckless and we rock the house with classic hits from the 70s and 80s. Def Leppard. Joan Jett. The Stones. If it has wailing guitar solos and throaty growls and it totally rocks - we do it. And last week I learned what happens if I do it at the onset of bronchitis.
I won't bore the non-singing reader with a detailed explanation of vocal mechanics. (You're welcome.) But I will emphasize that I LOST my voice. I don't mean it sounded weird when I talked. I mean I opened my mouth and there was no sound. I've been singing since I was two years old and this has never happened to me. It was as terrifying as when Agent Whats-His-Face made Neo's mouth fuse closed. Fortunately, I am a well-looked after woman. My favoritest ever work colleague got on the phone for me and got me an emergency appointment with an ENT. This kindly old guy stuck a camera up my nose and diagnosed me with acute laryngitis (you don't say?) and a blood clot on my vocal fold. (Okay, Doc. You have my attention.) The treatment? Steroids (So long baseball career.) And vocal rest.
No talking for a week. And no singing until further notice.
I went home and cried. Then reminded myself that crying is stressful to the vocal folds and sucked it up.
No talking. For a week. A week of silence. No phone calls. No questions. No "Good Morning." No "Thank You." No "Small drip coffee, please." No "This is my stop, Driver." No "Get away from me, Crazy Man."
I learned quickly that people either ignore me completely or get oddly aggressive, like they think I'M ignoring THEM. I try to compensate for my silence with smiles but you can't land a smile on someone if they're not looking at you. And it's really hard to get someone to look at you without speaking to them.
Inaudible = Invisible.
I understand the vow of silence now. It erases the sense of self. Unable to demand attention, voice a need or impose an opinion, one is forced to deal with what one essentially is, with what one is when no one else is looking. Yes - these are the kinds of thoughts that surface when you can't say "Excuse me, you're standing on my foot."
Today was my first day of talking and it's been rough. My voice is weak and sad sounding and it breaks my heart to hear it. I'm still under orders to avoid shouting so I haven't said much today that anyone heard. My maximum volume is about half of what regular conversation requires. Only those who truly want to hear me do.
When did we all start yelling all the time? It's really noisy and exhausting. I never noticed it before because I could just raise my voice above the din in order to be heard. Now I can't. And this experience has been so unsettling (I haven't even touched on the psycho-crisis that is being unable to sing) that I doubt I'll be so willing to shout in the future. Unless there's like a fire or something, I'm just not gonna yell for you people. Which means I'll say less. Much less.
But perhaps if I become the girl who says less, then the stuff I do say will be more important. Maybe that's why silence is golden. Who knows what we could accomplish if we could just discipline ourselves enough to shut up from time to time and listen?
Enough yakking. Time for Throat Coat with honey.
Wait. Lemme bring you up to speed.
Last week I played a gig with my cover band. We are called Reckless and we rock the house with classic hits from the 70s and 80s. Def Leppard. Joan Jett. The Stones. If it has wailing guitar solos and throaty growls and it totally rocks - we do it. And last week I learned what happens if I do it at the onset of bronchitis.
I won't bore the non-singing reader with a detailed explanation of vocal mechanics. (You're welcome.) But I will emphasize that I LOST my voice. I don't mean it sounded weird when I talked. I mean I opened my mouth and there was no sound. I've been singing since I was two years old and this has never happened to me. It was as terrifying as when Agent Whats-His-Face made Neo's mouth fuse closed. Fortunately, I am a well-looked after woman. My favoritest ever work colleague got on the phone for me and got me an emergency appointment with an ENT. This kindly old guy stuck a camera up my nose and diagnosed me with acute laryngitis (you don't say?) and a blood clot on my vocal fold. (Okay, Doc. You have my attention.) The treatment? Steroids (So long baseball career.) And vocal rest.
No talking for a week. And no singing until further notice.
I went home and cried. Then reminded myself that crying is stressful to the vocal folds and sucked it up.
No talking. For a week. A week of silence. No phone calls. No questions. No "Good Morning." No "Thank You." No "Small drip coffee, please." No "This is my stop, Driver." No "Get away from me, Crazy Man."
I learned quickly that people either ignore me completely or get oddly aggressive, like they think I'M ignoring THEM. I try to compensate for my silence with smiles but you can't land a smile on someone if they're not looking at you. And it's really hard to get someone to look at you without speaking to them.
Inaudible = Invisible.
I understand the vow of silence now. It erases the sense of self. Unable to demand attention, voice a need or impose an opinion, one is forced to deal with what one essentially is, with what one is when no one else is looking. Yes - these are the kinds of thoughts that surface when you can't say "Excuse me, you're standing on my foot."
Today was my first day of talking and it's been rough. My voice is weak and sad sounding and it breaks my heart to hear it. I'm still under orders to avoid shouting so I haven't said much today that anyone heard. My maximum volume is about half of what regular conversation requires. Only those who truly want to hear me do.
When did we all start yelling all the time? It's really noisy and exhausting. I never noticed it before because I could just raise my voice above the din in order to be heard. Now I can't. And this experience has been so unsettling (I haven't even touched on the psycho-crisis that is being unable to sing) that I doubt I'll be so willing to shout in the future. Unless there's like a fire or something, I'm just not gonna yell for you people. Which means I'll say less. Much less.
But perhaps if I become the girl who says less, then the stuff I do say will be more important. Maybe that's why silence is golden. Who knows what we could accomplish if we could just discipline ourselves enough to shut up from time to time and listen?
Enough yakking. Time for Throat Coat with honey.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
A Nation Of Douche Bags
I'm not sure exactly when it happened. I don't know what brought it about. But the ugly truth is there for anyone to see. We are a nation of ill-bred, ill-mannered douche bags. Where once we kept our thoughtlessness under wraps for fear of judgement, we now wear it as a badge of patriotic pride. When we do see the problem of Rude America, we see it only in others. We identify a cause of rudeness only so that we may sit in judgement on The Rude. If we recognize any rudeness in ourselves, these causes quickly become our excuses. And the cancer grows while we all sit smugly by.
If we are to survive, we must confront The Douche Bag Within.
One of our fave scapegoat/excuses is TECHNOLOGY. TECHNOLOGY has advanced so rapidly, etiquette simply can't keep up. "How are you supposed to send an apology? Phone, voicemail, email, text, facebook page or tweet? It's just so overwhelming. I don't know what to do."
Sure you do. Apologize. Immediately and sincerely. But we've become so divorced from any real regard for each other that the numerous methods we have of communicating have simply made us more efficient douches. National Burn A Quran Day has a Facebook page. Sarah Palin tweets her support for Dr. Laura's on-air use of racial epithets. Perez Hilton posts an invasive shot of underage Miley Cyrus (and cell-phone toting Peeping Toms everywhere realize they are on a lucrative career path.)
These shocking examples are made possible by the less outrageous acts of Everyday Douchebags. You know one. You are one. Do you have loud cell phone conversations in public places? Do you text while someone else is talking to you? Do you decline to put spaces between your words when you email, saving a few precious seconds by rendering your message incomprehensible to your reader? Yep. You're the Douchebag.
Another easy target is reality tv. It has made us vulgar and gossip-hungry. Except that it hasn't made us anything. (Except insufferably dull conversationalists.) TV producers knew we were a nation of catty bitches and farting frat boys and they figured out how to make money off that. Well-crafted drama, scripted and performed by seasoned professionals was shoved aside in favor of a tasteless parade of "real" people vigorously over-sharing, artificially manipulated to produce tears and screaming matches, the losers swept aside each week and forgotten. They are the Gladiators and We, The Emperors.
Personal dignity and regard for others. If we'd had them to begin with, the producers would have been selling us new game shows for the last decade, instead of this endless gross-fest.
Finally - The American Family. The sharpest of my readers will already have noticed that Dr. Laura, Sarah Palin and the Quran burners ARE the American Family. They are its most vocal proponents, the self-appointed Keepers of American Morality. They oppose anything - from sex ed to rock music - which compromises their control because, they argue that the home is the proper sphere for teaching kids right from wrong.
So what do we think kids learn from watching Mommy make Daddy a "God Hates Fags" sign to wave in front of the cameras? My guess is they learn that God Loves Douche Bags.
Still - hope springs eternal and from the least likely places.
My Man and I went to Spaceland last week to see The Spits - a Seattle-based punk band. They took the stage at midnight, by which time the crowd was hyper and trashed. As we jockeyed for a good position in front of the stage, I got jostled. It was no biggie. No bruises were left. My drink wasn't spilled. I've certainly survived worse. But the jostler stopped, looked me in the eye and said,
"Sorry 'bout that."
And moved on. It doesn't sound like much but it almost never happens. I'm small. I get thrashed about mercilessly in crowds. And no one ever apologizes. Ever.
The show started and so did the moshing. And the moshers - I am not making this up - took care of each other. They moshed. They moshed real good. But when someone went down, they were helped up. The pit stayed in the pit - the moshers respecting the crowd-imposed boundary. And everyone was happy. Happy to be sharing a communal moment of music and beer and raw energy. Happy to be around other people. If punk rockers can play nice, surely the Tea Partiers could make an effort.
Our nation is bitterly divided. Our culture and government have descended into a perpetual shouting match in which nothing is ever resolved and cheap shots are the highest possible victory. The disregard we show for each others' feelings is a way of dehumanizing our fellow man. Once Americans stop seeing each other as countrymen, we're done. Shark bait. Sitting ducks. Too many people hate us for us to be so eager to hate each other.
So - for the sake of the nation that bore you - mind your manners. A few suggestions. Pick 2 to try tomorrow. And Be the Change.
1. When you bump into someone, stop and say "Sorry 'bout that."
2. When you ride an escalator, stand to the right so that people in a hurry can pass you.
3. Thank people for doing their jobs. It makes a big difference in their day.
4. Next time you're at a party, make an effort to include an outsider in your conversation.
5. Return phone calls within a maximum of 48 hours.
6. Learn the first names of your neighbors and get in the habit of asking them about their day.
7. If you have a dog, pick up its poop.
8. If you smoke, keep your butts out of the gutter.
9. Don't make the person on the other end of the phone more important than the person standing in front of you.
10. Begin every conversation - with your Mom, a collections agent, a cab driver or your ex-husband - with "How's your day been so far?" And listen to the answer, even if you don't care. Compassion is a muscle. Use it or lose it.
If we are to survive, we must confront The Douche Bag Within.
One of our fave scapegoat/excuses is TECHNOLOGY. TECHNOLOGY has advanced so rapidly, etiquette simply can't keep up. "How are you supposed to send an apology? Phone, voicemail, email, text, facebook page or tweet? It's just so overwhelming. I don't know what to do."
Sure you do. Apologize. Immediately and sincerely. But we've become so divorced from any real regard for each other that the numerous methods we have of communicating have simply made us more efficient douches. National Burn A Quran Day has a Facebook page. Sarah Palin tweets her support for Dr. Laura's on-air use of racial epithets. Perez Hilton posts an invasive shot of underage Miley Cyrus (and cell-phone toting Peeping Toms everywhere realize they are on a lucrative career path.)
These shocking examples are made possible by the less outrageous acts of Everyday Douchebags. You know one. You are one. Do you have loud cell phone conversations in public places? Do you text while someone else is talking to you? Do you decline to put spaces between your words when you email, saving a few precious seconds by rendering your message incomprehensible to your reader? Yep. You're the Douchebag.
Another easy target is reality tv. It has made us vulgar and gossip-hungry. Except that it hasn't made us anything. (Except insufferably dull conversationalists.) TV producers knew we were a nation of catty bitches and farting frat boys and they figured out how to make money off that. Well-crafted drama, scripted and performed by seasoned professionals was shoved aside in favor of a tasteless parade of "real" people vigorously over-sharing, artificially manipulated to produce tears and screaming matches, the losers swept aside each week and forgotten. They are the Gladiators and We, The Emperors.
Personal dignity and regard for others. If we'd had them to begin with, the producers would have been selling us new game shows for the last decade, instead of this endless gross-fest.
Finally - The American Family. The sharpest of my readers will already have noticed that Dr. Laura, Sarah Palin and the Quran burners ARE the American Family. They are its most vocal proponents, the self-appointed Keepers of American Morality. They oppose anything - from sex ed to rock music - which compromises their control because, they argue that the home is the proper sphere for teaching kids right from wrong.
So what do we think kids learn from watching Mommy make Daddy a "God Hates Fags" sign to wave in front of the cameras? My guess is they learn that God Loves Douche Bags.
Still - hope springs eternal and from the least likely places.
My Man and I went to Spaceland last week to see The Spits - a Seattle-based punk band. They took the stage at midnight, by which time the crowd was hyper and trashed. As we jockeyed for a good position in front of the stage, I got jostled. It was no biggie. No bruises were left. My drink wasn't spilled. I've certainly survived worse. But the jostler stopped, looked me in the eye and said,
"Sorry 'bout that."
And moved on. It doesn't sound like much but it almost never happens. I'm small. I get thrashed about mercilessly in crowds. And no one ever apologizes. Ever.
The show started and so did the moshing. And the moshers - I am not making this up - took care of each other. They moshed. They moshed real good. But when someone went down, they were helped up. The pit stayed in the pit - the moshers respecting the crowd-imposed boundary. And everyone was happy. Happy to be sharing a communal moment of music and beer and raw energy. Happy to be around other people. If punk rockers can play nice, surely the Tea Partiers could make an effort.
Our nation is bitterly divided. Our culture and government have descended into a perpetual shouting match in which nothing is ever resolved and cheap shots are the highest possible victory. The disregard we show for each others' feelings is a way of dehumanizing our fellow man. Once Americans stop seeing each other as countrymen, we're done. Shark bait. Sitting ducks. Too many people hate us for us to be so eager to hate each other.
So - for the sake of the nation that bore you - mind your manners. A few suggestions. Pick 2 to try tomorrow. And Be the Change.
1. When you bump into someone, stop and say "Sorry 'bout that."
2. When you ride an escalator, stand to the right so that people in a hurry can pass you.
3. Thank people for doing their jobs. It makes a big difference in their day.
4. Next time you're at a party, make an effort to include an outsider in your conversation.
5. Return phone calls within a maximum of 48 hours.
6. Learn the first names of your neighbors and get in the habit of asking them about their day.
7. If you have a dog, pick up its poop.
8. If you smoke, keep your butts out of the gutter.
9. Don't make the person on the other end of the phone more important than the person standing in front of you.
10. Begin every conversation - with your Mom, a collections agent, a cab driver or your ex-husband - with "How's your day been so far?" And listen to the answer, even if you don't care. Compassion is a muscle. Use it or lose it.
Monday, August 9, 2010
The Gentleman Is Correct In Sitting
Anthony Weiner is mad as hell and correct in not taking it anymore.
For those of you just joining us - the New York Congressman drew attention last week by losing his cool on the floor of the House. When a detractor attempted an interjection, Weiner refused to yield - instructing the gentleman to sit down. The fit of rage was brief and full of compelling points, none of which have been mentioned in any reference I've heard to the incident. Which is just more of the maddening detachment that got the man so worked up in the first place.
Peoples' lives are real. Covering your ass is not. Did I just lose the gentleman?
Politics requires a certain remove. One cannot make life and death decisions everyday if one is too close to the lives in question. It's a game and if one wishes to create positive change, one must learn to play it. But knowing this is no excuse for not doing your job, whether you're an elected representative or a regular citizen.
Consider the comfortable remove of California gubernatorial candidate Meg Whitman who ignored the political game entirely for most of her adult life before deciding to make it her career. I don't follow this at all. You found politics so tedious and irrelevant that you couldn't find time to do the absolute minimum - and now you want the people to entrust you with an elected position of enormous responsibility at a time of extraordinary challenges? I'd like a little more info, ma'am.
But I'll only get well-rehearsed responses from her on how not voting was "wrong" and some lame dribble about being focused on raising a family. (Which by the way, was a primary argument against allowing women to vote in the first place. Way to represent, sista.) I'll get whatever her handlers have told her to say in order to cover her ass. She's just playing the game.
And why shouldn't she? She's spent a fortune getting a seat at the table. What's our excuse? Any intelligent person will likely dismiss my concerns with rolled eyes and pre-scripted excuses about how the system is corrupt and no one can do anything about it. It's a weak argument because it isn't real. It's just the pre-scripted response that the guy on the street gives to cover his ass.
No. The gentleman will accept responsibility. The gentleman is correct in accepting responsibility.
Our officials work for us but we're too lazy (or sorry, focused on raising our families) to properly oversee them. We complain instead of taking action because we delude ourselves into thinking that politics is separate from our lives. This is every bit as reprehensible in an ordinary citizen as in a Congressman. You should vote yes if you think something is the right thing. Your decisions are real. Healthcare, education and the environment are real. So forget about your ass and do your job.
Barbara Grizzuti Harrison once said, "I refuse to believe that trading recipes is silly. Tuna casserole is at least as real as corporate stock."
Indeed. Times are tough, folks. We need to get real with each other. Be accountable and demand accountability. We need to understand that participating in the political system IS taking care our families. Voting is at least as real as tuna casserole.
The Diva's Fancy Pants Tuna Noodle Casserole
8 oz. egg noodles
1/2 an onion, diced
2 tbsp. butter
2 tbsp. flour
Kosher salt to taste
1 c milk
1 c shaved 3 cheese blend (parmesan, romano, asiago)
6 oz. canned tuna, drained
15 oz. can of peas, drained
1. Heat the oven to 350 and grease a 2 quart casserole
2. Boil the noodles to al dente and drain
3. Melt the butter and fry the onion til it's transluscent and the house smells yummy
4. Add flour and salt and stir to combine well
5. Add milk and whisk until the sauce gets thick. Go easy on the heat for this part.
6. Add cheese and stir to combine well
7. Add tuna, peas and noodles and stir to combine well
8. Pop it in the oven for 30 minutes
Serve warm with cracked pepper.
Serve cold on second day with Sriracha sauce.
Breathe easy.
For those of you just joining us - the New York Congressman drew attention last week by losing his cool on the floor of the House. When a detractor attempted an interjection, Weiner refused to yield - instructing the gentleman to sit down. The fit of rage was brief and full of compelling points, none of which have been mentioned in any reference I've heard to the incident. Which is just more of the maddening detachment that got the man so worked up in the first place.
Peoples' lives are real. Covering your ass is not. Did I just lose the gentleman?
Politics requires a certain remove. One cannot make life and death decisions everyday if one is too close to the lives in question. It's a game and if one wishes to create positive change, one must learn to play it. But knowing this is no excuse for not doing your job, whether you're an elected representative or a regular citizen.
Consider the comfortable remove of California gubernatorial candidate Meg Whitman who ignored the political game entirely for most of her adult life before deciding to make it her career. I don't follow this at all. You found politics so tedious and irrelevant that you couldn't find time to do the absolute minimum - and now you want the people to entrust you with an elected position of enormous responsibility at a time of extraordinary challenges? I'd like a little more info, ma'am.
But I'll only get well-rehearsed responses from her on how not voting was "wrong" and some lame dribble about being focused on raising a family. (Which by the way, was a primary argument against allowing women to vote in the first place. Way to represent, sista.) I'll get whatever her handlers have told her to say in order to cover her ass. She's just playing the game.
And why shouldn't she? She's spent a fortune getting a seat at the table. What's our excuse? Any intelligent person will likely dismiss my concerns with rolled eyes and pre-scripted excuses about how the system is corrupt and no one can do anything about it. It's a weak argument because it isn't real. It's just the pre-scripted response that the guy on the street gives to cover his ass.
No. The gentleman will accept responsibility. The gentleman is correct in accepting responsibility.
Our officials work for us but we're too lazy (or sorry, focused on raising our families) to properly oversee them. We complain instead of taking action because we delude ourselves into thinking that politics is separate from our lives. This is every bit as reprehensible in an ordinary citizen as in a Congressman. You should vote yes if you think something is the right thing. Your decisions are real. Healthcare, education and the environment are real. So forget about your ass and do your job.
Barbara Grizzuti Harrison once said, "I refuse to believe that trading recipes is silly. Tuna casserole is at least as real as corporate stock."
Indeed. Times are tough, folks. We need to get real with each other. Be accountable and demand accountability. We need to understand that participating in the political system IS taking care our families. Voting is at least as real as tuna casserole.
The Diva's Fancy Pants Tuna Noodle Casserole
8 oz. egg noodles
1/2 an onion, diced
2 tbsp. butter
2 tbsp. flour
Kosher salt to taste
1 c milk
1 c shaved 3 cheese blend (parmesan, romano, asiago)
6 oz. canned tuna, drained
15 oz. can of peas, drained
1. Heat the oven to 350 and grease a 2 quart casserole
2. Boil the noodles to al dente and drain
3. Melt the butter and fry the onion til it's transluscent and the house smells yummy
4. Add flour and salt and stir to combine well
5. Add milk and whisk until the sauce gets thick. Go easy on the heat for this part.
6. Add cheese and stir to combine well
7. Add tuna, peas and noodles and stir to combine well
8. Pop it in the oven for 30 minutes
Serve warm with cracked pepper.
Serve cold on second day with Sriracha sauce.
Breathe easy.
Monday, August 2, 2010
The Undeclared War on Domesticity
Please allow me to introduce myself. American Girl. Downtown dilettante. Amateur philosopher and overworked artist. I'm the girl at the farmer's market buying organic produce and realizing I've again forgotten my eco-friendly cloth carrier bag. The chick at Red Zebra repeating my intention to get to bed early every 20 minutes before staggering out at 2AM with everyone else. The gal who writes a song everyday in the car on my way to wherever I'm calling "work" that day. And the loft-dwelling lady with Donna Reed aspirations. That last word is important. I rarely achieve my dream of domestic design bliss. But I don't stop wanting it. A well-tended home is a grander dream than a shoe closet.
But I am alone in this. Right?
I didn't grow up in Betty Crocker land. This isn't about nostalgia for anything from my own life. My mom worked all the time, like I do. She was a good mom - folded my laundry, packed my lunches and made my Halloween costumes. But she wasn't the type to plan a menu or decorate a cake or keep an herb garden. She had other stuff to do. But the first time I decided - on a whim - to get up and make the recipe for chicken enchiladas I saw in a magazine ad for cheese, I was sold. The smell wafting from the oven. Watching the cheese melt. The gleeful surprise from my family when they found a home-cooked meal on the table. Immaculate and unparalleled satisfaction.
But life took me through stints in artsy fartsy theater and existentially-induced nausea and all-night parties and jazz jazz jazz. And I had a new set of friends among whom the domestic arts were NOT revered. They were - if anything - a brutal manifestation of the continued subjugation of women. My awesome new pals bragged about their utter incompetence in the kitchen. And why not? We were designing a new way of being. One that worked for US. And being at home meant you had nothing to do. Any effort expended to improve your own home was an admission that you had time for drudgery and were thus, less than fabulous.
But I never bought it. It struck me as inexcusably lame to take pride in ignorance, especially when the result of it was being unable to take care of yourself. My fashionista crowd dutifully educated themselves on trends and gossip, while cultivating a childish dependence on take-out and freeze-dried and readymade food products. Then the same girls would moan incessantly about weight gain and dull skin and persistent colds. They would swap product recommendations and talk juice fasts, charging arrogantly toward a future of excessive consumption and excessive waste. Their lives were entirely store bought. Cupboards devoid of anything perishable. Bathrooms crammed with half-used lotions and potions, languishing forgotten behind the newer arrivals. The boxes, bottles and cartons needed to transport this life from the manufacturer to the consumer piled up next to overflowing wastebaskets. The veggie pizza and over-packaged salad arrived regularly at the door - salt and fat conveniently prepared by someone less fabulous than we.
The message was clear: Carrie Bradshaw uses her oven for storage.
But those girls went the way of all my other ill-conceived youthful experiments. Now I make my home in the heart of the city, surrounded by books, music, art, thoughts... And homemade Cream of Cucumber soup a la Julia Child, garnished with cucumber slices and chopped fresh dill and served on my urban jungle balcony.
2 perfect post-rehearsal suppers:
1st Night Menu:
Julia's Cream of Cucumber Soup served warm
Spinach salad with cheddar and almonds, dressed in oil and vinegar/salt and pepper
Broiled Cod rubbed with olive oil and Tom Douglas Rub With Love Chicken Rub
Mounds (yeah, the candy bar. I spent a while on the soup. Had to keep everything else simple.)
2nd Night Menu:
The soup served cold
Egg noodles stirred with cottage cheese
Cheddar slices and Olive Oil/Cracked Pepper Triscuits
But I am alone in this. Right?
I didn't grow up in Betty Crocker land. This isn't about nostalgia for anything from my own life. My mom worked all the time, like I do. She was a good mom - folded my laundry, packed my lunches and made my Halloween costumes. But she wasn't the type to plan a menu or decorate a cake or keep an herb garden. She had other stuff to do. But the first time I decided - on a whim - to get up and make the recipe for chicken enchiladas I saw in a magazine ad for cheese, I was sold. The smell wafting from the oven. Watching the cheese melt. The gleeful surprise from my family when they found a home-cooked meal on the table. Immaculate and unparalleled satisfaction.
But life took me through stints in artsy fartsy theater and existentially-induced nausea and all-night parties and jazz jazz jazz. And I had a new set of friends among whom the domestic arts were NOT revered. They were - if anything - a brutal manifestation of the continued subjugation of women. My awesome new pals bragged about their utter incompetence in the kitchen. And why not? We were designing a new way of being. One that worked for US. And being at home meant you had nothing to do. Any effort expended to improve your own home was an admission that you had time for drudgery and were thus, less than fabulous.
But I never bought it. It struck me as inexcusably lame to take pride in ignorance, especially when the result of it was being unable to take care of yourself. My fashionista crowd dutifully educated themselves on trends and gossip, while cultivating a childish dependence on take-out and freeze-dried and readymade food products. Then the same girls would moan incessantly about weight gain and dull skin and persistent colds. They would swap product recommendations and talk juice fasts, charging arrogantly toward a future of excessive consumption and excessive waste. Their lives were entirely store bought. Cupboards devoid of anything perishable. Bathrooms crammed with half-used lotions and potions, languishing forgotten behind the newer arrivals. The boxes, bottles and cartons needed to transport this life from the manufacturer to the consumer piled up next to overflowing wastebaskets. The veggie pizza and over-packaged salad arrived regularly at the door - salt and fat conveniently prepared by someone less fabulous than we.
The message was clear: Carrie Bradshaw uses her oven for storage.
But those girls went the way of all my other ill-conceived youthful experiments. Now I make my home in the heart of the city, surrounded by books, music, art, thoughts... And homemade Cream of Cucumber soup a la Julia Child, garnished with cucumber slices and chopped fresh dill and served on my urban jungle balcony.
2 perfect post-rehearsal suppers:
1st Night Menu:
Julia's Cream of Cucumber Soup served warm
Spinach salad with cheddar and almonds, dressed in oil and vinegar/salt and pepper
Broiled Cod rubbed with olive oil and Tom Douglas Rub With Love Chicken Rub
Mounds (yeah, the candy bar. I spent a while on the soup. Had to keep everything else simple.)
2nd Night Menu:
The soup served cold
Egg noodles stirred with cottage cheese
Cheddar slices and Olive Oil/Cracked Pepper Triscuits
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