I had my first threatening phone call earlier today. Between 11:10 and 11:15. Up till then, it was a fairly standard Saturday.
Richard was in town to hang out with “the guys” for a while (and since “the guys” are gay, he brought pastries, which we enjoyed much). He has so much going on right now that getting away from it for even a few short hours is a bit of a treat, I think. I can take care of a sick person, but add a small child into the equation, and I don’t know what I would do.
After he left, someone called. We didn’t answer the phone because everyone from the ACLU to the Democratic Party to some company that thinks I owe them for a Visa card I never had keep calling. We don’t have spare money for the ACLU or the Democrats (they’re going to have to self-fund this go round), and, as I said, I’ve never had a CitiBank Visa. (I filed a complaint with the FTC on that one.)
Anyway, someone called. He didn’t like a letter to the editor that I had submitted to and was published this morning by the Austin American-Statesman. He sounded kind of drunk, but that could just be stupid.
He started out by saying “You don’t know who I am” and ended up by saying “I know where you live, so watch your back, bitch.”
In the middle there was a bunch of nonsense about me not being a valid member of the neighborhood because I rent an apartment and “don’t pay taxes”. I don’t guess the he realizes that a big chunk of my rent pays taxes.
And he had the nerve to call ME a hill-billy. Hill-billies don't write letters to the editor: they try to intimidate, whether it's a brick through the window, a burning cross or a threatening phone call.
But that’s beside the point.
When did a Wal-Mart moving in across the street escalate into threatening phone calls to people who just want to let the permitting process to proceed as it should legally and who question the motivations of those who oppose the development?
More importantly, why?
When, exactly, did land-use issues descend into threats on persons and/or property?
It’s not like I plan to actually shop at the newly approved Wal-Mart, because I really don’t like being in those big stores. I get claustrophobic in them. The shelves are too high and the aisles too narrow. They just seem to fall in around me. I wouldn’t really care what opened up there as long as it made good use of the land.
Urban land is a scarce commodity, but large tracts of it like Northcross that have been fallow for so many years are a potential source of increased tax revenue that will help everyone in the city. But only if they’re utilized to their fullest extent.
I’m mouthy when I want to be, I know. And sometimes my goal is to provoke the other side into a new discussion. And also to point out their hypocrisy.
I thought it could be a civil discussion. Apparently not.
I didn’t think it would end up with “I know where you live, so watch your back, bitch.”
And if whoever was on the phone reads this, you’ve already been reported to ATT as a harassing and criminal phone caller, and a police report has been filed. A criminal complaint will be filed if it is deemed actionable. Your phone number has been traced and will be reported to the appropriate authorities.
My door is locked and God help you if you try to get around all the crap in front of the windows. And my cat is staying in at night, much to her dismay. She'll live, and that's the point.
Oh. And I still have your message recorded. Bet you regret that. Too bad.
See you in court.
Who’s the bitch now?
30 June 2007
About the Princess
We have that prettiest and whiniest little excuse of a black cat I’ve ever seen. She’s somewhere between 6 and 7 years old, but she’s no bigger than an average 8 month old kitten. My sister pawned her off on us when she was only 6 or so weeks old, and I could hold her (the cat, not my sister) in one hand.Suzanne (my sister) knows that I have a weakness for black cats.
What she didn’t know is that Amanda (the cat) is Burmese. That means she’s a tiny black Siamese that makes a lot of noise. But she isn’t mean like a Siamese. (Thank God for small favors.)
Still, I’ve never heard as much noise coming from such a small creature in my life. When she gets to whining, she can wake the dead, including people who’ve been cremated.
Amanda hasn’t been the same since Pinto died. He was our 18 year old orange tabby. When I showed him to her on the dining table, dead in a box on top of his favorite sweater of mine and covered with a lace napkin, she didn’t like it.
She howled and jumped out of my arms.
She whined and howled for weeks, I think to try to reanimate his ashes. She sat and stared at the little wooden box they’re in for hours. Somehow, she knew that was him.
She’s better now, but restless still. She roams from room to room like she’s looking for something, poking her head in closets and under furniture.
Except for when she’s sleeping. Or playing with a pine cone she knocked off the coffee table. She could give Pele a run for his money when it comes to batting something around with her feet. Of course Pele wasn’t allowed to pick the ball up in his mouth and fling it. So it’s really not a fair comparison.
She’s taken up residence on the top of the left end of the back of the sofa, where she dozes like a sphinx. Either there, or on the bed, curled up regally, with her elegant ears sticking up like two miniature sails. Or on the black chair in the study, where she throws caution to the wind and just plain-old sprawls out.
Did I mention that she’s beautiful? An angular, sculpted face and eyes as big as two full moons. All surrounded by sleek, glossy black hair and topped with her perky ears.
She’s too pretty for her own good. And she knows it.
Her name is Amanda, but she mostly gets called “Little Miss”. She demands to be treated like a princess. Anything else is unacceptable.
I read on National Geographic that cats, unlike other tame animals, domesticated themselves as long as 130,000 years ago, and they carry the vestiges of that choice to live among humans still. People do not choose cats; cats choose people.
So we live in deference to an eight pound walking fur coat with eyes that neither of us can say no to. We have no choice.
My sister knew a sucker when she saw one.
28 June 2007
By the Sea...
The ocean engenders a child-like awe in me. Sitting by it, I can see forever. I’ll watch the waves coming and going and wonder how they do it. Watch them gently curl over and try to understand the physics of how and why they do it. Let the gentle roar consume me until I can see infinity.
It puts me at peace.
Maybe the regular, constant pulse with its own steady rhythm reminds me on some unconscious level of the time I spent my mother’s womb. Maybe it reminds me of her heartbeat in a place where I was safe.
Waves coming on-shore mesmerize me. I watch them and listen to them and wonder what stories they have to tell. Where they came from, what they saw on the way and why they’re there.
I want to go and sit by the sea again. Watch the waves coming and going and contemplate the endless cycle that is infinitely bigger than me.
I don’t know when that will happen. Shannon doesn’t travel real well, and it’s a long trip.
Still, when I close my eyes and concentrate, I can hear the surf and see forever.
It puts me at peace.
Maybe the regular, constant pulse with its own steady rhythm reminds me on some unconscious level of the time I spent my mother’s womb. Maybe it reminds me of her heartbeat in a place where I was safe.
Waves coming on-shore mesmerize me. I watch them and listen to them and wonder what stories they have to tell. Where they came from, what they saw on the way and why they’re there.
I want to go and sit by the sea again. Watch the waves coming and going and contemplate the endless cycle that is infinitely bigger than me.
I don’t know when that will happen. Shannon doesn’t travel real well, and it’s a long trip.
Still, when I close my eyes and concentrate, I can hear the surf and see forever.
25 June 2007
231
231 years. That’s how we’ll be as a country in a couple of weeks. Makes me feel young, and I need that right now.
What’s more important is the awe of a country that can conduct a highly disputed election but still have a peaceful transfer of power. For that, we should thank God every night.
It doesn’t happen everywhere, or even in that many places.
Most people in the world kill each other over that kind of stuff.
And regularly do.
I think we must have a culturally embedded recognition of the folly and destruction of the Civil War. Our one experiment in that kind of hot-headedness played out very badly, and the scars of it can still be seen. Having grown up in the South (the real South), I’m acutely aware of it.
I know that it wasn't over when I was a kid in Tennessee, and don't know for sure that it is yet.
People couch old bigotry and old resentments in new language. The language may be new, but the ideas are the same. They cause the same hurt and divisions that they have for the last 140 years. And that's too long.
Still, I have hope and faith in the country that all of us share and that continues to change daily, and often vibrantly. Even little old Austin pulses with the heartbeats of languages I've never heard and don't even pretend to understand. If you get a cab here tonight, your driver may be from Africa or Southeast Asia or Guatamala.
I can get Chinese, Vietnamese, Salvadoran, Indian or any other kind of food without leaving our neighborhood. I can also get a bacon cheeseburger from Sonic, but I save that for Fridays. (One good sinful meal a week is good for the soul.)
Life's tapestry gets richer every day.
We are not the greatest country in the world because God blessed us. We’re the greatest country in the world because we have chosen to be, as a a people. I won't lose faith unless we lose sight of that. As a people.
God helps those that help themselves.
I’m not sure He’s real happy with us right now, but he’s a patient Father, just like my Daddy. At 231, we’re just coming in to our prime. He’ll wait, watch and be there to pick up the pieces.
Or at least make picking up the pieces a little easier.
Patience isn’t a virtue I’ve ever mastered. I keep meaning to ask Daddy how he ever did it. It still mystifies me.
The lack of it is probably my biggest fault, so I don’t really understand it completely.
Honestly, not at all.
For the sake of democracy, I’ll be patient. I’m learning it little by little and might even have it down the next time we have a constitutional crisis. Not that I want one.
Until then, I’ll just say “Happy Birthday”.
What’s more important is the awe of a country that can conduct a highly disputed election but still have a peaceful transfer of power. For that, we should thank God every night.
It doesn’t happen everywhere, or even in that many places.
Most people in the world kill each other over that kind of stuff.
And regularly do.
I think we must have a culturally embedded recognition of the folly and destruction of the Civil War. Our one experiment in that kind of hot-headedness played out very badly, and the scars of it can still be seen. Having grown up in the South (the real South), I’m acutely aware of it.
I know that it wasn't over when I was a kid in Tennessee, and don't know for sure that it is yet.
People couch old bigotry and old resentments in new language. The language may be new, but the ideas are the same. They cause the same hurt and divisions that they have for the last 140 years. And that's too long.
Still, I have hope and faith in the country that all of us share and that continues to change daily, and often vibrantly. Even little old Austin pulses with the heartbeats of languages I've never heard and don't even pretend to understand. If you get a cab here tonight, your driver may be from Africa or Southeast Asia or Guatamala.
I can get Chinese, Vietnamese, Salvadoran, Indian or any other kind of food without leaving our neighborhood. I can also get a bacon cheeseburger from Sonic, but I save that for Fridays. (One good sinful meal a week is good for the soul.)
Life's tapestry gets richer every day.
We are not the greatest country in the world because God blessed us. We’re the greatest country in the world because we have chosen to be, as a a people. I won't lose faith unless we lose sight of that. As a people.
God helps those that help themselves.
I’m not sure He’s real happy with us right now, but he’s a patient Father, just like my Daddy. At 231, we’re just coming in to our prime. He’ll wait, watch and be there to pick up the pieces.
Or at least make picking up the pieces a little easier.
Patience isn’t a virtue I’ve ever mastered. I keep meaning to ask Daddy how he ever did it. It still mystifies me.
The lack of it is probably my biggest fault, so I don’t really understand it completely.
Honestly, not at all.
For the sake of democracy, I’ll be patient. I’m learning it little by little and might even have it down the next time we have a constitutional crisis. Not that I want one.
Until then, I’ll just say “Happy Birthday”.
24 June 2007
I Don't Believe You've Met My Baby
It's a great song by Dolly Parton. Real blue-grass with mandolins and everything. Makes me want to cry every time I hear it.
But I don't think you've met my Baby. Not the car. The one asleep in the next room.
He's messy and difficult. He's crazy as hell. He's getting older at about the same rate rate I am. With everything going against him, I still love him like there's no tomorrow.
We have tomorrow to work on the neatness and sanity part. He's mine. He's all I have, and I cherish him, crazy, skinny legs and all. One could do worse. And I have.
That's a topic we shall never speak of.
Even the thought of Pyscho-Bob sends me reeling. I should have known that when I woke up next to him that first morning and the first thing I saw was "BOB" tattooed on his arm that I was in for trouble.
I should have run screaming from the room when he told me that he had his name tattooed on his arm so people wouldn't wake up and not know his name.
My Baby's not like that. Sure, he's tried to be a big a slut as me (not sure anyone can top me on that one).
We're both looking for the same things, me and Baby. It doesn't involve having to have you name tattooed on your arm so that whatever trick you wake up with remembers your name. It doesn't involve tricks, at all.
7 plus years later (we can never settle on a firm date of when we actually committed), we're still together. Not as long as some people, but long enough.
My Baby is asleep in the next room, and I'm going to join him soon. It's late. I'm tired. And falling asleep next to the person I love is about the best way I can think of ending a day.
Till next time.
But I don't think you've met my Baby. Not the car. The one asleep in the next room.
He's messy and difficult. He's crazy as hell. He's getting older at about the same rate rate I am. With everything going against him, I still love him like there's no tomorrow.
We have tomorrow to work on the neatness and sanity part. He's mine. He's all I have, and I cherish him, crazy, skinny legs and all. One could do worse. And I have.
That's a topic we shall never speak of.
Even the thought of Pyscho-Bob sends me reeling. I should have known that when I woke up next to him that first morning and the first thing I saw was "BOB" tattooed on his arm that I was in for trouble.
I should have run screaming from the room when he told me that he had his name tattooed on his arm so people wouldn't wake up and not know his name.
My Baby's not like that. Sure, he's tried to be a big a slut as me (not sure anyone can top me on that one).
We're both looking for the same things, me and Baby. It doesn't involve having to have you name tattooed on your arm so that whatever trick you wake up with remembers your name. It doesn't involve tricks, at all.
7 plus years later (we can never settle on a firm date of when we actually committed), we're still together. Not as long as some people, but long enough.
My Baby is asleep in the next room, and I'm going to join him soon. It's late. I'm tired. And falling asleep next to the person I love is about the best way I can think of ending a day.
Till next time.
23 June 2007
Northcross Redux
I sent this letter to the Austin American Statesman, hoping they will publish it. To date they have not included a single voice that thinks the whole wooplah about Wal-Mart and Northcross Mall is a hypocritical smoke screen--much ado about nothing.
Shakespeare perfected Much Ado About Nothing many, many years ago. Much Ado About Northcross just doesn't play as well.
Here's the letter:
For all you people that were standing at the corner of Anderson and Burnet in your red T-shirts and red signs, listen up: Please get back in your Volvos and go back to wherever it is you live. I’ve lived across the street from Northcross Mall for 4 years, and I didn’t recognize a single face in a red T-shirt with a red sign.
If you don’t like Wal-Mart, don’t couch that in “Responsible Growth”. Instead, ask yourself what you would do if Whole Foods proposed putting a store of similar size with the same traffic patterns and all of the things that come with a vibrant commercial area.
Do that, and then just get the hell out of MY neighborhood.
Shakespeare perfected Much Ado About Nothing many, many years ago. Much Ado About Northcross just doesn't play as well.
Here's the letter:
For all you people that were standing at the corner of Anderson and Burnet in your red T-shirts and red signs, listen up: Please get back in your Volvos and go back to wherever it is you live. I’ve lived across the street from Northcross Mall for 4 years, and I didn’t recognize a single face in a red T-shirt with a red sign.
If you don’t like Wal-Mart, don’t couch that in “Responsible Growth”. Instead, ask yourself what you would do if Whole Foods proposed putting a store of similar size with the same traffic patterns and all of the things that come with a vibrant commercial area.
Do that, and then just get the hell out of MY neighborhood.
22 June 2007
Bringing Up Baby
I have a new car for the first time in two decades. Some people might not think she’s much. But she’s mine. Her name is Baby, as in “Baby Mine.”
She’s a sweet little thing. She’s kind of like Little Miss, aka Amanda, our little black kitty that zooms around under our feet without knowing she’s liable to cause one of us to trip and fall. We’re both cat people, and our new car looks like a cat getting ready to pounce.
Finding Baby wasn’t easy. I remembered why I hated car shopping as soon as I started. I had trouble finding a dealer who would tell me how much it cost. They wouldn’t give me a price except for per month. Drug dealers are more cooperative.
Not that I have any experience with that.
I found an ad online, printed it out, walked into the dealership (what’s the difference between a “dealer” and a “dealership”, by the way?), handed it to someone and said I want this, but with an automatic transmission. (Not that I like automatics, but Shannon can’t work a manual any more.) Turns out I was talking to the manager, and he said “OK, but it’ll cost $1500 extra”. I told him to make good on it and we would have a deal.
30 minutes later, I was filling out paper work for a car that came equipped with all kinds of stuff I wouldn’t have paid for otherwise.
I tried the cruise control once, but decided Austin freeways are not a good venue for that. The telescoping steering wheel is nice. Once I figured out how to set it, I just left it. I still can’t used to the fact that the only way to unlock the passenger door is with a switch on the inside. Power locks, power windows, but no way to open the passenger door with a key.
And no ashtray. I didn’t know they wouldn’t be included in a high-end package on a low-end car. I never thought to ask.
The CD player (also plays MP3’s), remote control everything, and power everything else that can be powered just remind me to smoke with the windows down. For now, nature is my ashtray.
Some matches are made in heaven. Others are made in car lots. (Not that kind, for those of you with loose moral values. Not that I haven’t been there, but… I’m older, wiser and much less marketable than I used to be. Besides, I have another Baby at home.)
I had to pull over on the way home to figure out how to turn the headlights and windshield wipers on. It had started raining, and I really needed to see where I was going. I figured that out, but couldn’t figure out how to turn the windshield wipers off for several days. Luckily, it kept raining, so I had some time.
To date, she’s been washed more times than she’s had gas put in. Baby doesn’t eat much. It helps her keep her figure.
She has been called “cute” and “classy”. There are still people shocked to know that not only do I have a valid drivers license, but I also know how to drive.
Little do they know that when Baby’s in a mood to run, I let her. I have to watch the foot on the gas pedal, lest she pounce on the old lady in front of me who’s just driving too slow.
Baby looks like a kitten, but she’s really a tigress.
Gotta love her, Baby mine.
She’s a sweet little thing. She’s kind of like Little Miss, aka Amanda, our little black kitty that zooms around under our feet without knowing she’s liable to cause one of us to trip and fall. We’re both cat people, and our new car looks like a cat getting ready to pounce.
Finding Baby wasn’t easy. I remembered why I hated car shopping as soon as I started. I had trouble finding a dealer who would tell me how much it cost. They wouldn’t give me a price except for per month. Drug dealers are more cooperative.
Not that I have any experience with that.
I found an ad online, printed it out, walked into the dealership (what’s the difference between a “dealer” and a “dealership”, by the way?), handed it to someone and said I want this, but with an automatic transmission. (Not that I like automatics, but Shannon can’t work a manual any more.) Turns out I was talking to the manager, and he said “OK, but it’ll cost $1500 extra”. I told him to make good on it and we would have a deal.
30 minutes later, I was filling out paper work for a car that came equipped with all kinds of stuff I wouldn’t have paid for otherwise.
I tried the cruise control once, but decided Austin freeways are not a good venue for that. The telescoping steering wheel is nice. Once I figured out how to set it, I just left it. I still can’t used to the fact that the only way to unlock the passenger door is with a switch on the inside. Power locks, power windows, but no way to open the passenger door with a key.
And no ashtray. I didn’t know they wouldn’t be included in a high-end package on a low-end car. I never thought to ask.
The CD player (also plays MP3’s), remote control everything, and power everything else that can be powered just remind me to smoke with the windows down. For now, nature is my ashtray.
Some matches are made in heaven. Others are made in car lots. (Not that kind, for those of you with loose moral values. Not that I haven’t been there, but… I’m older, wiser and much less marketable than I used to be. Besides, I have another Baby at home.)
I had to pull over on the way home to figure out how to turn the headlights and windshield wipers on. It had started raining, and I really needed to see where I was going. I figured that out, but couldn’t figure out how to turn the windshield wipers off for several days. Luckily, it kept raining, so I had some time.
To date, she’s been washed more times than she’s had gas put in. Baby doesn’t eat much. It helps her keep her figure.
She has been called “cute” and “classy”. There are still people shocked to know that not only do I have a valid drivers license, but I also know how to drive.
Little do they know that when Baby’s in a mood to run, I let her. I have to watch the foot on the gas pedal, lest she pounce on the old lady in front of me who’s just driving too slow.
Baby looks like a kitten, but she’s really a tigress.
Gotta love her, Baby mine.
20 June 2007
A Rich Life
Twelve years ago today, my Pooh died. Sounds like a silly thing to call a grown man, but he called me Sweet Pea, an equally silly thing to call a grown man.
He was 27.
We didn’t have a lot, but we always had enough.
I remember one Christmas when we were just stone-cold broke. We set aside enough money for a good meal, and I drove to Bastrop to steal a tree. I was looking for a nice pine, and that's the closest they grow around here.
I found one on a property in the process of being developed. Once I decided there weren't any errant cows around to harass me, I cut a little pine tree down, threw in the back of my truck and drove like hell for the next county.
It was a great Christmas.
We argued more that I liked, but we had a good life together. We were both difficult and we both got mad at each other, but it never lasted long. One night that I remember vividly Rich stormed out of the house after we had a disagreement only to return home an hour or so later with a cutting board.
He thought I needed one, and I did. It was a peace offering, apology and kitchen accessory all in one. And I did need one of all of the above.
There’s one thing I miss more than the making up: he teased me incessantly about the way I pronounce the word “monster”. It tends to come out “mawnster” when I say it. Whenever the word came up, he would roll up cackling into a red-headed ball. Then he’d ask me to say it again.
So, for you, Rich, here it is: mawnster.
I miss him. He was my first real love. I held his hand when he died after I told the doctor to cut off life support.
Out of the horror of all that can come growth. I’m a stronger person than I was before June 20, 1995. I know I can make the most important decision anyone can ever make.
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but also the easiest. I had to look beyond my own wishes and do what was best for him. So I did what I knew he wanted.
Losing Rich was a tragedy, not just for me, but for the larger world. He was smart, talented and had a heart of gold.
He built harps. And he perfected a wood finish that would make pine boards look like cherry.
He did his best thinking in the bathtub, always with a sketch book and sunflower seeds. I had to be careful that the bath drain didn’t get clogged with the sunflower seeds.
Among other things, he was messy. But he was my messy. He was my mess.
Even today, I miss him fiercely. I wonder what he could have done had he lived longer.
And I miss being “Sweet Pea”.
He was 27.
We didn’t have a lot, but we always had enough.
I remember one Christmas when we were just stone-cold broke. We set aside enough money for a good meal, and I drove to Bastrop to steal a tree. I was looking for a nice pine, and that's the closest they grow around here.
I found one on a property in the process of being developed. Once I decided there weren't any errant cows around to harass me, I cut a little pine tree down, threw in the back of my truck and drove like hell for the next county.
It was a great Christmas.
We argued more that I liked, but we had a good life together. We were both difficult and we both got mad at each other, but it never lasted long. One night that I remember vividly Rich stormed out of the house after we had a disagreement only to return home an hour or so later with a cutting board.
He thought I needed one, and I did. It was a peace offering, apology and kitchen accessory all in one. And I did need one of all of the above.
There’s one thing I miss more than the making up: he teased me incessantly about the way I pronounce the word “monster”. It tends to come out “mawnster” when I say it. Whenever the word came up, he would roll up cackling into a red-headed ball. Then he’d ask me to say it again.
So, for you, Rich, here it is: mawnster.
I miss him. He was my first real love. I held his hand when he died after I told the doctor to cut off life support.
Out of the horror of all that can come growth. I’m a stronger person than I was before June 20, 1995. I know I can make the most important decision anyone can ever make.
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but also the easiest. I had to look beyond my own wishes and do what was best for him. So I did what I knew he wanted.
Losing Rich was a tragedy, not just for me, but for the larger world. He was smart, talented and had a heart of gold.
He built harps. And he perfected a wood finish that would make pine boards look like cherry.
He did his best thinking in the bathtub, always with a sketch book and sunflower seeds. I had to be careful that the bath drain didn’t get clogged with the sunflower seeds.
Among other things, he was messy. But he was my messy. He was my mess.
Even today, I miss him fiercely. I wonder what he could have done had he lived longer.
And I miss being “Sweet Pea”.
17 June 2007
A Letter to Mama
I sent you a link to this, but I don’t know how often you check email. I’m guessing you’ll probably get this first.
I started a blog that I’m sure no one will probably read, but that’s ok. I’ve been writing a lot lately and needed an outlet. I write when I have things to work out in my head. Somehow, seeing them on paper makes them more real.
Whether anyone reads it or not doesn’t make it any more or less real.
Unfortunately, my handwriting is so bad that even I can’t read it most of the time. That hasn’t changed.
Fortunately, I can type.
So that’s what I do. And I’ve been doing a lot of lately. A wide range of topics. Everything from Granny Morgan to how to make the perfect duck. Also, social commentary about the absurdity of life in Austin.
Just a bit of everything.
If you want to know what I think about and what takes up my time, take a look: deeroscar.blogspot.com
In the mean time, give Daddy the piece I enclosed. I’m trying to find a way to get home, but it hasn’t happened yet.
Tell Josh and Morgan how proud I am of them and will get them something for graduation when I can afford it. It’s a milestone I wish I could acknowledge a little better.
Things are tight for us right now. I know that you know what that’s like. I learned from you, by the way, that the best thing you ever did was to take the checkbook away from Daddy. I think he may have appreciated it, too.
I had to do the same for Shannon a long time ago. It wasn’t long after we met that he wanted me to take his pay check and dole it back. I said “No, absolutely not”. That was before he went out and blew a weeks pay in one night.
Shannon gladly lets me take care of all things financial these days. As well as all things computer-related.
We have a good life, Shannon and me. We take care of each other when we’re crazy. So far, we haven’t been that way at the same time. At least not too much.
Hospitals, in general, make me a little crazy. Counting down the hours until Shannon finally goes to sleep and wakes up better have taken their toll. But they’ve had their benefit.
It reminds me of what I’m fighting for and for whom I am fighting.
It’s only made our lives richer.
Not the route I would recommend as a first one, but certainly one that works.
You and Daddy taught me things that I’m finding out were rare lessons. Most kids these days don’t seem to get them. Real commitment seems to a dying art-form.
If I can’t make it up there to say it in person, let me tell you now (in type that doesn’t require deciphering my scrawl): I love you both.
Not because I have to. Just because I can.
Learned that one from the two of you, also.
There’s a big difference between what you think you have to do and what you do because you can.
It’s not much, but it’s what I have this evening.
JM
I started a blog that I’m sure no one will probably read, but that’s ok. I’ve been writing a lot lately and needed an outlet. I write when I have things to work out in my head. Somehow, seeing them on paper makes them more real.
Whether anyone reads it or not doesn’t make it any more or less real.
Unfortunately, my handwriting is so bad that even I can’t read it most of the time. That hasn’t changed.
Fortunately, I can type.
So that’s what I do. And I’ve been doing a lot of lately. A wide range of topics. Everything from Granny Morgan to how to make the perfect duck. Also, social commentary about the absurdity of life in Austin.
Just a bit of everything.
If you want to know what I think about and what takes up my time, take a look: deeroscar.blogspot.com
In the mean time, give Daddy the piece I enclosed. I’m trying to find a way to get home, but it hasn’t happened yet.
Tell Josh and Morgan how proud I am of them and will get them something for graduation when I can afford it. It’s a milestone I wish I could acknowledge a little better.
Things are tight for us right now. I know that you know what that’s like. I learned from you, by the way, that the best thing you ever did was to take the checkbook away from Daddy. I think he may have appreciated it, too.
I had to do the same for Shannon a long time ago. It wasn’t long after we met that he wanted me to take his pay check and dole it back. I said “No, absolutely not”. That was before he went out and blew a weeks pay in one night.
Shannon gladly lets me take care of all things financial these days. As well as all things computer-related.
We have a good life, Shannon and me. We take care of each other when we’re crazy. So far, we haven’t been that way at the same time. At least not too much.
Hospitals, in general, make me a little crazy. Counting down the hours until Shannon finally goes to sleep and wakes up better have taken their toll. But they’ve had their benefit.
It reminds me of what I’m fighting for and for whom I am fighting.
It’s only made our lives richer.
Not the route I would recommend as a first one, but certainly one that works.
You and Daddy taught me things that I’m finding out were rare lessons. Most kids these days don’t seem to get them. Real commitment seems to a dying art-form.
If I can’t make it up there to say it in person, let me tell you now (in type that doesn’t require deciphering my scrawl): I love you both.
Not because I have to. Just because I can.
Learned that one from the two of you, also.
There’s a big difference between what you think you have to do and what you do because you can.
It’s not much, but it’s what I have this evening.
JM
16 June 2007
My Evening Prayer
Dear God:
Hold me in your bosom tonight like a mother and tell me everything will be ok. Stroke my hair gently and whisper in my ear words of comfort, even if you know they’re not true. Tell me a gentle lie.
And be there to pick up the pieces, once they break. And they will.
I’ll need you more than I ever have in a while. You’ve always been there, and I’ve never asked for much.
Jeff
Hold me in your bosom tonight like a mother and tell me everything will be ok. Stroke my hair gently and whisper in my ear words of comfort, even if you know they’re not true. Tell me a gentle lie.
And be there to pick up the pieces, once they break. And they will.
I’ll need you more than I ever have in a while. You’ve always been there, and I’ve never asked for much.
But I've never needed you more.
So, help. Please.
Jeff
Master Sauce
For those of you whose minds tend toward the gutter, this has nothing to do with kinky sex.Master sauces are a great culinary idea that have been around since at least when Marie Antoinette lost her head. The ones I’m most interested in these days are Asian.
That Ming guy on PBS not only sizzles on the screen, he’s got good ideas. Nothing I like more than a cute (humpy?) brain-child.
One basic master sauce that everyone should have in their cupboards (if they want to stake any claim to being civilized) is ginger syrup.
It’s really easy to make, and you don’t have to throw anything away except the peel.
Step 1: Find some good ginger. One good handful is enough.
Step 2: Find some good turbanado sugar. It’s the brown, unrefined, raw sugar. It costs more, but not that much. And it’s good for the soul.
Step 3: Peel the ginger and slice it thinly. Don’t dice or mince, as you won’t be able to get the bonus product that I will tell you about shortly.
Step 4: Put a bunch of your soulful turbanado sugar (measure to taste, but at least a couple of cups in a small sauce pan) with water.
Step 5: The most boring. Wait for the water to boil.
Step 6: When the water starts to boil, toss in the ginger slices.
Step 7: Wait some more. Go watch TV, feed the cats, take out the trash. Just whatever you’ve been putting off all day.
Step 8: When what’s in your sauce pan becomes a sort of viscous goo, turn off the heat.
Step 9: Remove the ginger slices.
Step 10: Coat cooked ginger slices in even more turbanado.
Step 11: Cook coated ginger slices in a 300 degree oven for about 1 hour or until deliciously crisp and gooey.
Step 12: You’ve already been done. Use the ginger sauce to cook baby carrots, flavor rice, make a fruit salad or even put in tea. Eat the ginger candy that comes out of the oven. (I shouldn't have to tell you that part.)
Finally, a 12 step program that doesn’t involve belief in a higher power. At least not any higher than a good stove.
Enjoy. Create. Experiment. Enjoy the ideas that comes from a humpy (yes, he is humpy, I've decided) Chinese-American.
(Shannon doesn't care if I desingate someone as "humpy", by the way. He does the same thing himself. But we both know who we're going to bed with tonight. No harm in looking, though.)
The sauce would be great on chicken, I think, but I haven’t tried that one yet. Or a fruit salad. Or even oatmeal.
Gotta run. I think we have some oatmeal in there somewhere, so. . .
I’ll keep you posted.
15 June 2007
Au Naturel
In Austin, TX, we have more aging hippies per capita than anywhere else in the world. In the late sixties and early seventies, women walked down the street bare-breasted, pot was an hors d'ouevre and people stopped using deodorant.
Thirty years later, their influence resonates in the Austin pschye, and there are still folks that believe in the old ways. They practice it almost like a religion that offers up smoke, body odor and nakedness to the gods.
We're one of the few municipalities in the country, by the way, to have a publicly owned nude beach, aptly named Hippie Hollow. (Well, its more of a pile of boulders on the side of a man-made lake than a beach, but "nude pile-of-boulders" just doesn't roll off the tongue.) I don't object to it being there, and the city's owning it has allowed it to remain as pristine as the side of a man-made lake can be.
Visiting it, though, makes one thing clear: modesty has its place. The only thing more unpleasant to look at than an old hippie in a thong is an old hippie without one.
(Also, it ain't just old hippies hanging out. A naked dirty old man is still just a dirty old man, regardless of what's hanging out. But that's another topic.)
Whether or not there is correlation between too much LSD use and a rip in the space-time continuum that keeps them living in a world that no longer exists, I do not know.
All I know is that their psyches are bleeding all over the place, and we need a pretty big mop to clean up the mess.
A lot of young kids get drawn here by the myth of hippie heaven without even considering the inherent inconsistencies. They eat organic food but don’t care where their drugs come from. What herbicide is lacing their pot or which solvent was used to cut their coke they never consider. And I won’t even go into the rest of the drug inventory.
They buy expensive organic cigarettes while living lives of paupers without considering that a naturally-occurring carcinogen is going to kill you as quickly as a man-made carcinogen. And, the cigarettes may be marketed by a Native-American company, but there ain’t too many reservations in this country that could ever grow tobacco.
Or corn, for that matter. (Remember that when Chickasaw Vodka comes on the market.)
I’m amazed by the folly of it all. Organic cigarettes, organic beer. Which part of organic vices makes sense.
This all begs the question, though, of what we call "natural". As my sister, the one-time chemistry grad-student points out, there really isn't any such thing as un-natural. Chemicals are natural. That many of them come from petroleum doesn't make then un-natural. Petroleum, after all, is a naturally occurring substance, the result of pressure and heat on decaying organic matter. God made cucumbers, but he also made oil.
That's not a real popular point of view in Austin, so I mostly keep it to myself. Wouldn't want to provoke the granola-Nazis.
I'd be willing to bet, though, that they all have their secret, chemical-laden vices, like my occassional craving for chili-cheese Doritos. They contain no redeeming value as food and very definitely were not organically grown. I can just imagine them putting on sunglasses, a ball cap and big floppy sweat shirt and stealing into a convenience store on the other side of town to conduct their illicit transaction: "1 box of Oreos, please. You guys don't have cameras in here, do you?"
I buy organic veggies when I can, but not because I’m worried about anything except quality.
I grew up eating fresh, locally-grown produce, and it’s the best you can get. I’m still floored by the way a good tomato tastes like the sun. Or a good cantaloupe makes the entire apartment smell good. I miss the corn my grandparents grew, fried up in a big old cast iron skillet. It tasted better than any I’ve ever had. Especially the white corn. I can’t find it anywhere, organic or not.
I also buy cigarettes that are marketed as being all-natural by an Indian tribe. But I buy them because they’re cheaper than anything else I can find that’ll fix that little nicotine itch. And I don’t see the point of spending any more that I have to on something that may kill me.
As for the herbicides in the pot or the solvents in the coke, I don’t worry. That’s someone else’s mistake to make.
Been there. Done that. Ain’t goin’ back.
14 June 2007
Daddy O' Mine
When I was about 5, Daddy took a job in a town 50 miles away because there weren’t any in the town we lived in. Goodyear had just opened it’s largest tire factory in the world in Union City, TN. It took a year for him to be able to find a house to rent that we could afford. Adding 3,000 jobs in a town that was about 15,000 caused a housing shortage as people moved in from all around. He spent at least 2 hours a day commuting (which doesn’t sound like much by today’s urban standards, but it was back then at that time and place).Every Friday when he got in from work, he had two candy bars in his pockets: one for me and one for my sister. Whichever pocket we chose determined the one we got.
I was always partial to the Baby Ruth’s, and jumped up and down squealing when that’s what I picked.
It seemed to me a gift from God, and Daddy was the god who bestowed blessings of chocolate and peanuts.
I didn’t realize we were poor back then. I liked not having to take a bath too regularly (we didn’t have a bathroom or tub, other than a big old tin one. Find me a five year old boy that wants to bathe daily and then check for brain damage.)
Our life was full and rich.
It was a gift, I realize now.
And Daddy was a major donor.
Of all the gifts my father has given me over the last 42 years, one stands out, first and foremost. It wasn't a Baby Ruth. It wasn’t an automobile. It wasn’t bailing me out when I got in over my head. It wasn’t putting up with me when I was insufferable and pretentious. It wasn’t even acceptance, something many gay people don’t get from their parents, ever, as important as that is.
Daddy gave me something infinitely more valuable: he taught me what it means to be and, more importantly, how to be a man.
That’s another thing many sons don’t get from their fathers.
And while those statements might appear to marginalize the role and importance of women, it doesn’t. Strong men and strong women are all strong. But they often grow that strength differently.
I grew mine after Daddy’s example.
It didn’t happened overnight, and I’ve done many things I would be ashamed for him to know about.
He exercised patience and forbearance all along, two things I’m only growing into right now. I only know that I’m better than I was 5 years ago. I learned, and am still honing, tolerance of human imperfection.
Daddy always put us (my two sisters and me) first, even when it was inconvenient and meant extra work for him. He took care of his own.
He didn’t bail when times got bad, and believe me, they got bad.
He taught me to stand by the ones you love, even if they’re broke, difficult or just plain crazy. That’s when they need me most.
Daddy didn’t graduate from high school. Times were beyond rough in the rural South back then, especially for a single mother and her youngest son. He got a GED when he was in the Air Force, and never let the lack of formal education get in the way.
He’s still one of the smartest people I know.
He and Mama have managed to raise five kids (that includes my nephew and niece, of whom they’ve had custody since they were very, very young). We’ve all had, and continue to have, our problems. As a rule, one of us always seems to be in a mess. Or just a mess.
Still, Daddy’s always been there, doing what he can.
I try to live up to his example, but I don’t always make it.
Even so, I know what’s important and what’s not. I learned that all from him.
13 June 2007
A Ducky Christmas in June
We finally had Christmas dinner on Monday. I've had a duck sitting in the freezer for six months. Shannon spent Christmas and New Years in the hospital, and duck is not something I like to eat by myself. Actually, I just don't want to make it unless someone else will share it.I had planned to make it on Sunday, but my brother-in-law called up and wanted to take use out for lunch for my birthday. It was such a nice gesture that I couldn't say no. Besides, I got my favorite chicken adobo taco and black beans.
Ducks can wait sometimes, and since this one had been waiting six months I figured one more day wouldn't hurt.
So this brings me to my recipe for a very good roast duck.
First, pull all that stuff they put in the cavity out (neck, giblets, orange sauce). Wash the bird under cold water and remover the flap of fat around the neck. Peel a small-medium white onion and put it the cavity (just put it in whole--it moderates the gamey flavor that some people don't like). Rub the carcass with salt (preferably sea salt) and pepper (freshly ground--accept no subsitutes).
Place salted and peppered bird in preheated 350 degree oven. Cook 30 minutes per pound.
When 1 hour is left in cooking time, remover water fowl from oven and dust liberally with cinammon powder, clove powder and nutmeg.
Return to oven.
When it's half an hour from done, baste with honey, generously.
When done, let it rest for 15 minutes to half an hour.
Voila! A perfect duck.
Enjoy Christmas when you can. Even if it's 95 degrees outside. It's more of a concept than an actual day.
12 June 2007
Dead Poets
"The world is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers”
I’ve been trying to remember that quote all week. Well, for the last several weeks. I had it wrong in my head, and it turns out it’s from Wordsworth. When will that dead poet ever leave me alone?
In the very first conversation I had with the chairman of the English Department when I was beginning the work on my Masters, I remember saying something to the effect of “Wordsworth is aptly named, as he seemed the think more words were better than fewer.”
Turns out the chairman of the department was a Wordsworth scholar.
Our next conversation had to do with some of my paperwork regarding my assistanceship. I was attending a religiously-funded school (religious as in religious and not as in devoted to the regular funding of education). He wanted to ask about one of the answers I had given as to religion: I had entered “None.”
At that time, I gave an honest answer to what I thought was an honest question.
The chairman kindly noted that he had seen me at the Episcopal church that he attended and advised me that the institution I was attending wouldn’t mind if I were Jewish, but I had to have a religion to get an assistanceship.
So I became, for their reasons, Episcopalian.
The Episcopal church doesn’t know that I used their good name to dodge a thorny (and in my view, still) silly question.
And to them, I apologize.
If I have besmirched with my later life the reputation of a denomination that I have great respect for, I’m truly sorry. If I were going to participate in any organized religion, it would be with you.
Turns out I’m a little too mouthy for most people. I’ve long thought that saying what you mean and meaning it and standing by it is more important than who your favorite writer is or how you choose to celebrate the majesty of the universe.
Unfortunately, Mr. Wordsworth was right. The world is too much with us. That’s become painfully clear in the last few months.
Daddy’s ill and may not see his 68th birthday this September. And I haven’t been home in 15 years. I saw Daddy a couple of years ago when he came to town to see my sister.
We had lunch.
That was about it.
I’m going home next month for the first time in a decade and a half. I haven’t told them yet, so let me break the news. I’m going to tell them not to tell anyone else until after I’m gone. I only have couple of days, and everyone else can wait. It’ll be sort of a commando visit.
Slip in.
See Daddy.
Come back home, where my prime responsibility lies.
Right now, he’s asleep in the next room, and I’m going to join him soon.
Between the two of us, we’ll get through “life too much with us” or otherwise.
We’re both male and well-old enough to be stubborn as hell.
In the mean-time, I write about things that happened long ago and just yesterday. They’re equally relevant, the two. We learn from our past and from our present, or we are dead.
Spiritually, I mean.
And I will go on trying to yank some truth and meaning from the jungle of absurdity that life has become. If I have to do it root by root and tree by tree.
The only good thing about getting to be an old man (you don’t want to know the down side, believe me) is that the stubborn factor goes up by a power of ten each year. And I get more fiercely protective of my baby (aka “Old Man”) on about the same scale.
He’s the only baby I’ve got, and Daddy’s the only daddy I have.
I’m going to steering clear of Wordsworth, though. He’s already gotten me in trouble. Or, rather, my big mouth got me in trouble talking about Wordsworth to the wrong person.
As a very strict rule, I don’t talk about how much money I make (or don’t make) or who I voted for (or didn’t). Those subjects are between me, Chase Bank, God and the Democratic party.
Perhaps I should include dead poets on the list.
I’ve been trying to remember that quote all week. Well, for the last several weeks. I had it wrong in my head, and it turns out it’s from Wordsworth. When will that dead poet ever leave me alone?
In the very first conversation I had with the chairman of the English Department when I was beginning the work on my Masters, I remember saying something to the effect of “Wordsworth is aptly named, as he seemed the think more words were better than fewer.”
Turns out the chairman of the department was a Wordsworth scholar.
Our next conversation had to do with some of my paperwork regarding my assistanceship. I was attending a religiously-funded school (religious as in religious and not as in devoted to the regular funding of education). He wanted to ask about one of the answers I had given as to religion: I had entered “None.”
At that time, I gave an honest answer to what I thought was an honest question.
The chairman kindly noted that he had seen me at the Episcopal church that he attended and advised me that the institution I was attending wouldn’t mind if I were Jewish, but I had to have a religion to get an assistanceship.
So I became, for their reasons, Episcopalian.
The Episcopal church doesn’t know that I used their good name to dodge a thorny (and in my view, still) silly question.
And to them, I apologize.
If I have besmirched with my later life the reputation of a denomination that I have great respect for, I’m truly sorry. If I were going to participate in any organized religion, it would be with you.
Turns out I’m a little too mouthy for most people. I’ve long thought that saying what you mean and meaning it and standing by it is more important than who your favorite writer is or how you choose to celebrate the majesty of the universe.
Unfortunately, Mr. Wordsworth was right. The world is too much with us. That’s become painfully clear in the last few months.
Daddy’s ill and may not see his 68th birthday this September. And I haven’t been home in 15 years. I saw Daddy a couple of years ago when he came to town to see my sister.
We had lunch.
That was about it.
I’m going home next month for the first time in a decade and a half. I haven’t told them yet, so let me break the news. I’m going to tell them not to tell anyone else until after I’m gone. I only have couple of days, and everyone else can wait. It’ll be sort of a commando visit.
Slip in.
See Daddy.
Come back home, where my prime responsibility lies.
Right now, he’s asleep in the next room, and I’m going to join him soon.
Between the two of us, we’ll get through “life too much with us” or otherwise.
We’re both male and well-old enough to be stubborn as hell.
In the mean-time, I write about things that happened long ago and just yesterday. They’re equally relevant, the two. We learn from our past and from our present, or we are dead.
Spiritually, I mean.
And I will go on trying to yank some truth and meaning from the jungle of absurdity that life has become. If I have to do it root by root and tree by tree.
The only good thing about getting to be an old man (you don’t want to know the down side, believe me) is that the stubborn factor goes up by a power of ten each year. And I get more fiercely protective of my baby (aka “Old Man”) on about the same scale.
He’s the only baby I’ve got, and Daddy’s the only daddy I have.
I’m going to steering clear of Wordsworth, though. He’s already gotten me in trouble. Or, rather, my big mouth got me in trouble talking about Wordsworth to the wrong person.
As a very strict rule, I don’t talk about how much money I make (or don’t make) or who I voted for (or didn’t). Those subjects are between me, Chase Bank, God and the Democratic party.
Perhaps I should include dead poets on the list.
10 June 2007
Granny, Redux
Granny died when I was in college. In the years between the little red wagon, the hill and the porch (see two posts down), she got increasingly ill. When the colon cancer came back the third time, the doctors didn't want to operate.
My family concurred, and brought her home to die in her own house.
She looked so small in that hospital bed next to the big cast iron one that I had slept in and fallen off of. Hospital beds have a way of making anyone look small. It's phenomena I'll never understand.
She died in her own bedroom and was mourned by so many that there was barely room for anyone who wasn't family. She had over 300 kids, grandkids, great grandkids and in-laws of all varieties.
I had the honor of providing the music for her funeral. I went through a Baptist Hymnal and picked out things I thought she would like. She was always so proud that I could play the piano, but that was one of the only times she heard me play.
My proudest moment was an acapello duet with a friend called "Haven of Rest." It was hard getting through, but when I was done, I knew I did Granny proud.
My family concurred, and brought her home to die in her own house.
She looked so small in that hospital bed next to the big cast iron one that I had slept in and fallen off of. Hospital beds have a way of making anyone look small. It's phenomena I'll never understand.
She died in her own bedroom and was mourned by so many that there was barely room for anyone who wasn't family. She had over 300 kids, grandkids, great grandkids and in-laws of all varieties.
I had the honor of providing the music for her funeral. I went through a Baptist Hymnal and picked out things I thought she would like. She was always so proud that I could play the piano, but that was one of the only times she heard me play.
My proudest moment was an acapello duet with a friend called "Haven of Rest." It was hard getting through, but when I was done, I knew I did Granny proud.
42 YEE-HAW
I made it. One more year I didn't go crazy, get killed or die.
What more can you ask for?
What more can you ask for?
09 June 2007
Granny's Gone and Fell through the Porch
I’ll be 42 in 17 minutes. So a bit of reflection is in order.
I remember a little house in Tennessee in the middle of nowhere on a gravel road that we shared with two other houses. The house had four rooms, a cold water faucet in the kitchen and an outhouse. The back porch was mostly missing.
The house was at the bottom of small hill that me and my sister dragged a little red wagon up to the top of and rode down over and over again. Granny stood on the back porch and cheered us on. I felt invincible.
At 4 or 5, jumping from one beam to another or walking on the edge of what’s left of a rotting porch is easy. And fun. When you’re an old lady taking care of young kids, it’s a hazard.
That was the day Granny fell through the porch. She missed a step and ended up hanging by her shoulders and legs in the middle of what little porch there was.
Me and Suzanne got out of our little red wagon and crawled up under the porch and pushed her up. Granny was a big woman, so it took a while, but we got her up. We weren’t supposed to tell Mama or Daddy about it, but I think we did. We were proud of taking care of her.
She lived with us back then in that tiny little house in the middle of nowhere. Me and Suzanne slept with her in that big old cast-iron bed, one on either side.
I was climbing on the foot-piece of that bed, fell off and hit my head on the corner of her cedar chest. The first of many emergency room visits.
We had a pot-bellied wood stove in the living room for heat and very little else. Our black and white TV only picked up one channel that mostly played Roy Rogers movies. Daddy liked it, but I could never see the charm.
We went to my other Granny’s house about once a week (Saturday, I think, because Lawrence Welk was always on). We took proper baths and watched her color TV.
I never knew we were poor. We had a full life as kids, my older sister and me. Granny (the one that lived with us) doted on us, much to my mother’s chagrin. I think Mama always resented not being there herself, but times were hard, and she had to work.
Granny always smelled like Ben-Gay, and it scared me a little when she took her teeth out and put them in that glass by that big old cast-iron bed. But when she had them in, she had a beautiful smile.
I don’t think we were really poor. Other people just thought we were.
I remember a little house in Tennessee in the middle of nowhere on a gravel road that we shared with two other houses. The house had four rooms, a cold water faucet in the kitchen and an outhouse. The back porch was mostly missing.
The house was at the bottom of small hill that me and my sister dragged a little red wagon up to the top of and rode down over and over again. Granny stood on the back porch and cheered us on. I felt invincible.
At 4 or 5, jumping from one beam to another or walking on the edge of what’s left of a rotting porch is easy. And fun. When you’re an old lady taking care of young kids, it’s a hazard.
That was the day Granny fell through the porch. She missed a step and ended up hanging by her shoulders and legs in the middle of what little porch there was.
Me and Suzanne got out of our little red wagon and crawled up under the porch and pushed her up. Granny was a big woman, so it took a while, but we got her up. We weren’t supposed to tell Mama or Daddy about it, but I think we did. We were proud of taking care of her.
She lived with us back then in that tiny little house in the middle of nowhere. Me and Suzanne slept with her in that big old cast-iron bed, one on either side.
I was climbing on the foot-piece of that bed, fell off and hit my head on the corner of her cedar chest. The first of many emergency room visits.
We had a pot-bellied wood stove in the living room for heat and very little else. Our black and white TV only picked up one channel that mostly played Roy Rogers movies. Daddy liked it, but I could never see the charm.
We went to my other Granny’s house about once a week (Saturday, I think, because Lawrence Welk was always on). We took proper baths and watched her color TV.
I never knew we were poor. We had a full life as kids, my older sister and me. Granny (the one that lived with us) doted on us, much to my mother’s chagrin. I think Mama always resented not being there herself, but times were hard, and she had to work.
Granny always smelled like Ben-Gay, and it scared me a little when she took her teeth out and put them in that glass by that big old cast-iron bed. But when she had them in, she had a beautiful smile.
I don’t think we were really poor. Other people just thought we were.
Christmas is when You have It
We’re having Christmas dinner late this year. Tomorrow, to be exact. Shannon crazied out the day before Christmas Eve and didn’t come home from the hospital until after New Years. I had Christmas dinner at Shoal Creek (a very depressing mental hospital, like the people there need anything else to be depressed about) and New Years Day at Seton (a regular, but, nonetheless, very expensive hospital).
We’ve been hospital-free for 6 months, and I intend to keep it that way. I can take better care of him in a better environment than them.
We’ve been hospital-free for 6 months, and I intend to keep it that way. I can take better care of him in a better environment than them.
But we never got to have the Christmas dinner I had planned.
So we’re having it tomorrow. It’s my birthday, and I would save the duck until Shannon has his, but it might not be very good by then.
Besides, we both need a little something extra right now to keep up going.
Le Menu
Roast Duck glazed in honey with cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves
Baby carrots sautéed in ginger syrup
Roasted red potatoes with rosemary
Plum Pudding with hard sauce
Wine: Norma Jean 2005
For the wine it was either that or the “Marilyn Merlot,” which cost three times as much, and I’m only turning 42. We’ll save the merlot until I’m 50.
Happy Getting Older Day
I’ll be 42 tomorrow, and I feel every year of it this morning. Apparently, I don’t have to lift anything, bend too much or over-tax any particular muscle to wake up sore and creaky.
And that doesn’t mean waking up in a bad mood. That part comes naturally.
Now, I can add random aches and pains and stiff muscles to the reasons I hate getting out of bed.
If I could figure out how to do it, I would probably never get out of bed. Ben Franklin was that way about his bathtub. He had one made with a writing surface that flipped over, and he spent hours on end soaking. He took meetings and conducted business from the comfort of his tub. (I’m assuming that the ersatz desk covered his naughty bits. Or maybe the esteemed Ben was an exhibitionist…Food for thought.)
I, unfortunately, have not found a way to live my life from the comfort of my bed. The pizza and Chinese food delivery boys have a hard enough time finding our apartment as it is, so I doubt I could convince them to deliver bed-side.
For clarification to those whose minds naturally descend to the gutter, I’m talking about getting take out and not getting laid.
Shannon and I have a very strict look but don’t touch policy when it comes to cute delivery boys. I hate to say I’m this shallow, but the better looking, the bigger the tip. This is what dirty young men do when they turn into dirty old men.
And that’s one reason we’re still together: we can unabashedly admire the beauty in delivery boys and other men without the fear of jealousy on the other’s part. It usually goes something like:
“Wow! Did you see that?”
“Uh-huh. Quite fine.”
“Wouldn’t kick him out of bed.”
“Nope.”
Tomorrow, I’ll be one step closer to being a certified dirty old man. But I’ll be dirty old man who knows who he’ll crawl into bed with tonight.
Part of the beauty of a male-male relationship is that we both know that the other is going to take note of good-looking specimens. We’re hard-wired for it (no sexual pun intended).
So we both look, but we don’t touch. Neither of us is that shallow. Or stupid.
I’ve already gotten a really good dirty-old-man day present, though, and the giver doesn’t even know he gave it. He carded me. I’ll be 42 tomorrow, and I got carded yesterday.
I got carded!!!
God works in mysterious ways. I’m quite sure that the convenience store clerk didn’t know that he was an agent of the divine delivering a much-needed gift to someone afflicted by old-man disease.
I just wish he would’ve of rated “wouldn’t kick him out of bed.”
Oh, well. Can’t have everything.
God is good but has a wicked sense of humor.
I'm not complaining, though. Any bright spot on a cloudy day I welcome.
And that doesn’t mean waking up in a bad mood. That part comes naturally.
Now, I can add random aches and pains and stiff muscles to the reasons I hate getting out of bed.
If I could figure out how to do it, I would probably never get out of bed. Ben Franklin was that way about his bathtub. He had one made with a writing surface that flipped over, and he spent hours on end soaking. He took meetings and conducted business from the comfort of his tub. (I’m assuming that the ersatz desk covered his naughty bits. Or maybe the esteemed Ben was an exhibitionist…Food for thought.)
I, unfortunately, have not found a way to live my life from the comfort of my bed. The pizza and Chinese food delivery boys have a hard enough time finding our apartment as it is, so I doubt I could convince them to deliver bed-side.
For clarification to those whose minds naturally descend to the gutter, I’m talking about getting take out and not getting laid.
Shannon and I have a very strict look but don’t touch policy when it comes to cute delivery boys. I hate to say I’m this shallow, but the better looking, the bigger the tip. This is what dirty young men do when they turn into dirty old men.
And that’s one reason we’re still together: we can unabashedly admire the beauty in delivery boys and other men without the fear of jealousy on the other’s part. It usually goes something like:
“Wow! Did you see that?”
“Uh-huh. Quite fine.”
“Wouldn’t kick him out of bed.”
“Nope.”
Tomorrow, I’ll be one step closer to being a certified dirty old man. But I’ll be dirty old man who knows who he’ll crawl into bed with tonight.
Part of the beauty of a male-male relationship is that we both know that the other is going to take note of good-looking specimens. We’re hard-wired for it (no sexual pun intended).
So we both look, but we don’t touch. Neither of us is that shallow. Or stupid.
I’ve already gotten a really good dirty-old-man day present, though, and the giver doesn’t even know he gave it. He carded me. I’ll be 42 tomorrow, and I got carded yesterday.
I got carded!!!
God works in mysterious ways. I’m quite sure that the convenience store clerk didn’t know that he was an agent of the divine delivering a much-needed gift to someone afflicted by old-man disease.
I just wish he would’ve of rated “wouldn’t kick him out of bed.”
Oh, well. Can’t have everything.
God is good but has a wicked sense of humor.
I'm not complaining, though. Any bright spot on a cloudy day I welcome.
06 June 2007
Word Salad
Toss me a word salad for lunch today,
Mixed with metaphors and truth.
Oh, and nouns, crisply fried.
Julienne similes, sauté and drain.
Dice marinated synonyms,
Then add to taste.
Slice, and soak sun-dried irony—
No vinegar, just water.
It moderates acidity.
Season well with salted farce
And smoke-cured cynicism,
Finely chopped.
Mix constructions with gerund oil
And a tangy bon-mot sauce.
Strain excess.
Lightly toss.
Top with grated verbs,
Aged well,
Pungent, sublime.
Toss me a word salad today.
(Feeds six)
Mixed with metaphors and truth.
Oh, and nouns, crisply fried.
Julienne similes, sauté and drain.
Dice marinated synonyms,
Then add to taste.
Slice, and soak sun-dried irony—
No vinegar, just water.
It moderates acidity.
Season well with salted farce
And smoke-cured cynicism,
Finely chopped.
Mix constructions with gerund oil
And a tangy bon-mot sauce.
Strain excess.
Lightly toss.
Top with grated verbs,
Aged well,
Pungent, sublime.
Toss me a word salad today.
(Feeds six)
Knee Jerking is not Exercise
Austin, TX is a great place to live. I moved here a decade and a half ago because I was living in Waco, and Austin was (and still is) the only civilized city in Texas. Grad school was over, and I was ready to get the hell out. (I cried my first night in Waco, by the way, when I realized I had committed myself to living in that cesspit of a town for at least 2 years.) I had only been out for a couple of years, and Waco's slim pickins.
Austin’s a beautiful gay-friendly town. I figured that if the city owns a nude beach with an unofficial gay area and people co-exist peacefully (although be it nakedly), It was the right spot for me.
Oh, and we have lots of trees. They’re not as big as I was used to from Tennessee, but trees are an asset to any city.
It’s a pretty liberal, progressive place and has been for a long, long time. That was also one of its charms. I’ve lived a mostly-happy life (disclaimer: sometimes life sucks no matter where you are) as an openly gay man since the day I arrived. (Notes: 1) I am not “a gay”. “Gay” is an adjective, not a noun. I’m a gay man, not an adjective. 2) I don’t have a “gay lifestyle”. I can’t afford a lifestyle, gay or straight or ambisexual. )
Although Austin is a tolerant and progressive city, it has one draw back: when you get too many liberals in the same place (especially if they’re old hippies), they start to confuse liberalism with intellect. And then they go ahead and proceed down the merry path of stupid, misguided however sincere.
Well, they’re probably sincere, but as my mother said long ago, “You can be sincere but sincerely wrong.”
That’s where the jerking knees come in.
The DOA mall more or less across the street from where I live was recently sold to a company that is going to redevelop the property. The only hitch is that they want to put in a Wal-Mart (the first urban 2-story one built from scratch, by the way). I’m surprised that when that plan was announced all the knees jerking didn’t register as a seismic event.
I sent every city council member an email in support of the project. I received responses from 2, one who pointed out that a recent study had shown that Wal-Marts were good for local business because of the increased traffic and, therefore, increased exposure. The other obviously didn’t read my email.
These are the transcripts:
This is my response to a politician that obviously didn't take the to read what I sent her before she responded.
Dear Ms. Kim,
If you read the 999 letters the same way you read mine, then you should not count on having 1000 opponents to the development. I WROTE SUPPORTING THE DEVELOPMENT. You should probably go back through them and make sure your count is accurate.
As for sharing my view, you don't. In fact, you are acting like the typical Austin knee-jerker that drives me up the wall.
Let me reiterate:
Anderson @ Burnet has been a retail hub since this neighborhood was first developed.
Any project that utilizes the site to its highest and best will cause the same problems that are being cited by Wal-Mart's opponents.
I live across the street from site, so I think my opinion matters more than people who live at Lamar @ Morrow or 38th @ Shoal Creek because they don't live in my neighborhood and I do.
The mall has been a corpse waiting for a proper burial for decades.
No one else has shown any interest in redeveloping the site.
As for many of those who oppose the project, cloaking dislike for particular retailer in concern for a neighborhood they don't even live is dishonest, unethical and immoral. Do you honestly think there would be this hue and cry if Whole Foods or Central Market or HEB, for that matrer, wanted to build one of its very, very large stores on the same site? If you answer that question honestly, I think you would be force to concede that this has nothing to do with traffic or noise or anything else except a personal dislike of a particular retailer.
One final thing: if you and the others don't stop jerking your knees so often and fast, you're going to start getting some pretty bad cramps in your legs. And knee jerking is not exercise, except maybe as one in foolishness.
Sincerely.
Name Withheld
This is the response that made no sense whatsoever
----- Original Message -----
From:
To: Name Withheld
Sent: Wednesday, June 06, 2007 2:31 PM
Subject: RE: Northcross Wal-Mart
Dear Mr. ,
I have received over 1,000 e-mails and letters from Austinites regarding the redevelopment at Northcross Mall. I share your concerns passionately on this issue and want to update you on my and my colleagues’ activity on this subject.I have heard your desire to create a mixed-use, small business- and pedestrian-friendly development. That quest aligns with my promise to make Austin the “most livable city in America.” If that sounds idealistic, we know that it is not. We pride ourselves in being one of the top cities in America in which to live, work, and hang out. We created it, and it is our responsibility to protect it.The Northcross Mall development has passed the permitting, site plan, and zoning phases. The Council scrutinized the process and found no impropriety by city staff in approving the Northcross Mall development request.Regardless, I am monitoring the on-going process. I am researching legal options that may improve the situation for the neighborhoods surrounding Northcross Mall. This is a tough situation for everyone: neighborhoods, developers, environmentalists, elected officials, and those who just plain care about Austin’s smart growth. My colleagues on the Council and I have limited authority in this situation although we continue to investigate and brainstorm viable possibilities. So, what have we done in spite of our limitations? Though this is not retroactive, we have learned from this experience and have taken action within our authority. We recently passed the big box ordinance which does the following:
· Expands public awareness and involvement in similar situations that present themselves in the future;
· Requires a conditional use permit for projects larger than 100,000 square feet.
Wal-Mart has notified the City that it intends to decrease its development from 200,000 square feet to 191,500 of inside and outside store size. I have fought vigorously, along with my colleagues, for a further reduction in size although it has been an uphill battle. Still, we can learn from this experience and together, we can work to ensure it will be avoided as we grow and move forward.I will continue to work on this issue as your elected representative. In the meantime, I need to continue to hear about your workable, reasonable resolutions to developments that can adversely affect our future.Hang in there with me and we’ll keep working as a team to keep Austin awesome and unbelievably livable in every way that matters to us. I rely on you for information and ideas.We owe it to ourselves, our children, and Austin’s future. You know, we may not be here to see Austin’s long-range future but have a responsibility now to help shape it.I am here to serve you and I take that responsibility very seriously. Thank you for caring enough to give me the opportunity to work with you on the things that matter to all of us.
Warmest regards,
Jennifer KimCouncil Member, Place 3
This is the second letter
From: Jeff [mailto:deeroscar@sbcglobal.net] Sent: Saturday, May 19, 2007 2:36 PMTo: Wynn, Will; Dunkerley, Betty; Martinez, Mike [Council Member]; Kim, Jennifer; Leffingwell, Lee; McCracken, Brewster; Cole, SherylSubject: Northcross Wal-Mart
I have written the entire city council and received responses from only one member regarding my support of the planned Wal-Mart at the former Northcross Mall. Unlike many of the people protesting the development, I live and work only a few hundred feet away. Not 10, 20 or 30 blocks away, where the impact would be insignificant.
I'm across the street and have been for several years, watching that Mall slowly die. It's about time someone did something with that property. It has been lying fallow for decades. Ask where the opposition to this development lives. How close are they? And should they really have a voice in what happens in MY neighborhood?
Their latest gimmick is that Wal-Mart will kill locally owned businesses. Try as I will, I cannot think of a locally-owned business that they would compete with. Alamo Draft House? Terra Toys? Thundercloud? The locally-owned businesses in this neighborhood have their own niche market and do not even carry the same kinds of merchandise as Wal-Mart. The closest thing I can think of that resembles a locally-owned business that might face competition is SteinMart. Not locally-owned and carrying a totally different inventory that Wal-Mart.
As far as Wal-Mart's pay scale, they pay what the market demands. If the people who work there want more money, why don't they get another job? And why would anyone work for them in the first place if it's that bad? Maybe it's the best job they can get. There is a bottom layer of the socio-economic scale living in our backyards that we don't want to acknowlege. No one protests that the people that work at the Exxon station next to Northcross make less than $10.00 an hour, judging from help-wanted signs I've seen. The same goes for any number of subsistance-level workers within a few blocks of the site. Why does no one care about them?
In today's economy, where lack of skill equals subsitance income, has anyone considered what adding a couple of hundred jobs, low-paying though they be, would do for any number of families?
When you are poor and uneducated with no marketable skills, you take what you can get. Have you considered how many people willing to work an honest day will not have that opportunity?
When will you listen to the people who actually live in the neighborhood? We're not as vocal, but our motivations are not knee-jerk reactions to a major corporation. This has nothing to do with traffic or crime or employment standards. It is a cloaked attempt to keep a single retailer from opening another store. It is backed by slippery slope arguments that would not survive an elementary debate class. In short, it is insincere, false and hollow from its core.
Ask those folks commuting into my neighborhood to raise havoc how they would feel about a Whole Foods with identical square footage and traffic moving in. Do I have to tell you the likely answer?
Now factor in that I live across the street and me and my disabled partner could not afford to shop at Whole Foods, since they have gone as equally corporate as Wal-Mart, raised prices and will probably close down the Sun Harvest also across the street since they bought it's parent company a few months ago.
I actually live and work in the neighborhood, and plan to for a long time to come. I bought a new car 3 months ago and have barely 1000 miles on it because we rarely go out of the neighborhood.
The next time someone brings this topic up, please preface it with "And where do you live, exactly." I'm tired of carpet-baggers coming into my neighborhood, raising hell and then going home to where anything that happens here will have no effect on them.
My challenge: which of you has the spine to do it?
Name Withheld
PS--I vote. Always.
This is the original mesage
From: Jeff [mailto:deeroscar@sbcglobal.net] Sent: Saturday, May 19, 2007 2:36 PMTo: Wynn, Will; Dunkerley, Betty; Martinez, Mike [Council Member]; Kim, Jennifer; Leffingwell, Lee; McCracken, Brewster; Cole, SherylSubject: Northcross Wal-Mart
I have written the entire city council and received responses from only one member regarding my support of the planned Wal-Mart at the former Northcross Mall. Unlike many of the people protesting the development, I live and work only a few hundred feet away. Not 10, 20 or 30 blocks away, where the impact would be insignificant.
I'm across the street and have been for several years, watching that Mall slowly die. It's about time someone did something with that property. It has been lying fallow for decades. Ask where the opposition to this development lives. How close are they? And should they really have a voice in what happens in MY neighborhood?
Their latest gimmick is that Wal-Mart will kill locally owned businesses. Try as I will, I cannot think of a locally-owned business that they would compete with. Alamo Draft House? Terra Toys? Thundercloud? The locally-owned businesses in this neighborhood have their own niche market and do not even carry the same kinds of merchandise as Wal-Mart. The closest thing I can think of that resembles a locally-owned business that might face competition is SteinMart. Not locally-owned and carrying a totally different inventory that Wal-Mart.
As far as Wal-Mart's pay scale, they pay what the market demands. If the people who work there want more money, why don't they get another job? And why would anyone work for them in the first place if it's that bad? Maybe it's the best job they can get. There is a bottom layer of the socio-economic scale living in our backyards that we don't want to acknowlege. No one protests that the people that work at the Exxon station next to Northcross make less than $10.00 an hour, judging from help-wanted signs I've seen. The same goes for any number of subsistance-level workers within a few blocks of the site. Why does no one care about them?
In today's economy, where lack of skill equals subsitance income, has anyone considered what adding a couple of hundred jobs, low-paying though they be, would do for any number of families?
When you are poor and uneducated with no marketable skills, you take what you can get. Have you considered how many people willing to work an honest day will not have that opportunity?
When will you listen to the people who actually live in the neighborhood? We're not as vocal, but our motivations are not knee-jerk reactions to a major corporation. This has nothing to do with traffic or crime or employment standards. It is a cloaked attempt to keep a single retailer from opening another store. It is backed by slippery slope arguments that would not survive an elementary debate class. In short, it is insincere, false and hollow from its core.
Ask those folks commuting into my neighborhood to raise havoc how they would feel about a Whole Foods with identical square footage and traffic moving in. Do I have to tell you the likely answer?
Now factor in that I live across the street and me and my disabled partner could not afford to shop at Whole Foods, since they have gone as equally corporate as Wal-Mart, raised prices and will probably close down the Sun Harvest also across the street since they bought it's parent company a few months ago.
I actually live and work in the neighborhood, and plan to for a long time to come. I bought a new car 3 months ago and have barely 1000 miles on it because we rarely go out of the neighborhood.
The next time someone brings this topic up, please preface it with "And where do you live, exactly." I'm tired of carpet-baggers coming into my neighborhood, raising hell and then going home to where anything that happens here will have no effect on them.
My challenge: which of you has the spine to do it?
PS--I vote. Always.
This is the original message
Dear City Council Members,I live right across the street from Northcross Mall and work in a building adjacent to it, and I am both excited and anxious about the mall's redevelopment. I have hoped for years that someone would find a use for the site that realized its full potential, and now someone has proposed just that. That's why I'm excited. But I'm anxious that the hysteria about the inclusion of a WalMart in the redevelopment has incited will unduly delay the project or perhaps even derail it.
I attended the open house at the Norris Center, inspected the plans carefully, talked to people and came away with a good feeling. In fact, most of the people I heard were happy that there would be a large grocery, pharmacy and department store so close by. (The protesters only showed up for the cameras. They were nowhere in sight when I was there.) Many of the people there were older retired people for whom convenience is a value-added factor. And if you look at demographics of the neighborhoods immediately surrounding the site, there are many older and retired people. At 42, I'm one of the youngest people around.
Finally, much of the opposition to this project is coming from outside the neighborhood. They mostly live in ones that abut the ones in the immediate area of the mall, judging from where I've seen signs opposing the development. I'm not sure why someone why lives a few blocks off Lamar or Koenig think they live in my neighborhood, but they don't. The project will have little, if any, impact on them because they are too far away.
So I ask you to listen to someone who actually lives in the neighborhood. Any development that utilizes the property to its highest and best use will generate traffic and have the same issues as would adding a WalMart into the mix. The opposition largely lives too far away to have a credible say in the matter and is motivated by a general, knee-jerk loathing of WalMart as a corporate giant.
Please do all you can to see that this project moves forward (within the strict guidelines that the city lays out, of course). It will be an asset to the community, generate tax revenue that could have gone to the suburbs and finally do something about the til-now wasted potential of the site.
Thank you for your consideration.
05 June 2007
The Lucky One
If you don’t have it, run, beg, borrow and/or steal to find Allison Kraus’s “The Lucky One”. It’s philosophy in action, poetry in motion. It’s simple. It’s complex. It’s me.
I’m the lucky one.
I have 2 sisters. One has two ex-husbands. The other has never had a long- term relationship. One’s older, the other younger.
I also have a dead husband (we were together for 5 years) and, now, a crazy one for 7 years. But still, I’m lucky.
My first died young. He was only 27. It was sudden and unexpected and totally devastating. I made the decision to cut his life support and held his hand while he died. The I went home, fell apart and was crazy for about 5 years.
My current is bipolar. He’s been hospitalized twice in the last 10 months because of acute psychosis. He didn’t know who I was or who he was. Much less where he was or what was going on.
And still, I’m the lucky one.
I’ve known deep and abiding love twice in my life. Some people never get that at all. And even though it was taken away once, I found it again.
I’m twice blessed.
Lucky to have a crazy husband who reminds me every time he gets ill what it is I love and what can’t be replaced.
Sitting up all night in an emergency room or a waiting room might not seem so lucky, but it is. I have a reason to be there. The reason is more important than the circumstance.
I’m lucky to have to be there in the first place.
Good times come and go. They are a shadow playing across a stage, fleeting, intransigent and of no ultimate value.
It’s what you come home to that matters.
Even if he’s crazy as hell.
I really am the lucky one.
I’m the lucky one.
I have 2 sisters. One has two ex-husbands. The other has never had a long- term relationship. One’s older, the other younger.
I also have a dead husband (we were together for 5 years) and, now, a crazy one for 7 years. But still, I’m lucky.
My first died young. He was only 27. It was sudden and unexpected and totally devastating. I made the decision to cut his life support and held his hand while he died. The I went home, fell apart and was crazy for about 5 years.
My current is bipolar. He’s been hospitalized twice in the last 10 months because of acute psychosis. He didn’t know who I was or who he was. Much less where he was or what was going on.
And still, I’m the lucky one.
I’ve known deep and abiding love twice in my life. Some people never get that at all. And even though it was taken away once, I found it again.
I’m twice blessed.
Lucky to have a crazy husband who reminds me every time he gets ill what it is I love and what can’t be replaced.
Sitting up all night in an emergency room or a waiting room might not seem so lucky, but it is. I have a reason to be there. The reason is more important than the circumstance.
I’m lucky to have to be there in the first place.
Good times come and go. They are a shadow playing across a stage, fleeting, intransigent and of no ultimate value.
It’s what you come home to that matters.
Even if he’s crazy as hell.
I really am the lucky one.
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