Tonight we dined.
Barbecued chicken breasts and day old pasta salad.
Day old pasta salad doesn't sound like a culinary delight, but oh how wrong you are.
Give the pasta salad a day to absorb all the flavors from the dressing. The fresh garlic, the extra virgin olive oil, the balsamic vinegar, and the fresh thyme. A day to soak up all the fantastic tastes (including the bacon slices) and the day old pasta far exceeds it's day-of younger brother. A glass of wine and a little cracked pepper, and you, my friend . . . are in heaven.
It would be nice to say that its an age old recipe, brought to the new world from my scottish-italian forefathers.
(Note: there's really no italian in my ancestry, but my son is half italian and that makes me sorta honorary)
But this pasta salad is really a concoction of ingredients invented by my father and I.
To start . . . we were kind of poor.
Not "mismatched shoes from the goodwill" kind of poor, but we did have a van that used a coffee can as an oil filter.
Pasta salad was a dish that my dad and I could make on a friday morning and still be nibbling on by sunday afternoon. We used to eat barrels of the stuff and the recipe always changed depending upon what we had in the fridge. Sometimes it had broccoli, sometimes chunks of cheese (Monterrey jack was my favorite, but extra sharp cheddar was my dad's). Sometimes celery, but always carrots.
Most of the time there were bacon bits, and Dad always splurged on the marinated artichoke hearts and Bernstein's dressings.
Gotta love him.
(Thirteen year old debutantes riding on their new ponies couldn't have been more spoiled)
Pasta salad was my first introduction to cooking. How to boil pasta and check for doneness. How to wield a chef's knife and not cut my fingers off. How to make bad puns by confusing colander with calender.
Good times.
It also taught me, that sometimes, day two is the best. You gotta let things stew awhile before they reach perfection.
Proposition 8, the amendment to ban same sex marriage in the Californian constitution, was upheld this week.
I'm angry. and frustrated. and disappointed in my fellow human beings.
I needed comfort food and day old pasta salad fit the bill.
Now, I'm no activist.
I don't even like ordering specially prepared burgers in the drive-thru.
"Just pick the pickles off!" I say to the sixteen year old.
But a blog is a soapbox, even when the town square is empty. And I have personal vendetta against homophobia. A fire which unfortunately will never be extinguished.
When I was eighteen I worked in a bookstore. One day, a well dressed man in his late forties berated me for ten minutes about the homosexual content that was available in our human sexuality section. He didn't use foul language or raise his voice, he just spent ten minutes of my life to display his disgust with me and my bookstore, regardless of the fact that I had no control whatsoever of the titles we sold, and how ashamed of myself I should be.
Now, I've dealt with really god awful people in the retail world and I am fully aware that weak people seek out confrontations with sales people because they know that there are no repercussions from offending a bookstore clerk, but what really upset me isn't that I was powerless to argue with him, or even that I lacked the courage of such confrontation.
It was that fact that he had no way of knowing that I wasn't gay.
The miserable, stupid, condescending ass might not only been offending my pride but my whole existence. He could've incited violence. His monologue could have been the catalyst for an unfortunate confused teenager to commit suicide. His tirade had no purpose other than to hurt and to emasculate me as I stood there too unsure of myself to speak up.
So I've been thinking about this immensely since "Yes on 8" posters were littered across half the lawns in my neighborhood.
Why? Really . . . why?
In fact, what kind of society am I raising my son in where this kind of inane mental retardation is considered the norm?
And it occurs to me that the weak minded, the uneducated, the brainwashed by propaganda insufferable bigots of this world need a rallying point for their fear. It's a final stab at relevancy. It's Laertes' final thrust of the poisoned sword before they become marginalized by a progressive society that doesn't require their ilk any longer.
You have the activists (again, not me) to thank for the turning of the tide. It's their continued fight that will keep that poisoned sword from slicing into the delicate skin of our children.
As for me, I get to teach my son how to check for doneness, how to wield a chef's knife without cutting off his fingers, how to love, how to be far more sure of himself at three than I was at eighteen, and, hopefully . . .
that day two will be even better.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Duets and B-flats
"Why are you Broken?" is a duet.
It just is.
I can't tell you why or how I know it. I haven't got much beyond the first few lines, which I won't bother to share yet because they are bound to change.
I don't have a true melody line, a bridge, or a chorus.
Just a title and an idea.
The title came from Calvin. The idea came from a friend.
A good friend. A loving friend. A lifelong companion who called me up way too late at night.
She asked me what I thought of starting a band.
Remember now, it was late . . .
I told her that it was a terrible idea.
She plead her case anyway.
Knowing that it was too late for me to even think about thinking about it. I told her to call me back the next afternoon and pitch me her idea.
Then I went back to sleep.
Sure, it was only 10:20pm, but I'm freaking old.
The next day I mulled the late night idea around in my head and decided that I was still right.
It was a terrible idea.
See "This is Spinal Tap" for a full disertation.
But I loved the idea. I miss playing with other musicians. I dream about the production possibilities that could come from not filling in all the space myself. I even kind of miss yelling at the drummer to stop playing for jut a moment.
But the real reason I loved the idea is because I want to hear my wife sing again.
It pains me to think of how much of her life has been sucked out of her because she has no place to sing.
In fact, if I were to point to any tension in our relationship, the root cause would be that she has no opportunity to express herself beyond work and motherhood.
So that's it.
"Why are you broken?" isn't just a line fed to me by the three year old. It's not just about the phisical pain I'm am feeling, but the emotional pain between two people who are both broken.
It's a duet.
and I'm gonna make my wife sing the girl part.
also, its a piano duet.
This has a much less esoteric reason.
I pulled my guitar out today for the first time since the show. Calvin saw the case a ran into his room to get his guitar.
On his tippy toes none the less.
"Play with a pick daddy, play 'booty fool girl' daddy."
I began playing "Beautiful Girl"
A little uncomfortable at first.
A little achy,
oh yes
even a little breaky.
Until I hit the b-flat.
(Its a bar chord, nothing as tricky to learn as F-major, but you need a little stretch)
and then something popped.
Like "Holy Sh*t, don't let the boy see me cry" kind of pop.
"It's break time sweety" I said.
"Can I play Mario Kart now?" he asked.
"Do you mind if I play the piano?" I asked
"No, just don't be too loud."
It just is.
I can't tell you why or how I know it. I haven't got much beyond the first few lines, which I won't bother to share yet because they are bound to change.
I don't have a true melody line, a bridge, or a chorus.
Just a title and an idea.
The title came from Calvin. The idea came from a friend.
A good friend. A loving friend. A lifelong companion who called me up way too late at night.
She asked me what I thought of starting a band.
Remember now, it was late . . .
I told her that it was a terrible idea.
She plead her case anyway.
Knowing that it was too late for me to even think about thinking about it. I told her to call me back the next afternoon and pitch me her idea.
Then I went back to sleep.
Sure, it was only 10:20pm, but I'm freaking old.
The next day I mulled the late night idea around in my head and decided that I was still right.
It was a terrible idea.
See "This is Spinal Tap" for a full disertation.
But I loved the idea. I miss playing with other musicians. I dream about the production possibilities that could come from not filling in all the space myself. I even kind of miss yelling at the drummer to stop playing for jut a moment.
But the real reason I loved the idea is because I want to hear my wife sing again.
It pains me to think of how much of her life has been sucked out of her because she has no place to sing.
In fact, if I were to point to any tension in our relationship, the root cause would be that she has no opportunity to express herself beyond work and motherhood.
So that's it.
"Why are you broken?" isn't just a line fed to me by the three year old. It's not just about the phisical pain I'm am feeling, but the emotional pain between two people who are both broken.
It's a duet.
and I'm gonna make my wife sing the girl part.
also, its a piano duet.
This has a much less esoteric reason.
I pulled my guitar out today for the first time since the show. Calvin saw the case a ran into his room to get his guitar.
On his tippy toes none the less.
"Play with a pick daddy, play 'booty fool girl' daddy."
I began playing "Beautiful Girl"
A little uncomfortable at first.
A little achy,
oh yes
even a little breaky.
Until I hit the b-flat.
(Its a bar chord, nothing as tricky to learn as F-major, but you need a little stretch)
and then something popped.
Like "Holy Sh*t, don't let the boy see me cry" kind of pop.
"It's break time sweety" I said.
"Can I play Mario Kart now?" he asked.
"Do you mind if I play the piano?" I asked
"No, just don't be too loud."
Friday, May 15, 2009
Sorry . . . no death for you
Well, I don't have gout. I don't have tendonitis nor the aforementioned tendinitus (again a fine distinction) I don't have cardivascular disease. My blood pressure was 144 over 75. High, but normal. I'm not suffering froms SARS or swine flu.
No, unfortunately, I have a perfectly normal impinged nerve.
Impinged?
That's not even a word.
I checked.
And the treatment is perfectly normal as well.
Rest.
Do you want muscle relaxers?
Yes Doc, yes I do.
I found it funny how tired and unresponsive to humor my general practitioner would be at 2:30 in the afternoon.
She asked me what kind of job I did.
I told her that I worked in a coffee shop.
She didn't seem all that impressed. Then she asked if it required a lot of repetitive motion. I told her yes. She nodded her head in a very knowing way.
She asked me if I wanted to take a stretching class.
"Like naked yoga?" I asked.
she didn't respond for a moment and then said she might be wrong about her diagnosis and asked me to go get x-rayed. Then she prescribed muscle relaxers and gave me some very half hearted directions to radiology.
I thanked her for her time.
Indifferent medicine is embarrasing.
Turn to your right. Breathe in. Take off your shirt.
These are the directions given by doctors and aged prostitutes.
I just hoped to feel better.
but I ponied up my co-pay and went home.
And then took my muscle relaxers.
My dad asked me the next day if they worked at all.
I said no.
He said "take two"
No, unfortunately, I have a perfectly normal impinged nerve.
Impinged?
That's not even a word.
I checked.
And the treatment is perfectly normal as well.
Rest.
Do you want muscle relaxers?
Yes Doc, yes I do.
I found it funny how tired and unresponsive to humor my general practitioner would be at 2:30 in the afternoon.
She asked me what kind of job I did.
I told her that I worked in a coffee shop.
She didn't seem all that impressed. Then she asked if it required a lot of repetitive motion. I told her yes. She nodded her head in a very knowing way.
She asked me if I wanted to take a stretching class.
"Like naked yoga?" I asked.
she didn't respond for a moment and then said she might be wrong about her diagnosis and asked me to go get x-rayed. Then she prescribed muscle relaxers and gave me some very half hearted directions to radiology.
I thanked her for her time.
Indifferent medicine is embarrasing.
Turn to your right. Breathe in. Take off your shirt.
These are the directions given by doctors and aged prostitutes.
I just hoped to feel better.
but I ponied up my co-pay and went home.
And then took my muscle relaxers.
My dad asked me the next day if they worked at all.
I said no.
He said "take two"
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
can't. . . not . . . do stuff (part deaux)
Ow.
No really.
Ow.
Calvin gave me the perfect line for the next song.
"Why are you broken?"
It'll be like the anti-power ballad. I envision incredibly peppy satirical lyrics wrapped around minor key melodies.
It takes the perfect song cliche "I'm broken, you're broken, we're all broken" and kind of tosses it in the air to watch it splatter to the ground.
I live for turning phrases.
Live for for it.
So what to I do now?
ow . . . ow . . .
I might have tendonitis. or tendinitus (a fine distinction). I could have bursitis, or cardiovascular disease. (Just ask WebMD) I could have a dislocated shoulder, or gout.
That's right.
Gout.
The advice nurse at kaiser asked me if I had ever had gout.
Thank god it was over the phone so she couldn't see me finishing my sausage in abject horror.
Then she asked if I had diabetes.
Then she asked me if I was pretty healthy.
Then she asked me if I was pretty and if I liked naughty girls.
I made that last part up.
But I am. And I do.
But the moral of this story is that I can't play. if I can't play, I can't write.
this is because I discover melody by mistake. I play and I play until I reach a particular zen with the universe and then everything spills out of my head like half eaten lipstick from a bag lady's purse.
I even worked myself into a very cozy postion with my back on the floor, my feet on the couch and my ukelele resting on my chest. No luck.
Any pressure on the frets sent shocks down my arm.
Then Calvin jumped on my belly and told me he was hungry.
I tried the piano with just my right hand. I leaned my face down on the bass keys and let my bad arm dangle.
You wouldn't have guessed it, but even dangling hurts.
If I wrote hip-hop, a painful dangle would be the kind of stuff legends are made of.
So I'm frustrated.
Not by writer's block, but my own potential and looming death.
And if not death, then maybe just inactivity.
Which is like death.
But with an ending.
No really.
Ow.
Calvin gave me the perfect line for the next song.
"Why are you broken?"
It'll be like the anti-power ballad. I envision incredibly peppy satirical lyrics wrapped around minor key melodies.
It takes the perfect song cliche "I'm broken, you're broken, we're all broken" and kind of tosses it in the air to watch it splatter to the ground.
I live for turning phrases.
Live for for it.
So what to I do now?
ow . . . ow . . .
I might have tendonitis. or tendinitus (a fine distinction). I could have bursitis, or cardiovascular disease. (Just ask WebMD) I could have a dislocated shoulder, or gout.
That's right.
Gout.
The advice nurse at kaiser asked me if I had ever had gout.
Thank god it was over the phone so she couldn't see me finishing my sausage in abject horror.
Then she asked if I had diabetes.
Then she asked me if I was pretty healthy.
Then she asked me if I was pretty and if I liked naughty girls.
I made that last part up.
But I am. And I do.
But the moral of this story is that I can't play. if I can't play, I can't write.
this is because I discover melody by mistake. I play and I play until I reach a particular zen with the universe and then everything spills out of my head like half eaten lipstick from a bag lady's purse.
I even worked myself into a very cozy postion with my back on the floor, my feet on the couch and my ukelele resting on my chest. No luck.
Any pressure on the frets sent shocks down my arm.
Then Calvin jumped on my belly and told me he was hungry.
I tried the piano with just my right hand. I leaned my face down on the bass keys and let my bad arm dangle.
You wouldn't have guessed it, but even dangling hurts.
If I wrote hip-hop, a painful dangle would be the kind of stuff legends are made of.
So I'm frustrated.
Not by writer's block, but my own potential and looming death.
And if not death, then maybe just inactivity.
Which is like death.
But with an ending.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
can't . . . not . . . do stuff.
Haven't written a darn word in almost two weeks.
Did I die?
Sort of.
Actually, two days after my show I threw out my arm.
No big bang, no little pop, just woke up and everything hurt.
Can't sleep. Can't move. Can't make non-fat lattes, can't pick up a guitar. Left arm totally en fuego. (that's spanish for %$@$^).
In italian it's "basta!"
In french its "eaux"
Now a normal person might find this predicament rather enjoyable. Lay back on the lazy boy and rewatch six season's of Buffy the Vampire slayer. Have the wife fetch you a corona with lime and a handful of ibuprofen.
(Yes dad, I do know that you can't mix alcohol with Tylenol or your kidneys will shut down and you will die a horrible death. my way's just funnier)
Sit down. Put your feet up. Ain't gonna heal if you don't sit still.
But I can't not do stuff. I need two good arms to do my job. I need to drive places, I need to pick up toys from the floor, I need to reach things in the cabinets that are too high for my wife. I need to play music, I need to write my stupid blog.
But it hurts. Oh my god how it hurts.
I hurt typing "It hurts"
quick story before I go.
So my dad (known to my boss as my personal physical therapist . . . shhh) was working on my shoulder. (he actually is a physical therapist, but it sounds much cooler if I don't mention the bloodline when asking for time off work.)
After about an hour of torturing me (get a terrorist to talk by kneading a bruised tendon), my Calvin came up to the table.
"What are you doing Grampa?" he asks.
"I'm fixing your daddy" says Grandpa.
"Daddy?" he asks.
"Yes . . . ow . . . what is it sweety?" I reply.
"Why are you broken?"
If he keeps feeding me perfect song titles, I might have to get him his own ascap card.
Did I die?
Sort of.
Actually, two days after my show I threw out my arm.
No big bang, no little pop, just woke up and everything hurt.
Can't sleep. Can't move. Can't make non-fat lattes, can't pick up a guitar. Left arm totally en fuego. (that's spanish for %$@$^).
In italian it's "basta!"
In french its "eaux"
Now a normal person might find this predicament rather enjoyable. Lay back on the lazy boy and rewatch six season's of Buffy the Vampire slayer. Have the wife fetch you a corona with lime and a handful of ibuprofen.
(Yes dad, I do know that you can't mix alcohol with Tylenol or your kidneys will shut down and you will die a horrible death. my way's just funnier)
Sit down. Put your feet up. Ain't gonna heal if you don't sit still.
But I can't not do stuff. I need two good arms to do my job. I need to drive places, I need to pick up toys from the floor, I need to reach things in the cabinets that are too high for my wife. I need to play music, I need to write my stupid blog.
But it hurts. Oh my god how it hurts.
I hurt typing "It hurts"
quick story before I go.
So my dad (known to my boss as my personal physical therapist . . . shhh) was working on my shoulder. (he actually is a physical therapist, but it sounds much cooler if I don't mention the bloodline when asking for time off work.)
After about an hour of torturing me (get a terrorist to talk by kneading a bruised tendon), my Calvin came up to the table.
"What are you doing Grampa?" he asks.
"I'm fixing your daddy" says Grandpa.
"Daddy?" he asks.
"Yes . . . ow . . . what is it sweety?" I reply.
"Why are you broken?"
If he keeps feeding me perfect song titles, I might have to get him his own ascap card.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
of Cliffhangers, kick-ball teams, and the horrors.
Seems I left the last post with a bit of a cliffhanger.
did I suck? Did I kick ass? Did I spontaneously explode from a deadly mixture of Guinness and adrenaline?
Not so much.
So where the hell have I been?
Well. There's work to do. Flying monkeys to feed. Nieces to see perform. You know, normal stuff.
So allow me to digress, expand, condense and allude.
First, the show went great. I arrived at the pub to see friends who had already arrived.
There was a moment of shear terror when I realized there was no power outlet anywhere near the performance stage. Luckily, thanks to my wife, I am a serious over packer, and the extension cord I grabbed from my electric lawnmower was just long enough to reach up to the ceiling plug usually designed to illuminate the neon beer signs.
Also lucky enough my friend Brian was able to reach the plug while standing on a bar stool. Its nice to have friends. Its even nicer to have tall friends.
There was another moment of panic when as I began to do a sound check, half of the room screamed a powerful scream of angst. I was deafened by the roar of their furry and almost began to tear up.
But a second later I realized that the TV behind me was showing the last few minutes of a ball game that ended badly for the local fans. Whew. Although I did go to the bathroom shortly afterward to make sure I didn't have a little urine stain on my jeans.
Just before I was to begin, my wife was calling furiously because her and Frank had gotten hopelessly lost. Bless em.
Large group of women wearing league t-shirts entered the pub. It was the local kickball team.
Digest that for a moment.
A freaking kickball team!
I hoped they'd stay and get rowdy. But they went outside.
Too bad.
An impromptu kickball game in the middle of my second set would have been the kind of thing only dreamers dream.
I started my first song, no wife in sight. I stopped after the first verse to adjust my PA. Total amateur. But the levels were painful. I went through the first song again. Much better.
I got through the second song, wife walks in. I mention this fact to the crowd. I begin to play "I've just seen a face" by the Beatles. Awesome timing.
I adjust my PA some more. I rearrange the speaker so I can hear myself better. I'm a little bashful. Not nervous, just weirdly shy.
And the whole night went just like that. I was fully warmed by my second set, and then just rocked out.
It was a good two hours. All of my friends stayed. No one had the painful after show look that says "Gee, I don't know what to say" There were a few bar flies that stayed a little longer to listen, but I did get the feeling that the bar tabs that night weren't unusually high. No one got trashed. The bar tender was congenial, but not overly enthusiastic, he may invite me back. I'm not sure.
The point is, I did it. It was good. I'll do it again. Soon.
Then I went home. Went to sleep. Slept hard. Went to work the next day a little tired but flush from a successful show. Went home, went to bed. Got up. Went to work. Went home. Took a nap. Went to see a show. Got home. Finished my book.
I could do this I think, I could be a gigging musician and have a real job, be a real dad and maintain some semblance of cool. In fact the most draining aspect was the fear of anticipation.
One or two more gigs and even that will wind itself down.
I have all my friends to thank for showing up. They were somethin special. Nobody has better fans. I simply could not do this without their support and love.
I want to write more about my niece's show last night (Little Shop of Horrors) where I got to witness something spectacular, but the little guy needs attention.
ooh . . . another cliffhanger.
did I suck? Did I kick ass? Did I spontaneously explode from a deadly mixture of Guinness and adrenaline?
Not so much.
So where the hell have I been?
Well. There's work to do. Flying monkeys to feed. Nieces to see perform. You know, normal stuff.
So allow me to digress, expand, condense and allude.
First, the show went great. I arrived at the pub to see friends who had already arrived.
There was a moment of shear terror when I realized there was no power outlet anywhere near the performance stage. Luckily, thanks to my wife, I am a serious over packer, and the extension cord I grabbed from my electric lawnmower was just long enough to reach up to the ceiling plug usually designed to illuminate the neon beer signs.
Also lucky enough my friend Brian was able to reach the plug while standing on a bar stool. Its nice to have friends. Its even nicer to have tall friends.
There was another moment of panic when as I began to do a sound check, half of the room screamed a powerful scream of angst. I was deafened by the roar of their furry and almost began to tear up.
But a second later I realized that the TV behind me was showing the last few minutes of a ball game that ended badly for the local fans. Whew. Although I did go to the bathroom shortly afterward to make sure I didn't have a little urine stain on my jeans.
Just before I was to begin, my wife was calling furiously because her and Frank had gotten hopelessly lost. Bless em.
Large group of women wearing league t-shirts entered the pub. It was the local kickball team.
Digest that for a moment.
A freaking kickball team!
I hoped they'd stay and get rowdy. But they went outside.
Too bad.
An impromptu kickball game in the middle of my second set would have been the kind of thing only dreamers dream.
I started my first song, no wife in sight. I stopped after the first verse to adjust my PA. Total amateur. But the levels were painful. I went through the first song again. Much better.
I got through the second song, wife walks in. I mention this fact to the crowd. I begin to play "I've just seen a face" by the Beatles. Awesome timing.
I adjust my PA some more. I rearrange the speaker so I can hear myself better. I'm a little bashful. Not nervous, just weirdly shy.
And the whole night went just like that. I was fully warmed by my second set, and then just rocked out.
It was a good two hours. All of my friends stayed. No one had the painful after show look that says "Gee, I don't know what to say" There were a few bar flies that stayed a little longer to listen, but I did get the feeling that the bar tabs that night weren't unusually high. No one got trashed. The bar tender was congenial, but not overly enthusiastic, he may invite me back. I'm not sure.
The point is, I did it. It was good. I'll do it again. Soon.
Then I went home. Went to sleep. Slept hard. Went to work the next day a little tired but flush from a successful show. Went home, went to bed. Got up. Went to work. Went home. Took a nap. Went to see a show. Got home. Finished my book.
I could do this I think, I could be a gigging musician and have a real job, be a real dad and maintain some semblance of cool. In fact the most draining aspect was the fear of anticipation.
One or two more gigs and even that will wind itself down.
I have all my friends to thank for showing up. They were somethin special. Nobody has better fans. I simply could not do this without their support and love.
I want to write more about my niece's show last night (Little Shop of Horrors) where I got to witness something spectacular, but the little guy needs attention.
ooh . . . another cliffhanger.
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