New for 2012: The 2-Door (Hatch) Back Spasm!

Maybe its just me.  Whenever I see the little car known as the Fit (by a car maker whose name rhymes with "Rhonda"), I cannot help but laugh.

You see, when I read the word Fit, I don't think of it in the senses of "appropriate for the circumstances" or "suiting the dimensions and shape of something".  I mean, I do, but not when I see that word applied to car.  When I see it capitalized and in a logo, my mind automatically leaps to the definition of fit as in "having a tantrum" or "a state of being characterized by involuntary spasms, tics or outbursts, and usually associated with extreme emotional upset".

So when I see the Fit on the roadways?  I laugh, and I hope there won't be a fit.  What about you?

On The Importance of Knowing Where To Find Your Hammer

One of the most important rules of carpentry, especially that which puts the humble nail front and center, is to always know the location of your hammer. 

Come to think of it, that is good advice no matter you do in life.

Keep an eye on your hammer, no matter what form in which it manifests.

Friday Night Is All Right For...What?

One of the smartest things I have ever done is set down the glass before it is too late.  Years bring wisdom, of sorts, to them that cares to pay attention.  And I do.  Most of the time.  But I wonder, yes I do, what I would be if I didn't listen to the voice of reason as much as I think I do.

Ahhh...it's not reason, perhaps?  Cowardice, maybe?  I cannot say for sure.  It is dangerous to listen too closely to the ego.  Ego wants what it wants, and it can talk itself into anything in pursuit of its own gratifications.  Or delusions.  The ego is ruthless.

I am learning that sometimes I should not listen to myself.  This goes against the very fiber of my mind, because I have long believed that my mind was Me, and the only thing I could trust.  Ha.  I was wrong.

So I sit here, on a Friday night, quietly and at home with the television as company.  And I know this is not a bad thing, not for now.  Better than flogging my brain cells with barley pops, surrounded by people I am afraid to talk to or with...and believing my ego when it tells me I'm a boss.

Trust me, I'm smarter now.

Adventure in the Metawebs

It is a long-held belief of mine that the internet is an exercise in recursion, a collective echo chamber with infinitely overlapping inputs.  To put it another way, its a never-ending Grand Canyon with an infinite number of people surrounding it and shouting into it to hear the words reflected back, gently fading.  No doubt this creates an environment where one can never be sure if one heard what one thought one heard.  Was it your voice? was it someone else?  Was is it a synergistic hybrid of who knows how many different voices?  In effect, much of what comes back is noise.  Noise, with a tinge of signal.

It is not all like this.  There are nuggets, gems cast up on the electronic shore like pearls among the gravel.  It will always be mathematically possible, if highly improbable, that something significant we cast off into the cybervoid will slowly make its way back to the home system.  Ladies and gentlemen, this has happened to me.

I have been quoted in an online magazine with some exposure.

What makes this weird (for me, at least) is that I was quoted from a comment I left on one of the articles some weeks ago.  So it wasn't from a direct question, or an interview or sound bite.  It was from an off-the-cuff leisure time activity of mine.

I received an email notifying me that I had been quoted, and thought it was spam.  Imagine my (mild) surprise when it turned out to be legit.  Imagine, little ol' me laid down some verbiage that someone felt noteworthy enough to quote in an article.  Strange and nice at the same time.

For those who are curious, here's the link:  THE GOOD MEN PROJECT.  My two cents is the fourth one down under responses.  I'd appreciate you giving it, and TGMP, a read; they have a good thing going.

Saturday Night (Swiffer) Fever

It says something about my current life and state of mind that its Saturday, on a cool but pleasant night, and I am home alone perched on the couch...and I am okay with this situation.  There is good music on the stereo, the chores are all done and I am pleasantly tired and (get this) relaxed.

"Get out!"  you say.  "I know!" I say.

It is true.  I am relaxed.  This is big.  It has been weeks since I felt unwound to the point where I didn't feel jittery, and I had a grip on my day.  This is what it must feel like, I tell myself, to feel normal.  Perhaps normal is just another way to say 'content', like cows chewing cud.

I attribute this to finally pushing myself to take care of lots of nagging little things, cleaning out some clutter, catching up on laundry and bills.  Oh, and a liberal dose of my Wee Lass.  She wasn't with me this weekend, but the circus was in town, and she and I and her mother went to see it.  Wee Lass was very excited, and seeing that made me feel good too.  She got a stuffed white tiger (with cub) as a souvenir, and we all thoroughly enjoyed the show.  An amazing spectacle, fun for all!

After that it was pizza for dinner, and then home for me.  I briefly considered hitting the tavern around the corner, but then I got distracted.

Distracted by Swiffering.  Yeah, man, I was doing the swiffer-dance and getting the floors clean, and I was really digging it.  There was a brief pang, of feeling pathetic because I'm cleaning instead of clubbing* on a Saturday night...but then with a playlist like this one:

...the regrets quickly faded and I had a great time shakin' what passes for my moneymaker while sweeping the floor.  I think having simple tasks and getting things done was just the ticket to sand the edges off my anxiety.  Not to mention, I also have clean floors!

---

*Not that I ever was much on clubbing.  When I had the energy for it, I lacked the social skills to make a go of it.  Now that I can at least make people think I have social skills, I almost never have the energy.  Seems a tad unfair, yes?

Speechless

I'm absolutely gobsmacked.  Recent events have left me wondering what to say.  Gimme some  good news, people!

Creature Comforts

A cool wall to nap against on a hot summer day.

The scent of line-dried sheets when drifting off to sleep.

Sweet ripe apple taste on a fine fall afternoon.

To those I would add these:  slipping into socks and undies toasty from laying on the radiator, on a cold winter morning.  Simple pleasures, my friends, are often the best.

Take Me Home, Socks It to Me

It isn't often that trains and socks have much to do with each other, especially when they produce feelings of contentment and gratitude.  Tonight, they did.

I arrived home at Casa del Gumbo after dark, and after my web development class (note: the podcast is still on the table), and on top of a long work day I was all in for some

Chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool
And all shootin some b-ball outside of school

No, wait, that was the Fresh Prince, not me.  I don't play b-ball, because sadly, Gumbo don't got game.


Anyway, I pulled up in front of the crib, got out of my hoopty and...

Damnit, I can't seem to shake the urban slang.  Something's all up in my grille...

Anyhoo,  I came home, went in the house, and opened some windows to enjoy the cool night air and relative peace and quiet.  As I was taking off my shoes,  I heard a train horn from across the way.  It sounded a lot closer than it really was, maybe some trick of damp air and the nearby river valley was amping up the noise.  It sounded lonely, as most train horns do, but at the same time it was comforting.  It reminded me that I was glad to be home, safe and dry.  I had a belly full of dinner, and some new (clean) socks on my feet.

Having new socks is like brushing your teeth after missing a time or two.  Its one of those small, simple pleasures that make a person feel at home and relatively civilized.  I like that feeling.  My feet like the plushness of a new pair of socks, and that in turn relaxes me and takes the edge off of stress.

So sitting on my bed, luxuriating in having a roof over my head and comfy feet, that train horn put the sonic cherry on the sundae of my creature comfort evening.  The semi-mournful wail reminded me that the World is out there, and I am In Here.  I'm not stuck in a war zone, or a hospital, or trapped hundreds of meters underground wondering if I'll ever see the light of day again*.  I'm here, at home, and thankful.

*That rescue of the miners was the best ending to a real life saga I've seen in a long, long time.

Gumbo News Network Op-Ed Page: In Which I Address the Subject of Breasts

Let me state up front and categorically, I do not have breasts.  So anything that follows is written from the perspective of observation, research and study, not from that of possession.  So, to the point.

While watching the local news tonight, noshing on a delish BLT sandwich, my attention was gotten by a "coming up on Channel 11 News: the link between breast feeding and Type II diabetes" announcement that the fine folks at the station assured me I didn't want to miss.  Fair enough, I'm a curious type, so I stayed tuned.

I thought the story would be about breastfeeding reducing the risk in the child.  Not an unreasonable assumption given the documented benefits it has for the wee ones.  As it turns out, a new study appears to indicate that mothers who breastfeed for at least a month or longer significantly reduce their risk of developing diabetes later in life.  Now this is pretty good news.

So I am watching this news story, and the anchor woman is intoning the report while a collage of images is run across the screen.  Stock footage of moms and babies,  doctors in lab coats, women breastfeeding in a variety of settings, and...wait, rewind that.

Women breastfeeding their infants in a variety of settings...progressive, right?

Not quite.  I never saw the actual activity.  Why?  Because the infant/nipple interface was always obstructed by things like a vase of flowers, or other strategically placed object.  Oblique camera angles were utilized.  Sharply focused shots of said vase in foreground with unfocused outline of mother and child in the background.  It was as if they were going to do every thing they could to report on the subject without resorting to the subject itself.

They may as well skipped the images altogether.  Because doesn't it seem ridiculous to talk about breast feeding in a visual medium without using images of what is being talked about?

I can only imagine the contortions the media outlets have to go through to editorially justify the content.  I'm sure there are all sorts of rules in place that supposedly govern these situations.  But come on, it's breastfeeding, not sex or some other activity many people might claim to find objectionable.  This is a particularly goofy form of censorship.

Question:  am I the only person on the planet who is capable of separating the sexual aspects from the nurturing aspects vis a vis the female breast?  Am I the only person who thinks it is possible to discuss one without involving the other?  I hope not.  Maybe I'm weird, but when I see a mother breastfeeding her child, I see an act of singular beauty and femininity; I don't think "Huhhuh, boobies, huhhuh!"

I got the impression that someone was really scared about backlash.  I'm not suggesting that 'anything goes' all the time, every time', but for cryin' out loud, people, this is a completely normal, nurturing activity that has nothing to do with "gettin' busy"*.  It occurred to me that the problem is not so much in the mind of the viewer, it is in the mind of the censor.  Has it not occurred to them that selective editing such as that only increases the likelihood of generating the kind of attention and questions they are seeking to avoid?

"Why is that baby's head blurry, daddy?"
"Mommy, do baby heads always disappear behind stuff when they do that? And what are they doing?"

It also struck me that this reluctance to be open about the topic says a lot about the minds of the beholder.  To go to such lengths as they did to show without really showing, implies that somewhere, someone thinks there is something wrong or objectionable about breastfeeding.  It implies a sense of shame about something which we shouldn't be ashamed of. It amazes me that a news cycle that has no problem showing burning vehicles, combat footage, chalk outlines with bloodstains, and freely talks about murder...treats a suckling infant like a bearer of moral turpitude.

Don't get me wrong;  I appreciate a nice pair of breasts in the way that the average hetero male** seems to across the board.  I like them and find them inordinately intriguing, but in the right context, one that is far away from the nurturing act of breastfeeding.  I think it is a sad indication of a societal mindset that automatically assumes a worst or more distasteful viewpoint whenever we acknowledge that (gasp!) our bodies have parts that do things as nature intended.  And that says more about misplaced priorities than it does about the ability to appreciate beauty.

Why do so many people seem to freak out about this?  Nursing and sex may both be primal activities***, but they are very different.  Can we at least stop acting as if they don't exist?

*Yes, I concede its gettin' busy that produces infants, i.e. the feeders, in the first place. But the point is its a normal activity with its own beauty, rooted in the cycle of life.
**I say 'hetero male' because that is the only gender-associated viewpoint of which I can speak with any authority.  It is certainly possible that other viewpoints find them just as attractive.
***Some may say "Yeah, well, defecation is a natural, primal activity, so should we show that?"  My answer is no.  Not because I refuse to acknowledge its existence, but because pooping is gross and boring.  Not much beauty there.

Traces

The evening air was wet and heavy, spiked with the scent of dry grass and flowers. As walking weather goes, it left something to be desired. The walls were creeping in, the silence after the television turned off was far too deafening. It was time to move, so damn the humidity. Out the door I went, camera in hand.

The sun was going down, swaddled in billows of clouds. A ruff of trees along the river reached up to scratch the belly of pearly gray and white fluff in the western sky. I reached the cross street just down the slope from my house and headed east along the main drag in this part of my new town. I was of a mind to walk a little further this night. Instead of taking the first right past the post office, I was going to keep going straight, heading up to Cemetery Lane.

I have driven by the lane many times, past the trim white clapboard-sheathed church on the corner, but not once had I turned onto it to see where it went. It was only a week or so ago that I saw that there is indeed, a cemetery on Cemetery Lane. Imagine that. I have also counted at least three churches withing a half-mile radius of house, one right around the corner. For some reason, the churches and the cemetery comfort me, in a way that I cannot explain.

Tonight, it was not churches on my mind, it was the cemetery. The light was beginning to lower, and I wanted to get a look before it was too dark. I hurried past the brick church, the post office, and turned left at the clapboard church. The cemetery is on small hill behind the church and continues back toward a stand of trees. The cemetery has been there a long time, at least since the 1800's. It is still in use as I could tell by the occasional modern looking polished granite headstone standing out in a scattering of old marble and other, unknown rock types. Along the road and by the church are a number of old trees, cedars and sycamores I think. Their outlines were stark black against the deepening blue of the sky. All that was needed to complete the scene were some crows, but I spotted none.

As I strolled up the lane, the traffic hum started to fade, to be replaced by crickets and katydids and bird noises. The older monuments followed the dips and terraces of the ground in a classic graveyard tableau. Patches of stark white glared out against ragged birthmarks of grime and lichen on the stones. Most of the names and dates were still legible, but some had begun to blur under the weight of so many summers under the sun. One of the death dates I saw read '1895'. I blinked and rubbed my eyes to make sure I had it right. It was 1895.

I'm not sure if it was me that drew in my breath, or a sudden breeze through the trees on the far side of the cemetery; either way, it sounded like someone was breathing in preparation to speak. There was a hush on the cemetery, disturbed only by the faint sound of a car passing by the church at the bottom of the hill.

I felt like someone was watching me.

I stepped back and looked around. There was no one in sight. The headstone in front of me was faintly radiant in the evening light. It was beautiful. I raised my camera. The click of the shutter was astoundingly loud in that moment. It brought me back to earth. For a precious few moments a calm had descended upon me. Surrounded by hallowed ground, guarded by the sentinel trees, I felt no anxiety or sadness. I felt peace.

A field of memorial stones, traces of lives before mine, unknown to me...yet they made me feel at home.

An Answer Not To Be Found In The Magic 8-Ball

Do cows get bored?

Music Notes: 'Splainin' to Do

Many of you are aware of my puzzlement over the LADY GAGA phenomenon, so it should come as no surprise that there is more where that came from.

Now that I think about it, it is something I have been pondering for years now (in one case) and for a few months (in another case), and I thought it was time to do a brain purge. Musical bookends, you might say.

CASE #1: JANIS JOPLIN

I am not a child of the '60's, in the sense that many people use it these days. I was born in the '60's, but not early enough to have anything to do with being a hippie or a draft dodger or civil rights activist or Bob Dylan. I was old enough (or young enough?) to hear and appreciate a LOT of music from the '60's*, such as lots of Jimi Hendrix, early Led Zeppelin, Beatles, Rolling Stones, even a lot of "oldies". A lot of it I liked. But I never, ever really liked Janis Joplin. I didn't hate her music, but I never really understood why so many people seemed to really dig it. I guess I always found it be...boring. I heard a Janis Joplin song on the radio today, and I listened intently...I tried...but I just wanted to turn it off and stifle a yawn.

CASE #2: VAMPIRE WEEKEND

I was introduced to this group courtesy of my beloved local ear candy provider, 89.7 WTMD (Rock on, freaky bro!) a few months back, and since I trust their judgment, I tried to pay attention when they played them on air. I tried to get into it, but each time it was like "Okay...okay...okay...um, what is it I'm supposed to be gushing over?" I gave them the benefit of the doubt for a while, but I couldn't escape the conclusion I was drawing: I just don't get what is so great about it, what makes the DJ's get so psyched about their music. In all fairness, I do really like the song "Cousins", it has really cool Dick Dale inspired guitar work in it. But their early stuff, and the new song "Horchata"? Sigh. It just makes me search for something else. Nothing personal, it just doesn't grab me.

So there it is, my big head is a little smaller now. So what is your musical mystery? What artists do you get (that others don't seem to get) or not get?

*Quite possibly, I may have been one of only three or so people in my junior high school to know of Iron Butterfly. In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, baby...

On Learning Something, Finally

"Poetry is as necessary to comprehension as science. It is impossible to live without reverence as it is without joy."

---from "The Outermost House: A Year of Life on the Great Beach of Cape Cod" by Henry Beston

Yet again, I come to insight as if by accident. I was lying in bed, reading and trying to uncoil, when I read the above passage. It always surprises and delights me. The Outermost House is a permanent resident in my top five or so favorite books. I first had the pleasure of reading it nearly ten years ago. First published in 1928, I had the good fortune to stumble across a second edition copy in an antique bookstore on Cape Cod. It was published in 1933 and was in very good condition.* I had been wanting it for a long time. I am glad I found it.

Henry Beston was a young man at the time, with the luxury of being able to take a year off, in essence, during which he had a small house built. It was, as the title says, on the beach on Cape Cod. Literally. I am contemplating recreating the plan of it, for myself, maybe as a small vacation cottage somewhere. The title and the thing itself appealed greatly to the architect that I am.

It was the writing that really piqued my interest. It is not the most polished style, and it flirts with being overwrought at times (hmm...sound familiar?) but it was written with enthusiasm and genuine delight in the natural world. He has a keen eye for observation. A prime example is his chapter "The Headlong Wave", in which he attempts to describe the infinite variations of waves hitting the shore. Great, great stuff, and it made me envious and wistful. The sound, the shape, the color of waves...makes me want to be there, to live that life.

Ultimately, I believe that is why I read this book at least once a year, ever since I first bought it so long ago. It speaks of slow time and understanding a place. He describes a life that I dream of having: a small, tidy place of my own, in a place where I feel connected to the earth, with the luxury of near uninterrupted contemplation and rumination.

That luxury means to me: to observe the world around me, to engage in the fullness of life, and translate that into the written word. It is in that fashion that I could truly make my own poetry. I could learn, as I have been struggling to do for so long, to live in reverence and with joy. I know this now. I will find my outermost house in which to live the measure of my days.

Tell me, dear ones, where is your outermost house?

Photo credit and a short history can be found HERE.

*It was also considerably lower in price than the first edition in the same store. At the time, I could not afford it, and it sure did make my brain hurt to pass it up. Still, the second edition I bought is marvelous. It has pride of place on my bookshelf. I dig it.

You Can Give Me Salt

The couple sat down at the table across the aisle from mine. I thought at first I had them profiled, based on the body language and awkward seeming looks. But I think I was wrong.

They were very quiet. I noticed them not looking at one another directly. You know those looks, the ones given by two people who are uncomfortable in each others' presence, from a relationship heading downhill. Those looks where neither party feels like speaking, would rather be somewhere else, doing something else, with someone else. But either it has not disintegrated completely, or they are just too tired to end it.

I looked away before they could see me watching, suddenly becoming fascinated by the pizza minus a slice, sitting on the table in front of me. I became hyper-aware of the last bite of crust and prosciutto dissolving under the onslaught of my molars, chewy goodness squeaking against my teeth. It hit me that I was eating alone, again, and not all that concerned about it. Seeing the couple in the booth not speaking helped to reinforce my sense of unconcern.

I meditated as I ate, pondering those twists and turns of life that make or break relationships. I revisited the terrain I have been crossing as of late. I considered my own life and what I could have done that things would have turned out differently. Pangs of hunger duked it out with pangs of sadness as I wrestled a bit with the notion that, maybe, things have turned out the way they have because that is how things were meant to be.

Still, knowing that life has gone the way it was fated to be does not make it easier to watch  a good  one disintegrate and fall apart.

I looked up from my plate. The waitress was setting a pizza down on their table, along with bread and salads. There was a change in the demeanor of the couple. During my episode of navel gazing, they had begun talking quietly to each other. Their faces were more animated, and what I had taken as weariness was softened by the beginnings of smiles. It was after they had each taken a slice of pizza that an intriguing thing happened.

On the table was a shaker jar of what I took to be garlic salt, the kind often found in pizza places everywhere. The husband (if that is what he was) picked it up and sprinkled some on his pizza. He paused, looked over at the wife (if that is what she was) while cocking an eyebrow. He said something, probably asking her if wanted some garlic salt. She smiled a small smile and nodded her head. I fully expected him to hand her the shaker.

He did not. He reached over and dusted her slice for her, and then set the jar down. She was smiling and seemed to be eager to eat. It struck me that she had neither said something "Enough!" or signaled for him to stop shaking the garlic salt. He just did it, she seemed happy and they both fell to on the pizza, looking happy.

It was then that I realized I may have been wrong about them. Maybe they were both just tired from a long workday, and quiet as a result. Maybe they were really in love.

I say that because it takes significant history to do what he did. It takes a certain knowledge to be able to season someone's food for them and know when to stop. In return, it takes a lot of trust to let someone do that for you. It takes confidence to let another take care of you, if for no other reason other than you trust them, you love them. This is especially true when it comes to sharing salt. It is easy to ruin a dish with too much salt, so allowing another to give you salt without overtly defining the limits is a quiet but powerful way of showing how much you trust them.

It is a sign of how much you love another, perhaps, to be able to give them salt in just the right amount without the need for words or signals. It speaks to a deeper bond, a deeper knowledge.

Love, give me salt, that I may know you.

Mobtown or Charm City: It Depends on the Mood

Baltimore, 8:13 a.m. intersection of South and Baltimore Street:

Just out of frame on the right is the El Basha Hookah Bar. I've never been there, but I've heard it is interesting. 'The Block' is just up ahead, you can see the Hustler Club peeking out above the car in front. Further up is the Baltimore Police headquarters...cheek and jowl with the seedier side. There used to be a sausage place up on the left called "Polock Johnny's", by all accounts a great place to get a Polish sausage sandwich or a hot half-smoke when hunger struck after a night in the strip clubs. Or so I've heard.

Here is another look at my sort of adopted hometown:

Baltimore...I'm not certain how I feel about you sometimes...but I don't know where I'd be if not here...

Photo credit, top: Irish Gumbo

A Case of the Vapors

I write this on a Friday night, slowly decompressing whilst sitting on the couch. A long week of tired, my Wee Lass is in bed and I am soon to follow. I'm in a bit of a brown study, to go a bit old school. Old school, like 14th Century type old school.

Physical fatigue plays a part, surely, in this flirtation with melancholy. Being tired increases the degree of difficulty in keeping a stiff upper lip, the lights on, a smile on the face. Sometimes, I'm just too tired to try. Mental fatigue is a whole other matter, and that is what has me sitting still and quiet and just letting the mind breathe without trying to digest.

The trigger event occurred on the ride home from work. I was intent on picking up my daughter from school, and traffic was moderate, so I was focused without being blindered. Somewhere around the halfway point, I was seized by this thought:

I forgot at least three story ideas today. Three. I swore I would remember them, they seemed so clear and bright, there was no way...but I did forget.

This after telling myself for the umpteenth time that I didn't need to write them down because they were so strong and vivid. Pffft. Like Balzac supposedly said after having sex "There goes another novel", I allowed the distractions and demands of the World In My Face to displace a few notions of mine. Except I did not have the precious luxury of sex, it was the daily grind of work. Fatigue and reality, a hurricane in the head...

This happens to me a lot. I have a phrase pop up in my mind, or I see or hear something inspiring and I tell myself it would make a good story or essay and I'll write about it when I get home, this is going to be great! 

Fail. Fail. Fail.

It irritates me to no end, that even with multiple notebooks stashed in my briefcase, my car, my nightstand, that I am frequently too lazy to simply put a few words down for reminding myself later. I even carry a pen in my shirt pocket most of the day, and have one at hand when I am home.

So the net result is, I end up writing stuff like this. Because I cannot fight the push to write that balloons in my head, every day all day on occasion. I must. I have to write...I wish they could all be diamonds, but sometimes they are only coal.

This Is Not My Beautiful House

With all the shite swirling around me, it seems David Byrne is soundtracking my life. Damnit.

The iGumbopod came to life again, as I was dropping Wee Lass off at the house, after her weekend visitation with me. It was just after sundown, with a little bit of sunglow left in a sky that was looking like an old bruise. I stepped out of the car, looked across the parking lot at the place I used to live...and it hit full force: That is not my beautiful house...Cue Once In A Lifetime again!

The ground shifted suddenly, I drew in a sharp breath and watched everything waver like I was looking up through a swimming pool. The dizziness caught me off guard and I think I may have reached out a hand to steady myself against the car. It was trippy and unsettling. A shake of the head and another deep breath brought me back to earth. I went around and opened the door for my daughter, who was bubbling with eagerness to see mom and thankfully, had no idea what had just happened to me.

Walking with her to the door, I felt like a stranger, an alien, die Ausländer...in a place that I used to know so very well. It had been my home for thirteen (how's that for a coincidence?) years. It had been a place that I had left and returned to every day for all that time. Now, it looked like something new, or something that I had been away from years longer than the ten months it had been.

Drop off went well, the lass was cheerful, and I had the glow of a weekend well spent with the apple o' my eye. The drive home was not so good. Turn the key, start the engine then sob over the steering wheel. As I pulled out onto the highway I was overwhelmed by waves of dislocation and rootlessness. By rootlessness I mean as if I once had roots, deep roots, but then they were ripped away and I was cast into a swift river. The banks I once knew receded into the mist behind me and I just floated away...

The echoes rang in my ear when I pulled in to park on the lot next to the building that has my apartment. Open the door, out of the car, that same weird dislocation. The walk to my door seemed to drag out, much longer than it should have taken. I slide the key into the lock, turned the lever that still feels strange in my hand, and walked into the collection of rooms that has sheltered me since I moved out last year.

Sheltered me. For this I am grateful. I would have to be an utter dunderhead to not appreciate a warm, dry place to eat, sleep and hang my clothes. Yet I was still possessed of that alien feeling, a nomad outside the city walls, and it was driven home by this singular thought:

This, too, is not my beautiful house, and it will never be...

Year Of The Tiger

According to Chinese astrology, 2010 is the Year of the Tiger. According to some information I have read, it is more specifically the Year of the Metal Tiger, or White Tiger. This is considered by some to be a jinx, or a sign of a bad year.

I think the folks in Haiti and Chile would agree.

Tiger years are supposed to be dynamic, full of change and constant happenings. So far, the theory is holding true, locally and globally. Tragedies great and small seem to be afflicting most people, some I know and most I do not. But I sympathize with them all.

According to astrology, I am a Snake. Snakes do not do well with chaos or rapid change. Ergo, Snakes and Tigers do not, as a rule, get along well.

Amen to that, brothers and sisters. Or should I say 兄弟姐妹 (Xiōngdì jiěmèi), in keeping with the Chinese inspirations for this post. I bring this all up because, on a lark, I bought a book on Chinese astrology for the year 2010. I was most intrigued by some of the descriptions in it, specifically about my Chinese astrological sign, but also about some of the people I know and love. And even some people I know and for whom I do not particularly care.

The thing that struck me right off the top was this little gem at the beginning of the chapter on the Snake:

"I think.

And think some more.

About what is,

About what can be,

About what may be.

And when I am ready,

Then I act."*

That pretty much sums it up. Me in a nutshell. And as I stated earlier, Snakes and Tigers do not get along well with one another. It has been and may continue to be a year of change, of opportunity, one in which I am advised to be careful, to not rely so heavily on myself but instead seek to maintain friendship with others.

Of that I have no doubts. I respect the Tiger, but I will not be intimidated into inaction. I will be careful. I will think. And then, when ready, I will act.

Come, then, friend Tiger, let us dance...but beware the Snake...

*Quoted from"Your Chinese Horoscope 2010" by Neil Somerville

Return of The Ba-Donka-Donk

As many of you may recall, I chronicled my first street encounter with 'ba-donka-donk' HERE. More precisely, my first encounter with the term outside of a television show. That has officially changed.

Ladies and gentlemen, last week, I had my first remote encounter with a real live ba-donka-donk. Right there in front of my car. It was while waiting at a stop light, a major intersection on my daily commute. It is a busy intersection, one with significant foot traffic in addition to the cars. I have seen a lot of derrieres cross the road at that intersection, fodder for idle observation whilst wasting time waiting on the light to change. Derrieres of all shapes and sizes, some very nice, some spectacular, even. I wouldn't say that any approached 'ba-donka-donk'-ness, however, at least as I am familiar with the term.

This one was different. 

It was...big, but not outrageously so.

It was...round, but not abnormally so.

It was...encased in jeans that approached the level of paint rather than fabric. It appeared to meet all the criteria for classification as a ba-donka-donk.

She, as the kids say, had it goin' on.

The road was still littered with snow and slush, the median piled with snow. This young lady was even wearing low heels, and doing a commendable job of navigating the hazards, with skill and grace and...workin' that ba-donka-donk. Wow.

To my credit, I did not start singing "Baby Got Back" by Sir-Mix-A-Lot*. Also, bumper sticker exhortations notwithstanding, I did not honk at the ba-donka-donk**. Perhaps next time, when I am not so gobsmacked by the sight of a ba-donka-donk in the wild.

I leave you now with a bonus video that never fails to make me laugh like a hyena. Turn it up loud and shout it proud:

*Who knighted him anyway? And for what?

**'I Did Not Honk At The Ba-Donka-Donk' - a hitherto unpublished story from the vaults of Dr. Seuss.

Can I Be a Part of the Rebel Alliance Without Being a Traitor?

At the age of 44, I have crossed the lines and become a rebel. I have been growing a beard.

While this does not make me a bomb-throwing Bolshevik, in the matrix in which I am embedded some may view it at best as slightly odd, at worst somewhat suspect. I hadn't set out to grow a beard, it just crept up on me. During this recent spate of snowverkill weather I was so busy during the Blizzard of '10, trying to keep my daughter entertained, my sanity intact and my car from being completely buried under snow and ice. Between all those activities I was "plumb wrung out" as we used to say back in the 'hood.

Typically I would have shaved Sunday night to crop a weekend worth of stubble. I was tired, see. So tired I could barely keep my eyes open if I stopped to sit still for any length of time. By bedtime my arms and back were so sore that I felt no desire to lift them. So no shaving for me.

Then I had my daughter for an extra day (which was nice) which wore me out even further (which was not so nice). So again, no to the shaving. Subsequent to that...there was more snow. I was shoveling again and the office was closed for two days. With only me in the apartment and no agenda, no one to look pretty for, what was the point of shaving? Nyet to the razor, says me! Then the next weekend rolled around, and I typically don't shave anyway, so there was zero reason and incentive to get to it.

Which led me to thinking: was there ever really a reason for me to be shaving every single flippin' day since I graduated from college? Even in college I rarely went more than one or two days* without the razor routine. Truth be known, when I first started growing whiskers way back when...it didn't look good. At all. With a little bit of stubble, I always had this faint feeling I looked like a well-heeled derelict. Plus it seemed some sort of unspoken requirement that I be clean shaven, especially after I joined the working world. So I did it dutifully, day after day, month after month, year after year...

Until now. Now I wonder why I did it all that time. With or without a five o'clock shadow, a soul patch, goatee or full-blown crazy-hermit-down-to-the-waist style beard, whatever...I am the same person. The same person, that is, without the resentment that springs from doing something sort of useful but sort of pointless at the same time, just because other people think you should do it. 

Why is this significant? I hear you muttering to yourselves. And I wonder that as well. Perhaps because, at the age of 44, for the first time in my life ever, the beard grows from purpose and not exists due to laziness. That is correct, ladies and gentlemen: I have never grown a Beard. Seems odd for a male my age to have not do so before now.

Now I'm letting it go from curiosity. Honestly, it does not look so bad. Kinda 'friendly roguish', I think. Well, maybe it looks more like those old school G.I. 'Action Figures' like I used to have as a boy, the ones with the perpetual 'fiver' on those chiseled plastic cheeks. Be that as it may, I'll probably let it go through the weekend, see what happens.

I'm a rebel that way. Viva la Beard-olucion!

*There was a 22-day stretch one summer, while home from school, that I let the whiskers grow. But that wasn't from vanity or a feeble attempt at seeming more masculine. I was just a lazy sod with a summer job painting windows and cutting grass.