Unremarkable Observations

THE PLAGUE OF GIVING

2012-01-19T17:38:00.000-08:00

The Stranger plays in the background in the dark...

the plague of giving

i don't have anything to give...except my love

though it's not wanted

so i give what i don't have in its place

there's a song

i hear it playing in my head

the words hurt and soothe at the same time

that song i hear won't stop

what do i want

not much i suppose

that's what i ask for

not much...that's what i get

i try so hard

to make it look easy

not to care

but i care

i give and care and love and want

with everything inside and out

i'm empty-inside and out

i've given it all...now what?

NOTES TO SELF

2011-12-23T14:58:00.000-08:00

Life, like love, isn't fair, but they're both still good.

When in doubt, just take the next small step.

Life is too short to waste time hating anyone or anything.

Your job won't take care of you when you are sick - your friends will.

You don't have to win every argument. Agree to disagree.

Cry with someone. It's more healing than crying alone.

Make peace with your past so it won't screw up the present.

Don't compare your life to others-you have no idea what their journey is all about.

If a relationship has to be a secret, you shouldn't be in it.

Take a deep breath. It calms the mind and soul.

Get rid of anything that isn't useful, beautiful or joyful.

Whatever doesn't kill you really does make you stronger.

Don't save anything for a special occasion. Today is special.

Over prepare then, go with the flow.

Be eccentric now. Don't wait for old age to wear funky hats.

The most important sex organ is the brain.

No one is in charge of your happiness but you.

Frame every so-called disaster with these words; “In five years, will this matter?”

Forgive everyone for everything all the time.

What other people think of you is none of your business.

Time heals almost everything. Give time time.

However good or bad a situation is, it will change.

Don't take yourself so seriously. No one else does.

Growing old beats the alternative - dying young.
If we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else's, we'd grab ours back.

Envy is a waste of time. You already have what you need.

The best is yet to come...

No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up.

Friends are the family that we choose.

Yield. Often.

MY ETSY SHOP LIVE

2011-08-23T16:10:00.000-07:00

So here it is...a few random items from the shop.

Click RetroMagnetism for the whole shebang.

LOST AND FOUND: ETSY VS. EBAY

2011-08-12T17:42:00.000-07:00

I've discovered ETSY. What took so long?

eBay has been my selling venue for the past eleven years; successfully for the most part. I've perfected my auction methods along the way, just as the site has improved its tools and ease of use; from posting, to communication, to streamlining payment and shipping options through PayPal.

It's been an integral part of my income, a hobby, an artful expression through descriptions, photography and HTML design, not to mention an excellent way to "recycle" items that I no longer use. However, like anything good and hyped, it has naturally grown by leaps and bounds, almost to the point where your items go unnoticed due to the enormous amount of goods and sellers to choose from. Groovy things, great deals and, what would be considered "no brainer buys" end before they have the chance to be seen. This is a bit of a drag, since much effort goes into creating accurate, thorough, detailed auctions with perfect pictures depicting the size, texture and specialties of each carefully chosen item to list.

With the handy dashboard of selling stats displayed, one can now quickly and easily sum up the amount of viewers and watchers per item which, quite unfortunately, has diminished significantly during the last few years.

Items that typically would have sold for $40.00 to $50.00 dollars, now sell less than $20.00, if at all. I suppose it's good and bad. Great for buyers, which I also partake in regularly. Not so good for sellers, who rely on the income and inventory depletion. Nevertheless, I will continue to sell, albeit with lowered expectations. Visit my eBay info page here: "me" View my current auctions here: LisaAndMick.

ETSY, on the other hand, is clearly focused and specifically designed to attract buyers who are mainly interested in three types of things; vintage treasures, handmade, recycled and/or re-purposed items, as well as supplies to provide artists to create these specialty pieces.

Clearly, a far more targeted audience and a smaller community of people who share similar interests. It's ultra cool and there are some incredibly talented people connected to this website with ideas and possibilities that promote re-making what's already considered used, passé or rubbish to the masses. Awesome!

I want in! So, I opened a shop called RetroMagnetism with the intention of selling magnets that I make from vintage jewels that are still as charming as when they were originally produced, but are considered "too precious" to wear. These items typically stay stashed away in boxes to be saved for posterity-never to be seen. No, I say! Bring them out into the open. Give them air! Display and make them available to be admired and appreciated. That's why they were (quality) made in the first place.

I use super small, yet ultra strong, neodymium rare earth magnets and the strongest glue ever to ensure the jewels are properly secured. Then, I transform these old beauties into gorgeous refrigerator magnets you'll be proud to display or gift.

I also have an array of kitschy and vintage items available for fellow lovers of unique, unusual or one-of-a-kind wonders to suit many tastes and tendencies. Holus-bolus.

Please visit my ETSY shop here: RetroMagnetism.

ONTARIO HAS NEW MEANING

2011-08-07T15:42:00.000-07:00

Formerly conjuring up the odiferous air of

cow manure, Middle of Nowhere, East Los Angeles, and that
peculiarly named city of Rancho Cucamonga (which I'm sure is
also a hacienda bordering Mexico and Guatemala).

Ontario currently evokes a quirky grin and an
esoteric bit of blissful, positive possibilities...why you may ask?
Well, therein lies the mystery.

Gripping my hard-to-get attention and pulling
my strings - so to speak; the unfolding phenomenon is definitely
fun and flighty.

Update: Judgement err.

VISITING THE LOVE JUNKYARD

2011-06-26T03:44:00.000-07:00

Dented bodies, broken souls
Wilted roses, hearts grow cold
Unhappy endings and shattered dreams
There go all the nearly-real things

Where's the candlelight, where's the smiles
Man this place goes on for miles
There's heaps and heaps of wedding rings
Equal space for tramps and kings

There's no doberman dogs or security guards at the love junkyard
Open twenty four hours, come as you are to the love junkyard

Tanks of teardrops shed in vain
Mixin' with the pouring rain
Promises go up in smoke Freight cars full of abandoned hurt and hope
There's no doberman dogs or security guards at the love junkyard
Open twenty four hours, come as you are to the love junkyard

Tiny trysts or grand affairs, there's no more need for teddy bears
The time for pretty words has past, so fly the flag of love half mast
At the love junkyard

There's no dobermans though or security guards at the love junkyard
Open twenty four hours, bring your broken heart, to the love junkyard

YELP ME

2011-05-15T17:38:00.000-07:00

Times are hard. Let's help our friends and neighbors spend their cash where it's appreciated...I'm falling behind on my super likes.

Recent reviews by Lisa C.

What's this?

MICK ON MY MIND

2011-01-14T06:22:00.000-08:00

MY MICK

I seek the night

And I rest my head

On my weary bed

And I think about you

And time's on my mind

I've been thinking about

What I'm doing without

With a boy like you

What's a girl to do

Yesterday was more or less

Just like the day before

And time don't matter

When there's nobody else around

Yesterday is dead and gone

And all I believe is in now

I believe and how my time has come

Why sleep at all

Just to rest my head

On a lonely bed

And to dream alone

Time's on my mind

And the last I heard

He was like a bird

Don't know where he flew

And what's a girl to do

What's a girl to do?

"HAPPY NEW YEAR"

2011-01-01T17:00:00.000-08:00

The depths of despair can often be deeper than the mines in Chile. How do you pull yourself out? You can't. People must help you. How do they even know you're down there? How did you end up there? Too late to think about that now. Perhaps you went in alone or those you went in with are lost in the darkness. What's your worst fear? Hunger, thirst, heat, cold, loneliness, air, despair. Do you give up and try not to feel the pain-physical, mental, emotional? Do you fight for your life? What if hope is absent and numbness is an option. Do you just wait? Do you wish you weren't there? Futile. Screaming won't help-no one can hear your cry and you'll just waste precious energy. The sky is getting smaller. The hole is getting deeper. You're in a comfortable position. A pizza sounds good, but not much else. If you're rescued, there's going to be a lot of hoopla, hospitalization, attention, worry, guilt, expense. If you're not, there will be hoopla, guilt, chatter, accusation, confusion, expense. The depths of despair run pretty damn deep.

Just put on a charming smile and pretend it's not real for as long as you can.

MAKE...A LIST

2010-11-23T10:25:00.000-08:00

make art, not war

make friends

make out

make up

make love, not war

make your bed

makeup

make music

make-believe

make dinner

make me laugh

make your own kind of music

make it right

make my day (off)

make up your mind

make a wish

make a difference

make me a cocktail

make a cake

make time

make sense

make it or break it

make your point

make it work

make a way

make it last

make someone happy

make sure

make nice

make me

make it in America

make me smile

make a grown man cry

make an entrance

make the cut

make it on your own

makeover

make history

make a commotion

make a contribution

make noise

make movies

make-shift

make a decision

make a deal

make fun of

make it better

make a payment

make money

make a change

make a circle

make a date

make the pie higher

make all my dreams come true

make a run for it

OY VEY, I'M MELTING!

2010-09-28T19:46:00.000-07:00

How many ways can you say it's too frickin hot?

Well, I'll tell you because I cannot move out of the direct blow flow of my new best friend, Holmes, The Fan.

So, I sit, I am, I blog.

Usually, I drink red wine. Today, I drink vodka on the rocks. It's cold, it's delicious, it goes straight to my head. The Russian half of me is awakened.
Below is a sampling of the latest headlines from San Francisco today. They’re in red, of course, to emphasize the fierceness of the feverish ferocity that is our tormenting, torturous temperatures. Apparently, the writers were too fatigued by the scorching swelter to use spell check. I found six misspellings among them and they’re getting paid.

Record Heat Bakes Bay Area...
Monday's hot weather broke records in San Francisco and other parts of the Bay Area

Spare The Air Day Declared For Tuesday As Heat Continues / Record heat today with 107 degrees possible by mid-day in SF Bay / Hot weather relief centers offered / Heat Prompts Red Flag Warning / Week-Long Heat Wave Targets Bay Area/Record temperatures occurred again during a sweltering heat wave that was forecast to continue for a third straight day / Dangerously Hot Weather Grips Bay Area / Across the Bay Area, heat records toppled Thursday like double-decker ice cream cones in the high-pressure onslaught / Forecasters say 'hot, sticky, nasty and uncomfortable’ weather is expected to hang around through Saturday / San Francisco's high of 93 degrees about 2 pm broke the 1984 record of 92 degrees, and SFO International Airport's reading of 96 degrees tied the record for the date set in 1958 / Heat wave creating serious health problems / Enough about the Heat already!!

MY JOSSYPUSS

2010-07-29T08:13:00.000-07:00

There once was a cat named Joss

She'd run and chase the ball I'd toss

Then, she'd sit still like a fly on a pill

Until I retrieved it again and again, until

I realized that she, not I, was indeed the boss

How can a pussycat rule your life?

To question, proves you're less sharp than a knife

Take one home from the SPCA

Love her and feed her and then one day

You wake up to see she's worth any bit of strife

RULES AND THINGS

2010-06-09T10:44:00.000-07:00

I've broken the first rule of having a successful blog; blog frequently.

Try as I might to search for a philosophical train of thought on my forty-fourth birthday, I failed miserably. So, I opted for a new tattoo. Surely, just as rewarding, but I was only able to make an appointment. That was a first for me; an appointment for a tattoo? For the dentist - yes, but a tattoo is all about impulsiveness, spontaneity and your best friend being at your side encouraging you to do it. Where's the fun in taking time and soberness to mull it over? I ask you.

Well, I showed up right on time the following Tuesday. Alone. The design that the guy came up with was not exactly what I wanted. It never is, but you don't want to piss-off the artist even less than you want to bite down on the dentist's finger. (I learned the latter in an unfortunate childhood experience.) The somewhat sweaty, giant Irishman spooned my hunched-over back for a good three hours. For those who've somehow managed to escape the urge to get their body inked up...that translates into a hefty boatload of cash and one expensive birthday present to myself. I'm not disappointed, and it's actually quite pretty, however, I will return at some point, to have it "fixed up", if you will.

It had been at least a year or so since my last tat, so I thought it prudent to go ahead and read the instructions that came with the special lube...***REMOVE BANDAGE IN 3 HOURS***...in big, bold lettering...I read the next morning. Oops, yet another rule broken. You mean I wasn't supposed to leave the thick, plastic, burn patient bandages held in place by sticky, itchy tape with ink and blood oozing out all over my three layers of clothing through dinner at Max's, several hours of past Bill Maher episodes at Carlos' house and an extremely, uncomfortable night on my couch? REALLY? Damn it.

In addition to my fancy back art, I created (a la peanut butter cups) a delicious snack/meal. Take small circles of Italian dry salami and slather with traditional hummus, fold carefully into mini tacos and enjoy! It's a delightful combination of fantastic flavors as well as fast and fabulous finger food. I'm noshing my heart out right now. Rule of thumb: Don't overdo it, even though you'll be tempted to continue until one of the ingredients is gone...as my grandma used to say, it'll be repeating on you all day long.

As far as coming of age, infrequent and rare signs of maturity come glowing through at random times. More often than not, I'm constantly reminding myself that Janis Joplin was wise beyond her young years when she screamed, "Get it while you can..."

p.s. The above photo is not of my back...a girl can have a birthday wish though.

DES MOINES, IOWA

2010-05-28T19:23:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you meet the most fascinating of people in the most ordinary of places. It just goes to show you, one never knows what may be lurking around the next corner, or in the next elevator. Going up...?

THREE DAYS

2010-04-22T20:43:00.000-07:00

Thought for today...

The challenge of manners is not so much

to be nice to someone whose favor you covet,

as to be exposed to the bad manners of others

without imitating them.

~Judith Martin

Thought for yesterday...

You cannot make yourself feel something

you do not feel, but you can make yourself

do right in spite of your feelings.

~Pearl S. Buck

Thought for tomorrow...

The evil of the world is worth nothing

but the sanction you give it.

~Ayn Rand

CONTRACT NEGOTIATIONS AND MAGGIE'S LAW

2010-02-22T08:00:00.000-08:00

Wake up, flight crews!

From an article published in the LA Times, December 21, 2009

By Tiffany Hawk (who spent five years as a flight attendant at United Airlines and Virgin America before becoming a travel writer. Her monthly travel column appears in Coast magazine.)

Airlines are increasingly pushing pilots and flight attendants into longer hours and less sleep.

As we cram into airplanes this holiday season, there is an aspect of air travel that we're likely to be putting out of our minds -- pilots asleep at the yoke and flight attendants so tired their mental states can be likened to a drunken stupor.

Most Americans are protected by the Fair Labor Standards Act, which since 1938 has limited the workday to eight hours and the workweek to 40 hours. Airlines, which are governed by the Federal Aviation Administration, are exempt. They can push their workers up to 20 hours per day, without bearing the cost of overtime pay, which discourages such practice.

The toll this can take on pilots has been in the news since a Northwest Airlines flight overshot its destination two months ago. But the rest of the flight crew is also suffering.

As a former flight attendant, I fought two in-flight fires, calmed thousands of passengers through mechanical failures and assisted in more medical emergencies than I can recall. I have also fallen asleep standing up. I've snuck naps in the lavatory, sitting on the toilet with a dirty airline pillow wedged between my shoulder and the sink. I've been outright incapable of figuring the simple arithmetic required for liquor accounting. I have asked a passenger what he wanted to drink and then stuck a bag of pretzels into a cup before handing it to him.

This level of exhaustion is dangerous. Several sleep studies have shown that 17 hours of wakefulness is equivalent to a blood-alcohol level of 0.05%. Between 19 and 24 hours of wakefulness, that number goes up to 0.10% -- over the legal limit for driving in every U.S. state and considerably over the FAA restriction of 0.04%. Chronically sleeping only four to six hours per night is as harmful to cognitive performance as missing two entire nights of sleep.

For crew and passenger safety, the FAA mandates that flight attendants work a maximum of 14 hours, extendable to 20 hours, with minimum rest periods of nine hours, reducible to eight hours. Pilots have slightly different restrictions -- 16 hours maximum and up to 18 hours if necessary.

These guidelines were intended as extreme outer limits, and it was expected that they'd be reined in by collective bargaining agreements. But after years of losses, cutbacks and contract re-negotiations have made long shifts and short recoveries standard operating procedure at too many airlines, from national and international carriers to regional companies.

For flight crews, an eight-hour rest period begins 15 minutes after "door open" on landing to the next day's push-back from the gate. It's ludicrous: Flight crews must be at the airport an hour before flight time -- to check in, go through a security screening, get briefed, board the plane and even pass out pre-departure beverages to first-class passengers. But all of that work is counted as "rest." When you take into account transportation to and from a hotel, which could be 30 or more minutes away, or finding something to eat at the end of a "day," crew members may only have an opportunity for four or five hours' sleep.

Contrast that with the Air Force, which, despite being at war, must give its air crews (including flight attendants and those performing flight attendant duties) a minimum of 12 hours' rest.

Of course, not all airlines push their crews to the limit. For example, Southwest Airlines, year after year the most profitable carrier, has the highest-paid flight attendants and pilots in the industry. For flight attendants, it offers a reasonable 10.5 hour maximum "duty day," which can be pushed to 12.5 hours; pilots' maximum "duty day" is 13 hours, which can be pushed to 15 hours.

Why don't flight crew members simply migrate to the best airlines? I can answer that for flight attendants: Partly, it's an issue of seniority. If someone leaves one airline after, say, 15 years, they will lose that seniority at a new airline, which not only means a pay cut but also several years of being on call 24 hours a day. But mostly it's because they dream of the good old days, which in the airline industry means pre-9/11, when the industry was in better shape and such brutal schedules were the exception not the rule. Like anyone in an abusive relationship, they are living in denial. And a bit of fear. If they demand more, managers threaten, the airline will go under.

If an airline worries it can't afford to hire more flight attendants should schedules require safe doses of sleep, we should remind its shareholders that the company could get hundreds of them for the price of one chief executive officer. Though rested, the CEO won't be much help when your Airbus dives into the Hudson.

__________________________________________________________________________

This part is by me...
I'm sure many flight attendants have previously read this pertinent article, and every flight attendant working today, is all too familiar with severe fatigue. What we may not know, however, is that there is actually a law in effect in New Jersey which holds drivers responsible for car accidents resulting from drowsy driving. The punishment for this offense; imprisonment for up to 10 years and a $10,000 fine. In the case of extended hours on the job, there would also be liability for corporations whose tired workers hurt someone on the road. Considering that our work schedules often leave us so exhausted that we are essentially "under the influence" by the end of (if not during) our work day, it is highly conceivable to regard that our employer could and should also be held responsible both legally and financially for driving mishaps resulting from extreme fatigue, when we are expected to do it now, grieve it later.

Maggie's Law, originated in 1997, from a traffic crash in which 20-year-old, Maggie McDonald was killed when an over-tired driver crossed three lanes of traffic and hit her car head on. The bill amends N.J.S.2C:11-5, enacted by the State of New Jersey on February 10, 2003. Summarily, it establishes that driving while fatigued constitutes reckless driving under the vehicular homicide statute, and that the definition of reckless now includes fatigue as well as intoxication.

Although this law is currently only in effect in New Jersey, the Secretary of Transportation and the Highway Traffic Safety Administration are conducting studies on the scope of the problem in order to enact a national law. It seems as though this would serve as an important and viable argument in the contention to put a limit on our ever growing duty-time legalities.

So, as we continue to negotiate (fight) for fair (survivable) wages, retirement (see dictionary for meaning) and safety on the job, (oxygen, trained pilots) we should place even more emphasis on the most rudimentary, yet, perhaps most crucial part of our job; getting to and from it without dying and/or killing somebody due to extreme exhaustion! (a.k.a. reserve.)

CARLOS, MY REMARKABLE FRIEND

2010-02-13T09:40:00.000-08:00

Last month, I met a wonderful new friend. He's silly, endearing, handsome and an incredibly gifted artist. I was intuitively struck by the sensation that we possessed an other-worldly connection of some kind. Thus far, this has proven true. Since that day, I've met Bryan, his longtime partner, fell in love with his charming little pug, Flora, and discussed things I wouldn't tell my therapist - if I had one. We've eaten breakfasts, lunches and dinners together, been to movies, Goodwill and Target. (And I don't go to Target with just anyone!) He adores Astrid, my best friend of twenty-something years. Joss, my pussycat, yearns to lounge on any article of his clothing to display her undying affection. We remember all the same songs from the seventies and sing together at the top of our lungs, at the drop of a hat. He does wear some pretty groovy hats. Like myself, he's not keen on physical exertion and likewise, has perfected the lost skill of chillin'. His playfulness and quirky mannerisms make me giggle like a schoolgirl. When he awakens, he might text me a good morning greeting along with a picture of his dog's butt. Prior to hanging up from even the briefest of phone calls, he'll say, (with a hint of his mellifluous, Honduran accent) "Goodbye my treasure." or "Bye bye, precious." It channels a giant grin to my face every time. He is truly a zany work of art that I discovered one January morning, and I intend to keep close to my heart forever.

His paintings exhibit a unique fuse of elements from Picasso, Chagall, Clemente, Braque and Modigliani. They seize your attention with their bold colors, openly expressive and suggestively sexy images. Then, you're drawn in further by his apparent lively spirit and whimsically wacky, creative mind. His cozy home is a virtual museum of these fabulous works of many mediums. They've even inspired me to resume pursuit of my modest drawing abilities. At the very least, I feel a potent need to share his talents with anyone who'll look and listen. But, don't simply take my word for it, visit his website and see for yourself.

MY FAVORITE POEM

2010-01-30T10:08:00.000-08:00

The Cremation of Sam McGee

Robert W. Service

(1874-1858)

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold, till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead — it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you, to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows — Oh God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared —such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear, you'll let in the cold and storm-
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

VELVET UNDERGROUND

2010-01-21T15:51:00.000-08:00

Last night, I dreamt that I lived in a one-room, basement flat with a twenty-foot ceiling. The windows were at eye level, which enabled me to watch the feet of people walking by, a la Laverne and Shirley's Milwaukee dwelling. Nigel Kennedy's instrumental version of While My Guitar Gently Weeps played in the background. The tall walls were covered in rich damask, velvet burnout wallpaper.

Humongous, turquoise velvet, pouf pillows with button tufts

were strewn about the dense, orange shag carpeting,

along with two ultra comfy, velvet chaise lounges,

and a gigantic, round glass coffee/cocktail table.

Balmy light gleamed from the jeweled chandelier.

A beaded curtain divided the bathroom area,

with a pedestal sink, toilet and pink clawfoot tub.

The embellished, mirrored walls reflected

the luminescent glow of a passel of flickering candles.

I don't remember there being a kitchen,
but I was donning a pair of pom-pom socks.

SILLY PUDDY

2010-01-13T21:03:00.000-08:00

The setting: Eight o'clock in the am; a midwinter's flight from San Francisco to Chicago. A man crosses the threshold onto a Boeing 767 aircraft, utterly empty handed. No coat, no hat, no carry-on bag nor a stitch of reading material. No computer, no iPod, no pen, no paper. No kidding. "Watcha gonna do for four and a half hours?" I was obliged to inquire of this six foot tall, slow-moving, forty-something, bald gentleman. "Not much." He cheerfully alleged. I was skeptical; perhaps even unsettled. Nevertheless, nothing is precisely what he proceeded to do. Physically anyway; he didn't eat, drink, sleep, take in the movie or listen to music. He didn't so much as stand up for a stretch or to visit the lavatory. Puzzling at the very least, no?

It's Seinfeld episode #157. True fans will remember the time Elaine breaks up with Puddy, during the flight back from Europe for the mere reason that she's so flabbergasted that he simply sits there staring at the back of the seat like a zombie.

Who are these people? I don't know about you, but you won't catch me chartering a ten-minute bus ride downtown minus a minimum of my iTunes and a scarf. The rationale of course; to furnish the appearance of being otherwise engaged, so as not to lure idle chatter from strangers. Not so astoundingly, fellow riders won't typically bother with you if your whole face is wrapped up tight in a scarf. Likewise, it staves off that common urge to crook one's head out into the street, in a wearying effort to ascertain the distance of the oncoming bus. Fortuitously, I deciphered by the tender age of thirteen or so, that it never hastens its eventual arrival anyway.

What if the flight canceled and he had to return home? Did he check all of his travel essentials? If so, should his luggage go missing-as usurious as that sounds-then what? Moreover, if he didn't give a damn, why was I vexed by his probable impending tedium? Curiously enough, I still sought to infer logic. Was he memorizing lines in an upcoming play? Meditating? Pondering his future endeavors? Reflecting on the past ten years he dwelt in federal prison? I found myself transfixed by his construed state of nothingness and befuddled by my own conflicting conjectures. Surely someone else noticed this perplexing phenomenon. What gives? Was he on a loony-bin trip or was I tripping out?

BEEN NOT-SO-GAY

2010-01-10T07:46:00.000-08:00

Learnt Sunday at seven ante meridiem, January tenth, two thousand and ten: Do not rub BEN-GAY® cream on your own back and then put your finger in your eye. Just trust me on this one. I've never been pepper sprayed, despite having lived in Oakland for nine years, but, I reckon this is more or less as close as you can get to the genuine article.

THE DEVIL WENT DOWN TO GEORGIA

2010-01-07T16:01:00.000-08:00

I was half-watching TV today and happened to catch a blip of something that pricked up my ears; the Cobb County District Attorney's name is Pat Head. This tickles me. Say it aloud. You see, it just sounds silly. It's not a name, it's something to do. Plus, it conjures up the image of someone tapping on their head and rubbing their belly simultaneously - which is also rather funny.

So, for yucks, I wikipedia-ed Cobb County and then I stopped laughing. Turns out, Cobb, along with several other counties from the area, including Atlanta, Marietta and Sandy Springs were once a huge Cherokee Territory. Seems all this land northwest of the Chattahoochee River was confiscated by the great state of Georgia from the Cherokee Nation and redistributed via lottery to the new settlers as a result of the passage of the federal Indian Removal Act. Not so funny.

Amazingly, according to the U.S. Census Bureau, it ranks 15th among the most-educated, as well as being in the top 100 wealthiest counties in the United States. Wonder how many Cherokees are included in those stats. Even less funny. Never mind.

A BLURB ABOUT MY BLOG

2010-01-05T17:34:00.000-08:00

I am not a writer, nor do I profess to have aspirations or the talent to be one. I suppose that's the beauty of it. You can't stop me. Of course, you don't have to read it. Another splendid thing - I'll never know. My thoughts are not of such a rattling nature that they beg to be transformed into the written word and preserved for posterity by any stretch. They do, however, plunge to the depths of my soul with the weight of a semi, in the cast of simple, as well as cryptic reflections and contemplations since that day in May of 2004, when my husband, Mick died. I didn't say "passed away" to make it easier on the psyche, because there was not one thing easy about it. He died. People are supposed to die. People are not supposed to die at the age of 46.

It's not that I didn't have important interests or opinions prior to that, but my perspectives were, for better or worse, subsequently altered. As for what may tumble out of me in this forum has not yet been wholly mooted. Theoretically, there exists the potential for awe-inspiring content, though quite improbable. More likely, subtle musings on not so significant events as the appointed title might predicate. I figure that even though I may not have anything especially noteworthy to say here, my favorite English teacher managed to drill these few things into my dense head:
1. "It's not the subject it's the substance".
2. "The conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking."
3. "The only way to improve, is to just do it."
I later wondered if someone in my class went into advertising for Nike and stole her locutions for their slogan. So, in conclusion, (because I'm tired of thinking at the moment) as so perfectly put by the homeless Trudy character, in The Search For Intelligent Life in the Universe, when a New York tourist stopped her on the street to ask, "How do I get to Carnegie Hall?" And she retorted, "Practice, practice, practice!" That's what I will resolve to do.

FRANKLY

2010-01-02T19:30:00.000-08:00

In the words of new friend; a self-affirming exercise and a boost to the self esteem to know that when you tally up many of what we consider to be our more mundane aspects, you realize that you are quite accomplished at being a human being. I thought it made a better biography of me rather than, "I was born here and graduated from..."

PERSONALLY, I AM...

A gentlewoman, introspective, kind, organized, overly empathetic, deliberately unhurried, over forty, a flirt, perpetually in pursuit of an altered state, employed, not too tall, not too skinny, only able to wink with my left eye, a cuddler, chiefly carnal, proud to have skipped being a mother, clever, a star gazer, a moon watcher...

a Fran Lebowitz devotee, interested in everything Amy and David Sedaris have to say, a non-practicing Jew (how new), an unrestrained laugher, a bona fide goof, fiery, quite attentive, of the firm conviction that drugs should be legal and guns illegal-not the reverse, a skillful speller, a Jon Stewart intern correspondent applicant, a far left of center voter, a rapacious red, red wine drinker...

yenning for my dream job as a describer for the J. Peterman Catalog, lacking the courage to pose for Shibari photographs, a frequent room re-arranger, an opinion haver, thoughtful, a competent conveyer of sentiments, a flan eater, not so secretly in love with Neil Diamond, a Seinfeld episode memorizer, a twice a day bath taker...

a caper taper, a time waster, a bargain seeker, tender, playful, frequently ensconced in velvet, easy to cry, not at all refined, not hostile, excessively honest, inventive, shrewd, habitually on time, learning the art of HTML, seldom cautious or timid, an ardent walker, usually understood, often misunderstood, incessantly compromising, rarely taken unawares, the ultimate fine-point pen seeker, an any topping pizza lover, horrendously afraid to ride a horse, completely turned off by nail biting, a believer that short red nails are hot even on lesbians...

not easily intimidated, fair, full of ingenuity, moved by subtlety, colorful, an ebay zealot, whimsically eccentric, barmy, a law abiding rule bender, rather humble, a lover, not a hater, a veritable snoring slumberer, tattooed, thick lipped, diabolically witty, unholy, not miserly, unmoved by jewels perfume or flowers, always in search of groovy furniture pieces...

able to transform myself into a lone wolf at the drop of a hat, in love with Joss-my pussycat and beguiled by the sound of her untrimmed paw claws tapping around the wooden floors, a Steely Dan and Van "the man" fan, a garish singing driver, a true blue friend, a good loser, haphazardly lucky, a motley dichotomy of contraries, in a constant quest for a miscellanea of pleasures marked mainly by sensual passion of the flesh and mental imagery, a rain worshipper, a floor sleeper, a sleep talker, longing for a sunken living room like Mary Tyler Moore's, a calculating hostess...

an M&M sucker, a good swimmer, flexible, usually very considerate, detail oriented, oft asked not to slurp my tea, usually avoiding the sun, a cadillac margarita toper, not even slightly prejudiced, conscientious, rarely purchasing unused items, cornier than most of my friends, an RSVP-er, foolishly indulgent, endowed with the talent to recite random movie lines and song lyrics on command, a saunterer, a donner of spectacles, nostalgic for Spy Magazine...

glad Utne returned, hugely becharmed by Mexico and Brasil, trying to be original, saddled with a sweet tooth, a deep sleeper, full of antipathy for undimmed overhead lighting, complex, content, a weeping widow, aunt & uncle-less, not a niece, a picker, a light packer, progressive, tiny handed, extremely finicky when it comes to movies I'll sit through, apt at eating with chopsticks...

an adequate Spanish speaker, exceedingly generous, uninterested in jokes, a non-smoker, a meat-eater, a decent scrabble, chess, pool and ping-pong player, frequently woefully sad, a doodler, fulfilled by good company, of the belief that living simply is highly valuable and underrated, cool under pressure, wooed by graciousness, lacking a college degree and not bothered by it, realizing the powerful mentations of Frank Zappa...

a murder mystery, history and law TV show enthusiast, as deep as Jack Handey, dismissive of the norm, not an adventurer, an accordion music enjoyer, keenly aroused by men and women who articulate their desires without apprehension or scruples, entranced by Rickie Lee Jones' lyrics, a San Franciscan, an appreciator of kitschy art and vibrant rich colors that don't go together, resolute, romantic, patient, certain that Lily Tomlin is a genius...

of the opinion that Barack Obama is one of the sexiest men alive, not capable of defining aphrodisiac in 100 words or less, so not influenced by affluence, a crowd avoider, openly wary of doctors, actors, politicians, salespeople and clergy, considered an artist by a legion of my friends, noticing that my eyes have lost much their former sparkle, willing and waiting to join or form a Bill Maher cult, not spiteful, motivated by spontaneity, informal, friendly to strangers, bored by gabblers, often alone, wishing I could tango but will settle for watching...

a garlic lover, an oyster swallower, a Gemini-whatever that means, full of humility, a knuckle, knee, back and ankle cracker, bendable, happy when I can persuade someone to throw caution and carefulness to the wind, not apt at concealing physical and psychological pain, an Onion News subscriber...

an earnest crossword puzzle and sudoku non-finisher, a spell checker, a half-sister to more than one unknown person, a Wikipedia and blog subscriber, not oblivious, aware that I would have fit in better during the era of the 1930's and 1940's, a Helmut Newton buff, often making an effort to enthrall my friends, a mediocre driver, an early riser, a poor smile faker, a font fiend, an above average decorator, driven to one day live in an Airstream trailer...

mesmerized by the psyche and souls of artists of any medium, coziest in my living room, sleeping on the couch more often than not, so grateful to have met and married my husband...

aching for Mick's concerned and speculative mind, longing for his unfeigned heart, needing his solution heeded spirit, missing his perception for reason, rationality and brilliant intellect as well as his manic pursuit of knowledge-both trivial and crucial, re-examining my priorities of late, crying way too often, growing up too fast, thinking entirely too hard