The House on Red Hill

Saw this. Had to post. 'Cause it's true.

2012-02-05T01:11:00.000-08:00

Make it big if you have to.

Keep at it. Fight your way through.

I gave up on a lot of stuff. The only thing I regret is the stuff I gave up on. Not the things I did. Not the things I said. Just the stuff I gave up on. Fight your way through.

Thanks, Ira. Thanks, AU.

To Be but Not to Be

2011-10-20T01:49:00.000-07:00

I’ve noticed that each passing television season brings a greater number of shows dealing with the question of those who cannot die.

First it was HBO’s True Blood with its Southern Gothic vampire culture. Then it was my personal favorite from last spring, The Walking Dead, a tale of survivors surviving a plague of zombie-ism. Then Torchwood. In the world of Torchwood, people suddenly stopped dying. They still suffered wounds and disease and the attendant pain of their wounds and disease but they do not suffer death. They just go on – in pain.

So what is with all the un-death and un-dying on cable TV these days? Are our greatest anxieties in the 21st century now spurred not by death-too-soon but by life-too-long?

What is behind this anxiety? In a post-Cold War America have we created a new foe – the undead? Without an H-bomb wielding, Totalitarian Other, could it be that our greatest fear is now not death but un-death?

When I was a kiddie going to catechism class once a week, we worried about death by mushroom cloud and Everlasting Life meant you went to Heaven to live with Jesus and he stood by your side with his arm around you and you carried a little lamb in your arm and everything was nice for all eternity.

Now, everlasting life means a Hell in which we all just keep living with each other.

In the vampire tales we fear the eternally beautiful. In the zombie apocalypse, we fear our own neighbors. Like the vampires, they feed on us and they make us like them but there is no eternity with porcelain skin and daytime hours spent in repose. There is only decay and mindless feasting on flesh and plodding, stumbling locomotion. Mindless motion. Always mindless. Always in motion.

But it seems to me that the key difference is not beauty vs. decay or stumble vs. flight or gruesome vs. elegant. The key difference is stranger vs. neighbor. The vampire always first comes to us as an exotic stranger. The zombies are always our neighbors and if not our immediate neighbors then they are people who were once so very much like us – ordinary people who lived ordinary lives until one day they found themselves in the path of a zombie swarm and now they populate a zombie swarm and threaten us and our way of life.

It seems to me that that is exactly what we fear most now in the second decade of the 21st century. We fear our own neighbors. They are like us but they are not like us. If we are Blue, they are Red. If we are Red, they are Blue. If we own, they rent. If we rent, they own. If we are native-born, they are immigrants. If we are immigrants, they are native-born. If we are hourly, they are salaried. If we are salaried, they are hourly. If we are employed, they are jobless. If we are jobless, they are employed. If we have health insurance, they are uninsured. If we are uninsured, they have health insurance. If we are the haves, they are the have-nots . . .

The list could go on endlessly.

Is that where we are? We fear that life has become an everlasting hell and the source of that hell is the Others among us. Not only do we fear their very “otherness” but we fear that we will become them. We fear they will feed on us and turn us into them. Cannibalize and convert.

So who are the Others we fear? Maybe this person – Melissa Brookstone – a Tea Party blogger and a business owner who has resolved that “I will not hire a single person until this war against business and my country is stopped. I hereby declare that my job creation potential is now ceased.”

Really? Her plan is to destroy the President by refusing to hire. She could potentially provide employment to someone in her community but she won’t, even to her own detriment, just to strike a blow against the current administration.

Wow. Sounds like cannibalizing to me. This woman scares me. In reading the comments of her supporters on her blog, there’s a whole swarm of them out there who scare me. They’re in mindless motion. Mindless, completely mindless.

In ten years we’ve gone to being the most united we’ve ever been to perhaps the most divided we’ve been in a long, long time.

We fear the divide.

Even Fed Ex is worried -

Rejuvenation! In the Flesh!

2011-10-14T00:25:00.000-07:00

Remember back when I blogged about Rejuvenation Hardware coming to my own fair city? Well, tonight was the gala grand opening party and I was there to give you a report.

Let me tell you, I walked in and was so overcome with the need to visit every gorgeous little item, I could barely settle down to enjoy the dippables and savories on hand. But they did have a very welcoming offering of beverages, of which I was happy to partake -

The first thing you see as you walk in the a lovely, metal Bear of California -

Hello, Brother Bruin!

Then I moved on to the wall of hardware -

and immediately zeroed in on the picture hooks -

This is the one I deemed most appropriate for my home. I've got 29 hooks holding up art and a mirror in my house. At $5 each, the replacement process will be slow.

After seeing these, K semi-regretted not going with push-button switches -

Ooh! and check out these serving pieces!

Those green glass bowls could almost drive me to baking!
Nah, not really. I just want to own them without
actually using them.

Ahh! I love this deco sconce. Not right for my 1909 house but gorgeous nonetheless -

I've often noticed in the catalog this quirky little Victorian bat lighting fixture -

Not for me but still charming.

Here's K playing at the bulb bar -

Pick a wattage - any wattage.

Outdoor lighting! In colors!

An remember Bruno from the previous post? I finally found him. He was discreetly placed -

I relocated the sweet little Bauer pitcher so she

could share the picture with Bruno.

I'm still considering Bruno, but in reality, his shade is larger than it appeared in the catalog and now I'm really at a loss for where he'll fit. But he's still a beauty.

As we were leaving, this caught our eyes -

It's a tower of little triangular drawers,

each marked for a different size screw.

Owning this would mean the end of hoarding all

those little pot-bellied soup cans from Trader Joe's.

I repeat, a different drawer for each size screw. And it spins. Spins! I don't even use tools and I want this cabinet.

And if you read the comments to my last Rejuvenation post, you'll remember Nicole from Rejuvenation. She was kind of enough to invite me to the gala (and to give me the source of the name for the light "Hood." Well she was there! And we met!

Nicole was awfully gracious, as was her colleague, Jason. Apparently, nice people work at Rejuvenation.

That was my evening. Thanks, Rejuvenation! I'll be back!

A Thought for a Sunday

2011-10-09T11:43:00.000-07:00

Thanks, Ms. L!

Rejuvenation!

2011-10-01T02:54:00.000-07:00

Woo hoo! A Rejuvenation store has opened in Los Angeles!

No longer must my drooling over reproduction vintage lighting and fixtures be limited to a catalog. Now I can slobber in an actual store. Life is looking up.

I haven't had a chance to actually visit the store since its September 17th opening but I hope for the same well-detailed, thoughtfully-planned layout as the catalog's.

I can't wait to meet in person the delightfully designed (if unfortunately named) "Hood."

Oh, Skyport! How I long to breakfast with The Jetsons under your polished nickel reflections!

(Skyport also comes in an "Old Brass" finish, though I'm not sure why.)

And you, saucy little Dorena! You remind me again why Deco is my favorite of all design eras.

And yet, how ironic, now that Rejuvenation has arrived in the flesh, I am really not in need of lighting fixtures. Although, Bruno here is an adorable little desk lamp -

And who among us couldn't use an adorable little desk lamp?

It's probably just as well all (most) of my lighting needs have been met. Lamps from Rejuvenation are a little on the pricey side - but, they are made in the US. See this previous post.

Maybe I can content myself with replacing all my plain pictures hooks with some scrollier ones -

At $5 per hook, and eight pictures hanging from picture rail in the guest bath alone, I might as well buy myself a lamp. Oh well. Since when does shopping mean I have to buy something?

Watch them hand-craft your fixture here -

Go ahead. Buy American. They're skilled craftsman.

Passing It On

2011-09-28T23:29:00.000-07:00

Buy Marvin

2011-09-28T01:15:00.000-07:00

No, not Marvin Gardens - Marvin Windows and Doors. This article in Sunday's New York Times tells how the family-owned business has struggled since the Collapse while refusing to lay off workers.

Good for them. This is a company that understands the value of its workers. I also notice that the company is privately held. This is the difference between a private company and a public one - acknowledging its debt to its workers.

I'm done buying windows. With the exception of one tiny little window that does no harm,

every horrid, crappy, aluminum-framed, louvered window in my house has been replaced, mostly with Pella. Pella is also a family-owned American company. It was pricey, I admit but I'm happy, more than happy, thrilled with the windows I have. I have no tolerance for cheap windows, I never have, even as a child (seriously). Our one non-Pella window was also American-made but I don't remember the manufacturer. I think it it's from Jen-Weld, also American made. It was our first window replacement and we bought it for the fancy-schmancy 12-pane framing.

Easy to do that for the first window. When it comes to a whole house, the authentic, separate 12-pane business gets pricey. Later windows have the fake over-laid muntins.

It's ok. I still love them. And they're easier to clean. Or theoretically. That's another story.

This story is not about how we indulged ourselves with good windows. If you're planning to purchase windows or doors, check out the article. If you're considering saving money by buying products made outside the U.S., check out the article a second time. Yes, products made in the U.S. are more expensive than products made outside the U.S. There's a reason for that. U.S. manufacturing has living-wage standards, environmental standards and safety standards that manufacturers elsewhere can ignore.

In our day to day lives it's hard to avoid products made in China. Clothing, electronics, small ticket stuff, all seems to be made in China or another low-wage country. But you do what you can, when you can. The good stuff, the enduring stuff - like windows, doors, cabinetry, furniture - can still be found from U.S manufactures if you look for it. I'm advising a friend on redecorating his condo. He's committed to buying La-Z-Boy furniture for the sole reason that it's made in the U.S. On almost all other issues, this friend and I are opposite sides of the political spectrum, but we can agree on one thing, American jobs depend on the American people.

The Marvin family is doing what they can. If you're buying windows any time soon, see if you can help them keep jobs in their small community.

Don't ask the President, Congress or anybody else where the jobs are if you're not doing all you can to buy American-made products. The jobs go where your money goes. There's no other way around it.

Do what you can.

And Now, a Word from our Sponsor

2011-09-23T23:04:00.000-07:00

Channel Your Inner Carrot and Stick

2011-08-10T22:34:00.000-07:00

This video showing Matt Damon confronted by a Reason.tv "reporter" has been making the rounds among my Facebook cohorts:

The woman suggests that it is the threat of job insecurity that inspires Damon to be a better actor and that the same insecurity might give us better teachers. Then the cameraman goes on to make the statement that 10% of all teachers are bad teachers (ignoring that it's likely that over 10% of all actors are bad actors - so much for that logic).

This theory is part of the same thinking that says if we were forced to pay more in taxes, why would we work any harder? Why, they always ask, would we be better at what we do if we have to give up more of what we earn? Why would Joe the Plumber want to own his own company if he had to pay taxes on it? (as if Joe the Whatever were paying his taxes anyway; which he was not.) Gee, Joe, maybe the satisfaction of being your own boss? Of doing things your way? Of meeting the challenge?

Will job insecurity really inspire us all to be better at our jobs? Would it inspire you to be better at your job? I think it would only inspire me to always be searching for another job. Why can’t we all just be as good as we can be at what we do? Do threats or fear really make anyone better at anything? Will it make us more creative? More productive? More ingenious? Or will it only make us more manipulative? More kiss-assey? Better ass-coverers?

It does not occur to the idiot interviewer that Mr. Damon would strive to be better at his profession because he loves and respects the art form and wants to honor it by doing the best job he can do. It does not occur to her that he takes pride in himself and in his work and that alone could motivate him to be better at what he does. Similarly, there are teachers who do their best just because they want to be good teachers. This does not occur to this half-wit with a mic because she subscribes to a paradigm in which everybody is out for themselves and out to screw everyone else and that any effort that does not result in an outward-focused, self-serving reward is not an effort worth making. It is impossible for her to perceive that everyone is not like her.

And what kind of future are we creating when we raise children in a culture where everybody gets a medal or a bumper sticker just for showing up, only to later toss them into an adult society where we reward only the most aggressively greedy? Give those kiddies enough video games and we've got cannon fodder for decades.

It doesn't surprise me that she doesn't respect actors or teachers. It's common. Both professions are, in practice, much more difficult than they appear to be.

But the end-result of this belief that we are all only motivated to do things to benefit ourselves is that in the end, as a society we will all end up doing things only for ourselves and we'll do nothing for the common good, nothing to benefit society - like teach. Is it possible that they are so fearful of anything that even hints at socialism that anything and everything (even teaching) must be motivated only by selfish gain?

It goes back to the tax question. If we are not willing to pay more in taxes as our income increases, then we are saying that we truly have no concern for the common good. We are saying we don't care about the educational system. We are saying we don't care about infrastructure. We are saying that we don't care about the environment, law enforcement, our fire departments, food safety, the FAA, the FBI or NASA. We are saying that we don't even care about the things so many of us say we care about, like homeland security, military defense and border patrol.

They're doing their best to make the whole idea of tax increases seem treasonous. Sure, let's reward the rich at the expense of everyone else. Give them tax breaks. Why should they pay taxes on the money that they earned with their money? If our schools are failing, then according to their logic it's because tenure makes teachers too cocky and lazy. It's certainly not because schools are underfunded and undervalued. How is it the fault of the no-new-taxes crowd that educational resources are becoming increasingly limited, forcing young people into military service just to get by? It would be convenient to think that the anti-tax supporters have all their kids in private schools anyway. But they don't. It's just that they all drank the no-new-tax Kool-Aid and would rather let their kids get a sub-standard education than add to anything that might suggest social good - 'cause it's got that nasty word "social" in it.

In their world, taxes are always job-killers. A bad system of education never is.

In the world in which this reporter-wannabe lives, having more wealth is not inspiring enough to create more wealth. Only massively more wealth is worth the effort.

Strange how tax breaks for the rich have not been enough to inspire me to be rich. Maybe a bigger break will finally give me the kick in the pants I need to accumulate a massive amount of wealth.

The Right is cultivating a culture in which it is not enough to be good at what we do simply because it is satisfying to be good at what we do. Every day, more and more, we live in a society in which the prime motivators are fear and material reward. Should we be like circus animals in cages, responsive only to whips and chew bones?

It's one thing to have actors and teachers motivated only by career advancement, when our elected officials go to the extreme, we get the current crop in Congress. We all know the Republicans have long cared for nothing other than keeping their own party in power. Recent games with our financial situation resulted in losses that will be very hurtful to a lot of people. Does anyone think the leaders of the Republican party cares? They don't care. They only care about staying in power through convincing a bunch of people a lot less fortunate than themselves that their tax money might be given to someone who didn't work quite as hard as they did.

Maybe right-wing politicians don't do anything for the people because to do anything for the people reeks of socialism.

If you're still thinking that greed and career advancement is the best of motivators, wasn’t it greed and career advancement that led to the Madoff debacle? The housing market collapse? The Enron scandal? The savings and loan crisis? Teapot Dome? The Yazoo Land Scandal?

Does anyone look forward to more of all that?

Don't listen to them. Do whatever it is that you do but do your best to do it well and not because you just want to keep your job but because you want to do your job. Do something for the greater good, not for your personal good. You'll be dead soon enough anyway. There will still be a world left when you're gone.

And the those others? Let them eat their young.

I’m baaaack

2011-08-07T18:18:00.000-07:00

For a while anyway. I went away. I did a play.

It’s done. It was good. Doing it made me happy. For a while anyway.

My house isn’t quite done yet. We still haven’t replaced the crappy aluminum siding. The backyard needs redoing.

There’s some interior stuff that still wants doing.

For instance, somebody needs to build some doors or something to hide the stuff we store on the shelves on the wall in front of the stairway.

People really don't need to see where we keep our booze, the cat food, a jar of pennies and the back-up mayonnaise (in the event of a lapse or failure of the first mayonnaise.) Now that I look at the picture, someone also needs to dab a bit of stain on the end of that stair step.

And somebody needs to complete this tile in the kitchen (site of an unfortunate failure to communicate.)

And then somebody else needs to get started on her next play.

The House on Red Hill is supposed to be a house blog (and a little bit more). And for seven years I was obsessed with my house. But when my obsessions change, how does my blog change?

I guess we’ll see. Qué será, será.

I hope you keep reading. But more, I hope I can keep writing.

How the Middle Class Got . . .

2011-07-15T00:31:00.000-07:00

Just something to think about.

Small Houses

2011-05-26T21:56:00.000-07:00

The occasional commercial is not a bad thing . . . if it's clever enough.

And this one is in keeping with our theme of houses. We were talking about houses, weren't we? And homes? And what makes a home a home???

Good Riddance, OBL

2011-05-02T01:31:00.000-07:00

I don't like to advocate or celebrate violence.

But in his case, I'll say, it serves him right.

Making Excuses - Again (and a pitch)

2011-04-28T02:40:00.000-07:00

I'm busy. Too busy for the house. Too busy to clean the house. Too busy to put away piles of shoes all over the house. Too busy, certainly, to write about the house.

Instead, I'm focusing on another kind of house, a house of cards.

It's fragile. Like life. It could come tumbling down at any moment.

Read about it here: http://uraniummadhouse.org/upcoming.html

Order tickets here: http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/171485

I look forward to seeing you at the El Centro Theater, Hollywood, June 10th to the 25th.

In July, I hope to blog again. Until then, I'm just hoping to keep it all from tumbling down.

Great idea!

2011-02-20T23:11:00.000-08:00

This is what happens when inmates of The Madhouse get together.

I hope to see you at Costa Alegre in Echo Park on February 26th at 7pm.

It's a benefit - - for Uranium Madhouse, though one could be forgiven for hearing "Geranium Madhouse." There are no geraniums involved in our company - only pure, fissionable, yellowcake uranium. Mmm. Yummy!

Come in.

Melt down.

Play a little Balderdash. Like the bear says, it's a game.

Home Depot Wants YOU!

2011-01-28T14:01:00.000-08:00

I saw this article in today's New York Times:

Revamping, Home Depot Woos Women

I'm not sure it will be enough to make me switch from HD to Lowe's.

I just hope it doesn't mean they'll be selling pink power tools.

I hope it DOES mean that they'll have a few people on staff who can answer a few questions.

That's all I'm asking for.

De-Stucco-fication

2011-01-27T22:35:00.000-08:00

Here's a house in my 'hood that went from this:

to this:

Brava to the flipper who is undertaking this challenge.

One small blessing for us is that we don't have stucco to contend with - just some godawful aluminum siding. Maybe this'll be the year? Keeping my fingers crossed.

See the story here at The Eastsider LA.

Though this be Madness . . .

2011-01-27T01:30:00.000-08:00

. . . yet there is method in't.

Uranium Madhouse Presents Exerpts from "Conversation Storm" by Rick Burkhardt from Eric Ulbrich on Vimeo.

A tiny glimpse into my mad, mad, mad, mad world.

Check out more at http://www.uraniummadhouse.org/

Mosaic

2011-01-20T00:25:00.000-08:00

I saw this home featured in today's LA Times. This kind of creativity makes me feel like the artistic cretin my kindergarten teacher saw me as. If there's any justice, Mrs. Chandler is reading this blog from Hell now, but that's another story.

Anyway, the homeowners in the piece are really creative, especially when it comes to tile.

When we first bought our house in 2002, friends gifted me with a mosaic tile workshop. I spent one afternoon working on a tile plaque with our house numbers. I didn't finish it that afternoon and over the past 8 years, haven't managed to complete it yet. Perhaps I've judged the wicked Mrs. Chandler too harshly after all.

In any case, have a look at this slideshow: http://www.latimes.com/features/home/la-hm-beserra-byrd-mosaic-photos,0,1063989.photogallery

Stunning.

I know you don't want to hear about it but . . .

2011-01-19T00:06:00.000-08:00

. . . it's been really nice here this week.

I guess not so much in Atlanta.

But here it's nice. Really nice. Insanely nice. You'd be lucky to have this kind of weather in June, nice.

Sorry.

Teaser

2011-01-18T00:35:00.000-08:00

I still don't have much time to post anything in length but I will tell you this much - very soon, this chair will look completely different -

if only I can get her to vacate.

7 Billion of Us? Really?

2011-01-15T00:21:00.000-08:00

Kinda scary.

But not my fault. I had nothing to do with it.

(and all would fit in the city of Los Angeles? no thank you. traffic is bad enough as it is.)

You Know It's True

2011-01-10T23:52:00.000-08:00

You can deny that you know it's true.

But then you would be a liar.

The Reports Of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated.

2011-01-09T01:31:00.000-08:00

No need to call the authorities. Don’t search the streets and alleyways. For God’s sake, don’t dredge the river. I’m here. I’ve just been busy, engaged in other pursuits.

I have a tiny brain, no greater in size than that of a marmoset.

And while I can be quite obsessive in thought, I can only entertain one obsessive thought at a time. For the past few months, that one thought has been that other pursuit. For seven years I obsessed about the remodeling of the house. When that was done (or done enough for now), I was free to obsess on the obsessions that I entertain more naturally, the obsessions of my natural inclinations, if you will. Sometimes this other obsession entails prancing about in front of people, saying words that are not my own.

And when I am obsessing about that other thing, I cannot write a blog about my house – or about my neighborhood – or about my property – or about my conflicted feelings about my property.

And when I am trying to learn that other thing or create that other thing, it leaves me little or no time for your thing.

Believe me, I do care about your kitchen remodel. I care about your dining room. I definitely care about your master bedroom re-do and your beloved little terrier.

But I just can’t keep up with it all. So please forgive me and allow me some time to catch up.

I’m only one blogger, with too little time and way too many interests for one lifetime.

Still, not to worry, I haven’t left this lifetime yet.

Halloween

2010-11-17T01:17:00.000-08:00

I'm a little behind on a lot of things. One of them is my blog. Another of them is probably your blog.

Sorry about that.

I did find time to create a slide from the pictures I took on Halloween night. (There were supposed to have been sound effects. Don't know where they went.)

We had fun. Handed out candy, took pictures and ordered pizza. I like Halloween. No one asks anything of me but some candy. All the entertainment is provided by others.

One of my most fave things about my 'hood is the kids on Halloween. Generally, I'm not a big fan of kids but I do like them on Halloween.

I really like Halloween.

Disappointment

2010-11-11T23:49:00.000-08:00

At work today, someone brought the following video clip to my attention. And yes, it was completely work-related (I’m fortunate enough to have a job where I get to watch video clips all day).

Go ahead, watch. I’ll wait.

I don’t think I’ve ever laughed harder at a video clip in my life, and I’ve seen a lot of funny video clips. The kids are completely bummed at this turn of events and the clueless mom is completely bummed at the kids’ refusal to grant her the expression of joy and appreciation that she had so anticipated. Everyone goes from happy and excited to miserable and angry.

Sooooo . . . . . why do I love this clip? Am I just a hateful, bitter codger happy to see others unhappy? Maybe. But I think I like it because it’s so painfully honest.

No matter what you do for your children, no matter how much you try to give them a life that you imagine will make them happy, they are bound to disappoint you. They will NEVER give you the satisfying reaction that you crave. They can never live up to your expectations. It's unfair of you to believe that they will.

From the child’s point of view, your parents will never understand you. They will never know who you are or what you want. They will never know how to give you what you need because they live in a different world and they just don’t get it. You want something from them. You know you want something from them and you always hope that they’ll know exactly what it is. But they don’t. They can’t. They can only see what they want you to want.

Or maybe not. Maybe that’s just me, and those poor kids who just wanted to go to Dick’s house.

Obama! A Modern U.S. President

2010-10-15T22:21:00.000-07:00

Just this once, let's have a little fun.

Thank you, Mr. Gilbert! Thank you, Mr. Sullivan!

Don't Take Out the Recycling

2010-10-12T21:29:00.000-07:00

Or if you do, flip through the paper first and make sure there's nothing important in there.

Don't Make Everyone Lose

2010-10-10T19:58:00.000-07:00

I don't like to steal from other blogs, but I saw this video on Andrew Utter's* blog for The Mother of Invention Acting School and if you haven't seen it yet you should:

So vote. Do it. Do it in person or do it by mail.

Do it as many times as you dare.**

As always, it's all up to you.

*Thanks, Andrew!

** just kidding about that one part.

Where Have I Been?

2010-10-08T00:03:00.000-07:00

Here. I've just been here. But I've been busy- with classes, with friends, with work.

And I've been fasting for almost a week, so I'm kind of tired, too tired to blog. Too tired to formulate a coherent thought. Too tired to stay up until 3 am typing anything that might make sense the next day.

Maybe staying up until 3 am for too many nights is what led to being tired to begin with. Maybe staying up too late made me gain weight to begin with. They say sleep deprivation leads to weight gain.

But doctors are always wanting me to get more exercise. When I say I don't have time, they suggest I find time. One doctor actually told me that she gets up at 5 am so she can exercise. Good for her. I'm sure she leaves the office at 5 pm. I don't leave work at 5 pm and I sure don't leave my bed at 5 am. Or not for the joy of exercise, anyway. Maybe to catch a plane or in the event of an earthquake. Otherwise, not so much.

And what's the point if getting the exercise just makes me more sleep deprived?

Someone recently said to me that the French get some things right. They sure do. I think they get a lot of things right.

So that's where I've been. Here. Fasting. Sleeping. Walking around in a fog.

Waiting for something to say.

In case you were wondering.

This is What I Want From You, Americans!

2010-09-25T12:45:00.000-07:00

Nothing More

Nothing Less

Appliances 101

2010-09-17T02:13:00.000-07:00

I saw this article in the New York Times this week. To cut to the chase, you're probably using all your appliances all wrong. You're wasting soap in your dishwasher and your washing machine and generally causing unnecessary wear and tear on all your household appliances. So stop it.

My husband is a remarkably organized man. He has all our appliance manuals in a single place. He knows where to find any of them at any given time. BUT . . . before putting them away, he also reads them. Or he at least gives them a good skim.

When I buy something, I never put the manuals away because I'm always intending to read them. But the truth is, my life is so exciting and so glamorous, I never actually get around to reading the manuals. There's always something better to do or read (or write). Eventually, I'll realize that I've been using the device for so long without reading any instructions that it's completely unnecessary.

I bought a new cell phone in July. My old phone was practically an antique so there are a lot of features to catch up on. I think I saw the manual under a stack of magazines (in a laundry basket) last week. At this point, there is no point to reading it. I make calls. I answer calls. I have no idea what to do with the few pictures I've taken with the phone. Why do I even want to take pictures with my phone? I carry a real camera around all the time anyway. And no, I've never read the camera's manual either and I seem to be doing just fine if the pictures on this blog are any indication.

As far as how much detergent to use in my dishwasher, I figure that line is there for a reason. With the washing machine, I wing it. More soap for a bigger load, less for a smaller one. I don't need a master's degree to figure that out. However, I think I might try out this test in the article:
. . . to determine if you’re oversoaping. Take four to six clean bath towels, put them in your front-loading washing machine (one towel for a top loader). Don’t add any detergent or fabric softener. Switch to the hot water setting and medium wash and run it for about five minutes.

Check for soap suds. If you don’t see any suds right away, turn off the machine and see if there is any soapy residue. If you see suds or residue, it is soap coming out of your clothes from the last wash.

This bit from the article seemed pointless: Load large items at the sides and back of the dishwasher so that they don’t block water and detergent from reaching other dishes.

Raise your hand if you hadn't figure that one out.

But this is a new idea (or new to me)
Also, remove baked on food and large chunks, but for the most part, everyone I spoke to said prerinsing dishes before putting them in the dishwasher was not only unnecessary, it wasted thousands of gallons of water and could actually result in dirtier dishes.

“The soap needs something to work against to get the dishes clean,” said Lou Manganiello, who owns Household Appliance Service in Hawthorne, N.Y.

The soap needs something to work against? Mmm. Sounds suspicious. Maybe

The part about the dryers seems odd. I mean, I can't imagine anyone throwing in a handful dryer sheets. I don't use dryer sheets at all.

And the self-cleaning oven thing? I should only use my oven enough that it needs cleaning.

Do you actually read instructions? Do you know where your manuals are? Could you, too, be guilty of oversoaping?

and How Should Any of Us Move Forward?

2010-09-12T11:10:00.000-07:00

I got sidetracked in yesterday’s post. Started on one path – diverted on a tangent.

What I really wanted to write about on the anniversary was something I’ve observed in two friends on their Facebook posts. One wrote yesterday “How can this country ever recover its soul?” Another recently wrote that he fears that economically, America is doomed.

The first friend is a liberal. The latter is a fiscal conservative. Their fears lead in the same direction. I notice the same impulses in myself – wondering what our future will bring. Bankrupted by two ill-considered wars and a populace that foams at the mouth at any mention of new taxes, not to mention failures to create a realistic energy policy and an honest policy regarding climate change (all advised by the string-pulling shadow plutocracy), we are certainly headed for economic collapse.

Manipulated by media personalities and religious zealots exploiting our inherent anti-intellectual tendencies, we have been led astray from our better nature. We have forgotten who we are. We have forgotten that we are all in this together. We have forgotten to lead by example. We have forgotten that if we want to live in a kinder more freedom-loving world we must individually and collectively be kinder more freedom-loving people.

The events of nine years ago should have made us more reflective, not less so. How is it not obvious that our excursions into other lands put us more at risk, not less so?

How could one nut case in Florida (a state well-known for its nut cases) have drawn so much attention to himself for his little hate-fueled stunt?

How could a media clown like Glenn Beck draw so many to a rally in Washington?

How is it not obvious that protesting the building of the Islamic cultural center can only reinforce the message of terrorists and that accepting the Muslim community is the best way to speak against the extremists and show their insanity for what it is?

With so much bridge building to be done, why do we waste time and resources bickering over whether or not certain adults have the right to marry? And why is it that those who oppose the rights of that group of adults are the ones who do most of the complaining about the government’s impositions of our freedoms?

We were told that we were attacked by those who opposed our freedoms. It was never made clear exactly which freedoms those were. What has been clear in the nine years since is that we have turned on each other, attacking ourselves from within, opposing ourselves for our own freedoms.

I, too, wonder if we can ever recover our soul or even the illusion of one. If we do not, we are certainly doomed.

It is ourselves we are now at war with, not the others and in falling for their trick we have handed the others their success.

What Should Any of Us Do?

2010-09-11T16:46:00.000-07:00

One hears all the time about how we are a “Christian” nation founded on “Christian” principles. One hears all the time about the “pilgrims” who came to this country seeking freedom from religious persecution.

One seldom hears how those same pilgrims were, in their home country, not exactly tolerant of the views of others. They were, in essence, religious fundamentalists.

Still, if we were, in fact, a truly Christian nation, we would know how to conduct our affairs at all times, because Christ’s early followers left very clear instructions on what he would have wanted.

He would have wanted us to treat each other how we would want to be treated. One must assume that means no torture, including water-boarding. One must also assume that means no imprisonment without trial. One must also assume that means no black site prisons.

One must also assume that means no threats to burn or dishonor the documents held to be holy by those of other faiths.

He would have wanted us to provide for each other, no matter how little we have. That means if we have people who are hungry, we feed them, even if the opposing party throws up their hands and says “but we can’t feed all these people! We only have five loaves and two fishes!” We feed them anyway and trust that there will be enough.

And if someone strikes at us, he would not want us to strike back but instead he would have said, “do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if someone wants to sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well.”

If we were a Christian nation, that is how we would conduct ourselves.

We would not start wars in foreign lands, no matter what attacks we had suffered.

We would not insult other religions in our own land.

We would NOT, ever, ever question the patriotism of those who, in fact, do conduct themselves as Jesus advised.

So don’t tell me again how we’re a Christian nation. I don’t want to have to hurt you.

And if you don't believe all this, you can read it here in his dad's own words. And this does apply to you, no exceptions.

What is "Labor" Anymore?

2010-09-06T00:32:00.000-07:00

I don’t really know what Labor Day is. I don’t have a tradition of “celebrating” it. Do any of us? What is it to celebrate labor in this age when actual labor is no longer valued? In the U.S. we love the notion that hard work brings success but we all know that real wealth comes from having wealth. Wealth is built through investment, therefore, the only ones who are considered successful are those who have more than they need so that they can invest it and create more wealth for themselves.

In this article on Common Dreams, we see that, for some, greater wealth is created by depriving jobs to as many workers as possible: http://www.commondreams.org/view/2010/09/03

Decreed by President Grover Cleveland, Labor Day became a federal holiday in 1894 following the deaths of several workers in a disastrous “incident” during a clash between striking railroad workers and federal troops.

The creation of a “Labor Day” may have been nothing more than a public relations bandage.

There was a time when unions were seen as supporting the rights of workers. Today, unions are vilified, even by those who could most benefit from an organized movement.

There was a time in which most Americans actually worked with their hands. That time is long gone and that kind of work is no longer honored. In the following, Ralph Nader considers the contributions of those who actually work with their hands, those who actually produce something: http://www.commondreams.org/view/2010/09/03-11

But scarier than devaluing work, are these two stories that I read in the same week.

In this one from the LA Weekly, we learn that more and more women are turning to Nevada brothels to support their families: http://www.laweekly.com/2010-09-02/news/the-family-prostitute/6/

And in this story about Montana Fishburne in The Hollywood Reporter, we learn that even well-connected children of privilege are using sex tapes to launch their careers in the entertainment industry: http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/hr/content_display/film/news/e3iea381ae4ffdbc7aeda3b98f00c35f5c0

Over a century since the rise of both organized labor and feminism and this is where we are? Both the poor and the privileged find the sex trade as their only options? In the case of the former, this is sad. In the case of the latter, it’s indicative of how little regard we have for actual work. Why be a sucker by actually working hard for success when one can just star in the equivalent of a porn movie to draw attention to oneself? Even the advantage of having a movie star dad isn’t going to fast-track this woman enough to suit her impatient ambitions.

Given all this, why wouldn’t certain young people sell drugs instead of studying hard and graduating from school?

Given all this, why wouldn’t unscrupulous mortgage brokers talk homebuyers into borrowing more than they really could afford?

Given all this, why wouldn’t certain personalities focus on spreading lies and misinformation if they knew that there was an angry audience ready to lap it all up and make them rich and famous instead of practicing real journalism by reporting facts and providing well-considered analysis?

Are we a lost cause? Who am I to say? My wealth accumulation plan/retirement plan amounts to playing SuperLotto.

Enjoy the third day of your three day weekend.

Water Your Plants, People!

2010-08-31T23:49:00.000-07:00

That's all I'm saying - just keep the plants watered. Even the ones you don't like. Especially if they know you don't like them.

Check out this story I found on Yahoo.

Heck, I'll just copy the whole thing here:

A fire that did $20,000 in damages to a northeast Arkansas home wasn't caused by an electrical problem or burning food or arson, an insurance investigator concluded.

Instead, the dead plants did it, according to a report summary provided to the homeowner, Brian Duncan.

"The fire was caused by self-heating through decomposition of organic materials contained within a plastic flowerpot," the Aug. 25 letter from State Farm Insurance Co. said.

Or, in layman's terms, spontaneous combustion.

Duncan, whose home is a few miles south of Paragould, said the flowerpot had contained dead, decomposing flowers and potting soil that his wife had planted in the summer of 2009. Paragould is about 150 miles northeast of Little Rock.

"She had intended on repotting (the flowers)," Duncan said. But they sat on the porch, unwatered, and eventually died.

He said it was clear where the July 25 fire had begun, because the burning flowerpot and plants charred a hole in the porch and they fell to the ground several feet below.

Still, Duncan said he was surprised at the conclusion contained in the letter. Duncan provided The Associated Press with a copy.

Fortunately, no one was injured in the blaze and Duncan's father-in-law was able to put it out with a garden hose even before firefighters from a nearby volunteer fire department arrived.

But it still caused some damage.

Duncan, 51, CEO of Craighead Electric Cooperative, said the blaze charred decking around the hole where the flowerpot had been, and caught the home's vinyl siding on fire. He said the heat broke a sidelight window next to the front door, and his air-conditioning system sucked in smoke from the fire.

"The house was full of smoke," he said.

The smoke damage inside the 15-year-old home, Duncan said, meant his family had to repaint the entire interior of the 2,200-square-foot home and replace the carpeting, in addition to replacing the vinyl siding on the front of the house and the wooden decking of the porch.

Duncan said that, since the fire, he had begun spreading the word about the potential fire hazards of dead plants.

A fire marshal in nearby Jonesboro, Jason Wills, said such an occurrence was rare.

"Spontaneous combustion is something where you have to have a lot of variables come together and it has to be just right," Wills told Jonesboro television station KAIT. "It's something that does happen, but this is the first one in our area that I'm aware of."

So get out there! Now! Water those plants now!

I Should Clean Out that Closet

2010-08-27T23:47:00.000-07:00

I couldn't resist the story under this headline -

Body of Las Vegas woman found in clutter at home

Read the story here: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20100827/ap_on_re_us/us_lost_in_home

This is the photograph that accompanied the story. (Thanks AP.) Note that horrid, barren Nevada landscape juxtaposed with the billboard hawking diamonds, the ultimate indulgence in luxury - but both nothing more than rocks. Those two images in a story about a woman who was killed by the accumulation of her own possessions strikes me as incredibly ironic and way, way creepy.

The woman was missing for four months and she was in her home the whole time?

I'm the first to admit that I cannot resist those hoarder shows on cable.

I, too, hate throwing things away.

I, like the woman in the story, also compulsively shop at thrift stores almost every week. Last week I bought a book for a dollar. Once I bought a gravy boat. I don't make gravy but at Thanksgiving I buy soy gravy. I might want a boat that's not the china one.

Once I bought a little creamer thing just because it was not in the shape of a cow and therefore could be used. But we don't really use cream. But for guests. We might use it for guests. It's a pleasing shade of green.

I'm always tempted by martini glasses. One can never have too many martini glasses. I'm not really sure why I believe this, but I do.

Again, I wish I had more than that one closet.

But then again, maybe it's a good thing I don't have more than one closet. Something has to keep me in check.

Is THIS Why They Hate Us?

2010-08-27T14:06:00.000-07:00

Remember back when everyone was asking why do "they" hate us?

Could this be it?

I saw this in a trade newsletter that I receive.

Really? We could have left future generations a legacy of human rights and social justice but this is what we've collectively come up with? Licensed branding on foods aimed at children?

Really?

Let the self-loathing begin.

The Death of the McMansion?

2010-08-22T01:54:00.000-07:00

If they're truly dead for good, I won't miss them one bit.

This post is based on this article

The time of the super-sized home has ended. Long live the moderately sized home!

I thought it was funny that the article states that the smaller home is now the trend. Then, a 1,200 sq. foot home is mentioned but the builder being interviewed says something to the effect of "yes, smaller, but not THAT small!"

My home is under 1,200 sf. Heck, my home is under 1,100 sf. But then again, my washer and dryer sit outside. And I only have one closet. Yeah, one closet! And it's not even in a bedroom. Two bedrooms and not a closet in either one. That'll be nice when we sell.

Oh, and no pantry.

And guests staying in the closet-less guest room better not have much luggage 'cause there ain't much floor space.

I can barely find a place to keep an extra package of paper towels. There's no way I can shop for the Costco size of anything.

And good thing someone finally got around to inventing the flat panel TV.

I would love to have a full 1,200 square feet. What a luxury that would be!

Image "borrowed" from CNBC.com's Pony Blog

Yeah, we could use more room. But not that much more room.

The planet just ain't big enough for that kind of nonsense.

Past, Present, Future

2010-08-18T02:10:00.001-07:00

Today is my birthday. I’m not putting that out there to solicit a lot of birthday greetings. Just letting you know the inspiration for this post.

On this date 40 years ago, I would have had much to look forward to – getting through junior high, then high school, then college. I didn’t know if I would marry or not so discovering the answer to that question would have been something in my future. If so, who would that special person (or persons) be? What kind of house would I live in? What kind of person would I be?

At that tender age, I often wondered what I would look like when I grew up. Now I know. Ugh. To quote Eubie Blake, "if I’d known I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself." No, seriously. I think it must have been having a childhood in the time of “duck and cover” and a young adulthood during the plague years, combined with my naturally glum temperament, that led me think there was no point in vigorous exercise or consistent retirement savings.

Ooops. At least I have good blood pressure. I have blood pressure like a vampire. It may be my only talent. And, while I neither saved nor exercised consistently, I have always moisturized consistently, and like a vampire, avoided the sun. I suppose I can count the money not spent on Botox as saving. Right?

As for Time, the reality is, I don’t have that much left. I mean, relatively speaking. Even if I, like Eubie, live to 100, I have more years behind me than I have ahead of me.

That’s ok. I’ve had a good run.

But in the time that I have left, whether it’s a week or (God forbid) another 50+ years, there’s not so much that I can afford to squander what remains in the way that I squandered so much of what came before.

Squandered on what? Well, there was a lot of television. These days, there’s a lot of Internet. But mostly, I squandered time doing things I didn’t want to do – like being responsible. Bills have to be paid. “Stuff” has to be bought, hoarded, displayed, used and thrown away. Appearances have to be maintained. I don’t like to think of myself as the person who is obsessed with keeping up appearances but clearly I am, or I could have put any old cheap crap in the house. I mean, if I were left alone on the planet, like Omega Man, would I really be that choosy about the tile in the bathroom or on the fireplace? Would I really have tested so many paint colors?

Obviously, the homes we build are reflections of ourselves. We are all aware of that, whether we want to admit it or not.

So, back to the point, I spent a lot of time doing things I didn’t want to do or that were not the right thing for me to be doing, just because I caved in to life in a society that demanded certain ways of being and living.

But more than that, I caved in to fear and anxiety and misplaced priorities.

I take full responsibility. I will, of course, continue doing what I must do. Bills still have to be paid, even more of them now than before.

But now, now that I know how fleeting Time is and now that I know what is truly important to me and now that I can separate the wheat from the chaff and the men from the goats, I have no excuses.

If I focus on what is important, it should all fall into place. Don’t worry about results. Worrying about results is what led me astray in the first place. Don’t worry at all. Just breathe. Just do. Just be.

Be like the cat.

I can’t take back the time I’ve lost. Maybe it wasn’t lost at all. Maybe I was just incubating. But lost or not, it’s gone – long, long gone. Take the lessons learned and move forward.

Forward. Focus. Prioritize.

Remember how much Time is gone. Remember how much Time is left.

Stop being stubborn for once in your often-pointless life and trust in God. This is the path you were meant to be on. Everything happens for a reason.

Everything happens for a reason.

Everything.

Let it happen.

Let go of reason.

The Rose Bowl Flea Market

2010-08-08T23:41:00.000-07:00

We showed up with cash and big bags to carry away our loot. How we managed to return home empty-handed, I can't imagine. Not when there were beauties like this to be had:

I don't know what this animal is or was.

But it had a sweet face. Too sweet to want to bring home.

I might have wanted these prints, if I had any wall space left to display them.

I don't really know what I would do with this colorful T-Rex.

Bat-winged sconces. Alas, not very Craftsman-y.

Also not very Craftsman-y, Blowfish Lamp. Ick.

Under no circumstances do I ever want to see a chair made of golf clubs in my home.

I kind of like this fencing mask, maybe for playing with The Kitten. It can go with the fencing glove that I use to play with her. Wish I'd been wearing that glove last December when she tore into my arm and sent me to the ER. Oh, well.

Having these fireplace logs could have saved us the trouble of building a whole fireplace. Could have just plugged them in and been on our way to other projects.

The day wasn't a total loss. I did come away with a sunburn (not pictured).

This Is Your Garden Spider . . .

2010-08-08T00:12:00.000-07:00

. . . on drugs.

Effects Of Drugs And Alcohol On Spider Webs

Let this be a lesson to the young people - stay away from drugs!

No one wants to be the crack spider's bitch.

Thanks, D!

A Bad Sign

2010-07-31T13:33:00.000-07:00

In case you missed this link over at Hooked on Houses, you've got to, got to, got to see
this slide show of ill-considered real estate signs.

Julia's listed some other good links at http://www.hookedonhouses.net/, but many won't tickle my juvenile funny bone as did this one.

The Kitten and the Fern

2010-07-30T00:27:00.000-07:00

Tiger stripes would have been handy.

The hunter in hiding.

Tweety Bird

2010-07-25T22:07:00.000-07:00

You may have noticed that I've been blogging a lot less lately. For one thing, since the interior of the house is mostly done, I've not felt that inspired to keep up with the house blog. For a bigger thing, since the interior of the house is mostly done, I now have the time (barely) and resources to pursue another avenue of interest. I won't say what that is but the observant reader should be able to find the clues, like a blogging game of Where's Waldo.

Anyway, there are tidbits here and there that occur to me but that don't deserve a whole blog post. More often there's a housing related story that I want to share but often don't get around to blogging about. I guess that's what Twitter was created for - to make up for my laziness and time crunch.

The Twitter feed is to the right. Just sayin'. If you want to follow me, here I am. If you tweet, I'll follow you too.

More Tiny Living

2010-07-25T11:19:00.000-07:00

Here's another story about someone who chooses to live in a super-tiny house. I posted on this trend once before.

I admire this decision. I really do. I would miss entertaining though. Given the chance to reconfigure our fixer-upper, we made decisions specifically keeping in mind flow and traffic patterns for a large number of guests. These people throw zero parties. The woman in the earlier post says she regrets not having space to have friends over.

Oh, and I would miss my husband, too. I don't think two of us could live in a space under 90 sq. feet. Under 1100 square feet is challenging. The good thing is that we're not both home at the same time much. That sounds more cynical than it really is. But still, we really need all the space. we have. For our collections. And the books. And the these things we've been dragging around with us for 27 years. The tiny-house dwellers have nothing they don't use everyday. They have no room for their past. No room for mementos. No room for anything other than the immediate.

Perhaps that's how it should be. Perhaps that forces them to live in a constant present.

And where are you expected to situate those houses? That guy found a lot somewhere out in the wilderness. That's not for everybody, certainly not for me. I suppose I'd have to find a tiny vacant lot somewhere in the city - if I wanted a tiny house. There aren't many vacant lots available in Los Angeles and if you do find one, it's likely vacant for a reason.

These would make good vacation cottages though. I could see that. I'm trying to imagine what a tiny, tiny Palm Springs house would look like.

Mmm. No. Can't do it. 300 square feet? Maybe.

Picking Up Our Own Trash

2010-07-18T13:08:00.000-07:00

If you’ve been reading this blog for the past few months, you know how I feel about the anti-immigrant hysteria gripping the country and you understand from where my position is generated.

I also understand the opposite side.

I was driving to work on Friday when ahead of me, I saw trash being dropped from a white van parked down the street. Not one to mind my own business, I rolled down my passenger window and stopped beside the van.

“Excuse me.” The young woman who was texting or something looked up. I continued, “You dropped trash on the street. You should pick it up.”

The young woman went back to her texting.

“Pick it up. The street is not your trashcan. The planet is not your trashcan. You shouldn’t be throwing trash on the ground.”

The young woman looked up again. “I will.”

Knowing full well that she wouldn’t, I pushed it more “Can you please pick it up now?”

“I will.”

Another woman on the other side of the van was loading stuff onto the front seat. I pulled up the car a bit to speak to her.

“You know you shouldn’t be throwing trash in the street.”

The other woman assured me that I had been heard the first time and been told that in fact, they would be picking up the trash.

I promised them that I would return to see that it was picked up.

I should have pretended to write down the license plate number.

I do these things from time to time, either out of an irrational desire to experience a gunshot wound or just out of bossy arrogance.

As I was driving away, I realized, in an esprit d'escalier moment, what I should have said. See, these women were Latin American immigrants. What I ought to have told them was that if ICE ever came for them or deported anyone they knew, that they would be partly to blame. I should have told them that part of the reason that Arizona and other states were adopting hateful anti-immigration policies was because of people like them. I should have told them that they could not expect to be welcomed in this country if they are going to casually throw trash in the streets and turn our neighborhoods into the same type of ghettos that they escaped.

We do have to be honest about this, don’t we? On the one hand, we should acknowledge that anti-immigrant fervor is fueled by divisive political opportunists exploiting economic insecurity. That so many state and local governments face bankruptcy makes the scapegoating of immigrants inevitable. It’s an old story.

On the other hand, if I notice people throwing trash in the streets of my neighborhood; if I notice tagging on walls and trees; if I notice my local park taken over by unlicensed vendors and if I notice that all the perpetrators seem to be of similar cultural identity, wouldn’t it be easy to convince me that maybe those people should be forced to leave my country before they turn it into a place like their country?

I’m not saying the haters are right. A lot of nice, law-abiding, tax-paying people will get hurt in the conflicts that lie ahead. And when I write “law-abiding” that’s what I mean. There are people who entered this country through legitimate channels who will . . . get . . . hurt. There are many more people who are law-abiding in every other way who will get hurt. There are American citizens who will get hurt.

I don’t know the status of the women I chided. I know they weren’t born here. Maybe they’re here legally. Maybe they’re not. But I know they know people who are not here legally. Everyone does. Those women do not make their situations any better. They do not make a case for themselves. They make it harder for everyone.

It’s like when a certain nation is surrounded by enemy states and then oppresses a certain group of people within its own state; committing human rights violations and launching military offensives while at the same time expecting support and sympathy from the rest of the world community. Not without enemies enough, that state acts as its own worst enemy.

So, in any circumstance, while we can sympathize with a certain group we should also recognize that even the smallest of our actions have consequences and can inflame those who oppose us.

Let’s not be our own worst enemies.

On Our Nation's Birthday

2010-07-04T14:50:00.000-07:00

a brief history of the founding of our country, brought to you by one of my favorite philosophers, George Carlin.

WARNING: Not safe for work, your kiddies or my parents -

"You give us a color, we'll wipe it out." He cracks me up with his truth.

Happy 4th!

My Trip - Part Seven, We Take Our Leave

2010-07-04T04:02:00.000-07:00

The next day was our last morning at the ranch. We said our goodbyes to my uncle and aunt and to Jorge and his wife and children. They asked when we would visit again and I said it would be soon. The truth is, it’s unlikely we’ll be back. Just being realistic. It’s a tough trip for both of us and my mom always worries that our visits are an imposition on my aunt and uncle.

I recall, however, that upon our departure five years ago I thought the same thing, that we would not be back, so who knows what the future will bring?

The plan was for Hector to drive us in his truck back to Oaxaca City but first we would drop off my aunt and uncle in the town of Jaltepec where they could pick up their government checks – what I suppose is their Social Security. I was told that they would first have to listen to speeches by local leaders about all the great things the party was doing for them. It seemed like a time-share trap.

On the way into town we met with a car-full of cousins. They were coming to say good-bye. I guess we left a little earlier than planned. I’m glad the timing worked out and we met on the road.

These goodbyes were more tearful than the last. My cousin Raquel, in particular, was very emotional. She begged us to return soon. How could I not make that promise?

Again, we were on our way.

It strikes me how attached they seemed to be to us or to me at least. My mom is one of them; she is from that life; has their references; speaks their language, so it’s not surprising, their affection for her. I am a different animal – not fluent, not at all familiar with that life or culture, so far removed in my everyday life from anything they imagine – yet, they are tearful at my departure.

Is that what real families are like? Do they love you whether they know you or not? Do they love you whether they “get” you or not? If they saw me in my natural habitat – screaming at traffic, having a conniption because I can’t have my office painted just the right shade of blue, slipping on gloves for every household activity lest I break or chip a precious fingernail – would they still love me?

During the two-hour trip back to Oaxaca City, I don’t attempt to keep up with the conversation from the front seats. I passively watch the desert scenery pass by. A goat stands at the side of the freeway. I hope for his safety.

Back in the City

We unload our bags at the hotel and then walk to the zocalo for lunch. The zocalo is the town square that, for this city, is the main area for tourists. It's safe. It's clean. It would be easy to believe the rest of the city is like this. It is not.

There are restaurants on three sides of the square. A government building anchors the fourth. Most of the dining is outdoors to take advantage of the festive atmosphere. Peddlers hawk kitschy souvenirs of all kinds, from jewelery to hand-carved letter openers. Beggars are not uncommon.

I was aware of this as we chose a table at our restaurant. But still, our table was near the edge of the cafe's enclosure, near enough that we were targets for peddlers and beggars.

And what are you going to do? You can't buy from everyone. You can't give anyone enough to really make a difference. Ancient women with wrinkled skin and black, squinting eyes extend their gnarled hands and what do you do? Some of the women carried babies and, as always, I wondered - why do the poor have babies?

Again, The Fever came to mind:
". . . a voice says - why not all of it? Why not give her all that you have?

"Be careful, that's a question that could poison your life . . . "

"If you hear that question, it means you're sick. You're mentally sick. You've had a breakdown . . . "

"But there's a reason why I'm the one who has the money in the first place, and that's why I'm not going to give it all away. In other words . . . I worked for that money. I worked. I worked hard to make that money and it's my money, because I made it."

"You say you work. But why does your work bring you so much money, while their work brings practically nothing? You say you "make" money. What a wonderful expression. But how can you "make" so much of it in such a short time, while in the same amount of time they "make" so little?"

After our lunch of too generous proportions, we took our leave of Hector, shopped again for souvenirs and returned to our room for siesta (and, in my case, my first contact with email in a week.)

Late in the day, we rose for another meal. Again, as with our first night here, we dine at our favorite restaurant El Asador Vasco, perched at the edge of the balcony, viewing the evening activity but distanced from harsh reality. Again, there are margaritas.

And my mother tells me of when she was much younger, and looked up at the privileged diners at the tables at this very restaurant and felt the envy and never imagined that she might dine at one of these tables one day.

And here we are. But it's not enough. It's never enough.

"There's never enough solace, never enough consolation."

The next day we fly, uneventfully, back to California, she to her home in the northern half and I to my home in the southern half.

Our journey has come to an end. We are home once again in the Land of Opportunity, where more than enough is never quite enough.

My Trip – Part Six, The Fiesta

2010-06-19T01:08:00.000-07:00

The big day is here. I awaken to what sounds like a live band outside our bedroom. I take a peek. Holy cow! It is a live band outside our bedroom! Or not far away. They’ve come from the path that leads from the road and they’re headed to the big tent on the other side of the house.

We have breakfast at about 8:30. Or they do. I don’t. Breakfast consists of more of the bread and a soup – a soup with meat. I drink a cup of hot chocolate made from freshly ground chocolate beans.

At about 11:00, mom and I walk to the church. We get there just before the Mass starts. People are standing at the doorway but we had no intention of attending. We’ve fallen deep into the abyss of the irretrievable Catholics. Or at least I have. I won’t speak for her. I’m just there to shoot video and photos.

While the service goes on we wait in a shady spot across the street. When the service ends, I shoot video of the musicians and our retreat back to the ranch. In the video below, note the palm crowns fringing the doorway of the church.

Of all the songs the band played that day, the one in the video below is my favorite. It's downright dour but creates an atmosphere that is both circus-like and funereal at the same time - not the most exciting video in the world, but atmospheric. You don't have to watch the whole thing. I have to take that tutorial on editing:

The video below may be only of interest to my family. No one else should feel obligated to watch. But you do get a sense of walking through that territory. And when I ask my mom if she wants a crown, I am referring to the stack of plastic tiaras that are for sale at the little stand. Except, for some reason, I don't bother to focus the camera on the stack of tiaras. This whole video thing is new to me . . .

Once we've returned to the ranch, we settle in at one of the long tables in the shade of the old Ash tree. Mom is greeted by cousin after cousin and a series of old friends from her past, none of whom she recognizes. This happens every time we visit but especially today.

The musicians, who have returned from the church, settle into their seats. I shoot more video.

We are brought a meal of quesadillas – made just for us. They are delicious and my first meal of the day. That’s at about 1:00. I take pictures of the many cousins.

At 2:15 Jorge offers tequila to the musicians. It seems they all decline. Musicians here must be different than the ones I know. I am the first seated behind the band. When Jorge comes my way, I happily accept the tequila. I don’t see anyone else drinking it. That’s ok. I drink it straight with lime and salt.

I wait for it to kick in but it never really does. Or maybe it does, but just a tiny bit.

Jorge, offering a bottle of Corona this time, not tequila

At 3:30 the Mezcal comes around. Maybe this will hit.

That morning, I’m once again looking for a trash can to dispose of a paper napkin. I can’t find one and everyone is busy. I go into the kitchen where there’s always been a wastebasket under the sink. The room is dark, but I see them on the table – the chickens – headless and denuded, lying on their backs. I immediately leave, still clutching the napkin.

I see no chickens in the yard, only in the soup. So this is why the long car trip yesterday. It was a distraction from the slaughter of the chickens.

I appreciate their being sensitive to my sensibility. Who knows how I appear to them. Probably as too delicate. Probably as silly. Always reading something. Always writing something. Finicky. Afraid of spiders. Very afraid of spiders. They must think we’re a weak lot here in Los Estados Unidos.

I don’t judge them for eating chickens. I have less tolerance for those here who should know better. I have less tolerance for those who know the conditions of factory farming and still eat them. At least these chickens had some room to scratch around in. At least these chickens got to keep their beaks.

Years ago I was seated next to a woman who was with Doctors Without Borders. When my vegetarian meal was delivered she mentioned that it was a great luxury to choose to be a vegetarian. She said that most of the world didn’t have the choice of not eating meat – that they ate whatever they could.

I should have answered that it was a great luxury to choose to eat meat. I didn’t but I should have. I doubt most of the world has the choice and it seems to me that the choice to grow food animals uses up a lot resources that might otherwise have been spent creating plant foods that would have fed a lot more people with less environmental damage. I should have said that but I didn’t.

A side observation

In Mexico dogs are treated like animals. Where I live, dogs are treated like favored children. I once saw a woman in a store with a sling on her chest, maybe a Bjorn thing. As she approached, I wondered what breed of tiny dog she carried. I was shocked to see a baby in the sling, an actual human baby. It was only a second after that I realized how ridiculous, how perverse my shock was – but I just don’t see that many babies. My relatives here would be shocked to see the tiny dresses and jeweled collars sold for our dog children. If I had a dog, I’d be tempted to dress her (against K’s wishes). I love that my cat once returned from the groomer wearing a pink bandana around her neck and a bow on her head.

I think my Mexican relatives regard it was a sin to elevate animals to human level. Maybe it’s a sin to degrade animals by dressing them in sailor suits and princess dresses. I can’t believe it’s a sin to love them as children.

I go for a walk

I can't take any more music. I decide to walk back to where the vendors were. My aunt wants picures of the winner of the jaripeo. I don't really know if that's the word. I've never seen it, never heard of it before today. But it's a rodeo-like event where men ride on these poor bulls that don't want to be ridden.

When I get there, I see that my cousin Hector is already shooting video:

Good, if I stay much longer, PETA will revoke my membership:

I can't take it here anymore. I leave. I go back to face the music.

Sunday still – and then we danced

The band that arrived at 8:30 in the morning was still there at 8:30 at night. And at 9:30. I’d gone off to my room a little after 10 when I’d received word that my aunt wanted me to takes pictures of the dancing. The band played on.

I danced with Hector and also with a man I was told was El Presidente. I don’t really know what he was the Presidente of, but he seemed like a nice man. He asked me to dance a second time but I had to decline. The songs are too long and I found the dancing tiring. Plus I didn’t get it. Not my thing. I actually received a few more invitations but declined all the rest. Who knew how popular I would be here? Must be the thrill of the exotic.

I saw my cousin Raquel watching from the kitchen. I went in to keep her company. We talked but I don’t remember what about. With my spare Spanish skills, I'm sure it was nothing in depth.

Finally, the band packs up and leaves. It seems that I hear what is threatened to be the last song for about 5 songs in a row. It’s been a long night. I go to bed. My mother goes to bed. The rest of them stay up and do whatever it is that still needs to be done.

Next – We say our good-byes

My Trip - Part Five, We Go Sightseeing

2010-06-06T18:25:00.000-07:00

It’s Saturday. We’ve been here a week now.

My cousin Hector took us (my mom, my uncle and me) for a ride. I’m told we’re going to Nochixtlan for breakfast followed by some local sightseeing.

Uh, not exactly. At some point we left the paved road for a grueling two-hour trip on an unpaved, hairpin turn, mountain road.

I thought we were going to die. It was one nasty road, covered with huge rocks and frequently with a steep drop-off on one side.

Finally, we have breakfast in the community of Santiago Apoala. The town is known for its local springs. After breakfast, we head for the cave.

Uncle Urbano, Mom and Cousin Hector under the bougainvillea after breakfast in Santiago Apoala.

Once there, we park near a lovely river. There was a small hotel and a small sweet dog.

Then we hiked to the cave. At the time, I wasn’t sure what possessed Hector to take two elderly people on an adventure that included steep uphill climbing.

Upon entering the cave, one descended into darkness, while supporting oneself on a guide rope.

It is unclear how slippery the ground was but it certainly wasn’t something my mom wanted to do. I wasn’t keen on burning my hands on the rope and she didn’t want me to go anyway. So I didn’t.

Everyone survived the boulder-strewn hike back down to the river.

I headed back to the truck, assuming we were all ready to leave. We weren’t. Hector lay down along the riverbank, under a tree. He napped. Eventually, my mother stretched out in the grass, under the sun. She, too, napped.

My uncle struck up a conversation with a local goat herder.

I made friends with the small, sweet dog (of which I have no photo).

Finally, they were all ready to leave. We head back along the treacherous, rock-covered road for another two-hour drive. This time I’m a little less terrified.

At one point I check my watch. I haven’t changed it from Los Angeles time. I calculate that it will be 71 hours until touchdown at LAX.

Nochixtlan

On the way back, we stop in the city of Nochixtlan. My uncle runs off to a store to buy a bag of oranges. We wait outside a store that sells poultry, living or dead.

The city looks like Baghdad. Same cinder block buildings – flat facades with steel doors – wide-open fronts showing off wares. Same dusty, unpaved streets, same old trucks and cars rumbling through dusty streets. Above the city are the adobe homes. They too have steel doors. Or curtains. Doors are either steel or cloth. Nothing in between.

The city, the entire country, seems to have been abandoned by any governing authority except for rifle-toting police that are everywhere. The people seem to be on their own, left to fend for themselves. I’m not saying that’s the reality, just how it appears on the surface. But to look at the buildings, there appears to be no organization, no building codes, no urban planning. It looks like anyone can build a building just about anywhere. There are no architects. Sidewalks start and stop for no apparent reason. The whole place is one giant personal injury lawsuit waiting to happen.

There seems to be no middle-class here. At least there’s no middle-class that we would recognize. I cannot imagine where the “nice” homes are. Everything is either cinderblock or adobe. And square. There is no aesthetic. There is only square. And all doors open to the exterior. All of them.

I want to go back to my life. I want to read without appearing lazy and useless. I want temperature control. I want privacy. I want Internet.

Saturday still – The evening

Yesterday I read Wallace Shawn’s play THE FEVER. It is brilliant – a one-person theatre piece of 39 pages on (roughly) the subject of hollow liberal guilt and our relationship to the poor. Among the points he makes: we offer the poor gradual change, which is no change at all.

The play, of course, is a slap in the face to me and to all my elite, liberal kind. We think we are artists out to effect social change. We are no more than poseurs. I really want to do this play. I want to do this play because yes, I am a poseuse, posing as an artist out to effect social change. If I perform this play or if I don't perform this play, there will be no change, no effect at all on the poor. But if I do it, I will feel as if I’ve done something. And that is part of Shawn’s message.

Saturday still – Later in the evening

When we return to the ranch, they’ve begun serving the meals as part of the festival celebration. Although the actual fiesta isn’t until Sunday, the meals start with tonight’s dinner. I don’t know why. I don’t know anything. All I know is that as soon as we arrive, we’re invited to take a seat at a long table and we’re given food. I’m not sure, but I think I was given black beans and eggs and the special fiesta bread. Didn’t write it down. I do remember that it wasn’t the tastiest meal I’ve had. Not as tasty as the quesadillas with the squash blossoms or even the quesadillas with the cactus – all accompanied by fiesta bread. I think others may have been given meat. I’m not sure. But they know I don’t eat meat of any kind and my aunt has been especially gracious about preparing non-meat meals for me. If I were vegan though, I’d just have to starve. Give up cheese here and there’s not much left.

After dinner, I have a paper napkin to dispose of. I start to go into the kitchen to toss it into the wastebasket. My cousin, Rosa, comes out, as I’m about to go in and she insists I not enter. “Too smoky” she says. Her urgency seems a bit over the top. I’ve sat in that smoky kitchen before. Hector offers me a plastic bag for my trash. There are only crushed Coke cans in the bag. “But this is for recycling, “ I say. He says it’s ok. I toss the napkins in.

I don’t think they want me in the kitchen.

Saturday still – Still later in the evening

Tomorrow there will be a Mass at 10 am. Will I go? If my mother goes I’ll go.

At 10 am tomorrow it will be 59 hours until touchdown.

Another cousin comes to greet me. I cannot keep track of them. There are so many of them and they are all too beautiful, like Mixtec dolls. I wish their lives could be easier.

Saturday still – Later still

Late in the evening, I’m alone in the room I share with my mom. She’s in with the others, having coffee. They all like to have a nice cup of coffee at about 10 pm every night. That would explain a lot about the scheduling here.

Anyway, I’m alone in the room, reading, when I first caught a glimpse of it in the corner of my eye. It was the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in my life walking across the floor of the room where we sleep.

He disappeared under the other bed. Then reappeared out the other side. I think I might just pass out. Remember, I have a hard time dealing with things with 6 legs. Eight legs is out of the question.

The spider stands in front of the door. Now I have no escape (but at least he’s not hiding under the bed.) I grab a plastic cup from the shelf. I know I have one shot at this. If I try to cap him and he escapes, I am going to freak out. If I try to cap him but in doing so I catch one of his legs with the edge of the smallish cup, I am going to freak out.

Do not freak out. Do not freak out. Do not freak out.

I successfully cover him with the cup in one shot. Thank you, Jesus.

Fortunately, Hector is just outside the door. I call to him and I'm surprised when the word for “spider” comes to my lips. He rushes to my aid, scooping up the horrible beast and carrying him away with a promise that he won’t kill it.

How many hours until touchdown?

Next – the fiesta.

My Trip – Part Four, Long, Long Days

2010-06-03T23:12:00.000-07:00

We arrived at the ranch on a Monday. By Tuesday, I already need something to do. The stack of books and writing materials I brought are not enough.

I decide to wash laundry by hand. Our trip only started on Friday and I’m not a light packer so this hand-washing exercise was purely for its entertainment value, mind you. Yes, that’s how slow things were. See, it became like a little game. Hang clothes on the line. Rush to remove them when the light rain starts. Replace them on the line when the brief rain ends. Repeat.

We then decide to take a walk to the chapel. This was the chapel as I’d photographed it five years ago.

This is the chapel today. It's been painted and given a new brick wall. Simplicity scarred. No one consulted me. People are free to make decisions on their own. I often wish they weren’t.

That evening, Jorge’s daughter, Aleli, celebrates her 8th birthday with cake.

Wednesday – El Noche de la Rana

I awake to the sounds of birds calling to the heavens.

Again, the day is long and unbroken. My words are useless here. I wish I had ice.

We watch Jorge make the coronas de palmas (crowns made from palms.) Later these crowns will decorate the chapel.

It is humid.

That night, my mom escorts a number of bugs out of our room. I am too citified to do well with 6-legged creatures. Then, as I opened the door to our room, a frog leaps in, between my feet and is quickly well into the room. I’m startled. At first I think it must be a lizard, it moved so quickly. Then, I see the rascal hiding against my suitcase. It’s not the biggest frog that I’ve seen here but it’s bigger than any frog U.S. I’ve seen. As it has only 4 legs and not 6, I pick it up and take it out, placing it on a large rock in a flowerbed across the way. My mother states that she is proud of me. Parental approval, at last.

The number of bugs here is tough to deal with. Everywhere you go there's a bug, or many, in the room. They're either crawling on the walls or flying around the lightbulbs. It's worst in the bathroom. You don't want to be constantly on guard in the bathroom.

The upside to all this is that we also see a lot of butterflies, in all sizes and colors. Why I can't have butterflies where I live is a great cruelty. But maybe they know better. That must be it.

Thursday – Our Trip to the Forest

My oldest cousin, Hector, drives us to the Bosque de Encinos, a forest of oak trees. My uncle, my mother’s brother, is with us as well. They talk politics and debate the legitimacy of the Mexican voting system. I walk. I touch the inside of a desiccated cactus blossom. I get a tiny little cactus spine in my pinky finger. Stupid me.

We drink cold Cokes from tiny cans. I walk again. I practice a newly learned Tai Chi move, Hands Moving Though Clouds. They keep talking. It is ungodly hot. I want to leave already. They keep talking.

That night, we try to sleep in our hot room. There is a pounding outside, well into the night. The men are working on something.

Friday – The Tenting

We awake on Friday morning to see that the big tent is already up.

They must have accomplished this during the night. That was the source of the pounding noise.

That night there is to be a calenda, a procession starting at the chapel that would proceed to various sites where dancing would take place. They love to dance here.

“What time will it start?” I ask. 10:00, I’m told. Seriously?

No, not seriously. We are to go with my cousin Patricia and her daughter in their car. At 10, Patricia announces she is going home first to take a bath. My mom is getting anxious, thinking by the time we get there, we’ll have missed it all.

Patricia knows better. We don’t leave until 11. When we get there, nothing has started. They’re all still at the church. Speeches are being given. That’s what we missed, speeches. In Spanish.

If you’ve been reading my blog posts for long, you know I’m the biggest night owl ever, but eleven? Eleven pm! For a public event! Ay, caramba!

By the time we arrive at the first dancing station it’s exactly 11:50.

Saturday, the wee hours – Terror on the Church Steps

It must be around 1 am when we finally arrive back at the church. I slither through the crowd to be close to the front of the church where the band is assembled and it seems there might be something to shoot video of. There I see them. I see the crowns made of straw. They have places to hold firecrackers. Why I don’t have pictures of these things I’ll never know. But once the dancers placed the crowns on their heads, the crowd fled down the steps and away from the church. My mother had the good sense to stay far back to begin with. I’m like a crazy, panicked gringa, running away, holding the video camera up and pointed towards the action as I run.

Yes, people have placed hats made of straw and firecrackers on their heads and they are gathering in a circle to dance; all this while surrounded by a crowd on onlookers. Oh, those crazy Mexicans and their nonchalance about eye injuries or burns! Or lawsuits. This is what happens in a non-litigious society.

The firecracker dance was followed by three guys standing on the rooftop and tossing gifts to the crowd. They were things like Frisbees and plastic bowls. The first time I attended a Mexican calenda, in the ‘80s, the rooftop tossed prizes included Corelle. I kid you not. They threw plates of Corelle down to the excited crowd. My sister and I were terrified of either being hit by Corelle or being burned by the guy who wore spinning bull horns made from firecrackers. Surprising that there aren’t more injuries here. Or maybe I’m just a big baby del norte.

Next – the trip to the cave.

My Trip – Part Three, Out in the Country

2010-06-02T00:35:00.000-07:00

In Oaxaca, our hotel room is hot. There’s a ceiling fan, no a/c. But the fan is too fast and too loud. The noise makes it hard to sleep.

Speaking of hard, that’s what the beds were. The hotel room itself is cute. Just cute, cute, cute. But hot and stuffy and the mattresses are inflexible.

But we manage to sleep, probably out of sheer exhaustion from the previous two days.

We spend a day here in the city. Right away we shop for gifts. We have our meals in the Zocalo.

We enjoy the city even though it’s hot and humid, and with only one exception, all the clothes I packed are black. Stupid.

These ladies must be hot too.

I’ve always liked Oaxaca City. But it seems less lively this time of year. The last time I was here it was November, when the weather was cooler and the city was packed with tourists for Day of the Dead.

We shop for gifts for friends and family back at home. For myself, I want to buy bracelets, lots of cheap, obsidian bracelets. Later, I would read in THE FEVER, Wallace Shawn’s explanation of Karl Marx’s Fetishism of Commodities -

“ . . . what really determines the value of a coat? What is it that determines the price of a coat? The coat’s price comes from its history, the history of all the people who were involved in making it and selling it and all the particular relationships they had. And if we buy the coat, we, too, form relationships with all of those people, and yet we hide those relationships from our own awareness by pretending we live in a world where coats have no history but just fall down from heaven with prices marked inside. . . . “

“A naked woman leans over a fence. A man buys a magazine and stares at her picture. The destinies of these two are linked. The man has paid the woman to take off her clothes, to lean over the fence. The photograph contains its history – the moment the woman unbuttoned her shirt, how she felt, what the photographer said. The price of the magazine is a code that describes the relationships between those people – the woman, the man, the publisher, the photographer – who commanded, who obeyed. The cup of coffee contains the history of the peasants who picked the beans, how some of them fainted in the heat of the sun, some were beaten, some were kicked.”

I don’t buy or wear diamonds. I don’t shop at Walmart. Unlike most tourists, I don’t haggle with the vendors. If I want an item, I pay what they ask. But I can’t resist cheap bracelets. They are my own fetish commodity.

We wear ourselves out with walking. At the end of the day, Mom and I dine at our favorite restaurant and each drink two very, very strong margaritas.

We walk back to our hotel. It’s still hot. We are both drunk. I offer to sing her a song. She falls asleep. The fan is way, way, way too loud.

We go to The Ranch

The next day my uncle arrives with my cousin’s husband. The cousin’s husband has a taxi. They are there to take us to The Ranch. It’s a two-hour drive from the city of Oaxaca.

They all call it The Ranch though it’s really more like a farm. There are cornfields and bean fields but no herds of livestock. The land has been in the family for more than 100 years. Maybe close to 150 years. My uncle raised his 12 children here.

We came here to visit my 80-year-old uncle but we are here now because one of his sons is hosting the Festival of San Ysidro. It’s a big event. My cousin, Jorge, is one of the majordomos, in this sense, a long, funny word for host. Interesting, the word’s true meaning lies in the history of feudalism.

When we arrive, everyone is busy making bread. They have a wood-burning oven. They bake lots of bread.

We sit in the shade of an ancient ash tree. My mom and my uncle chat. Jorge's daughter, Aleli, joins us.

His life has been hard but he does less work now. I think I overhear him say he no longer keeps chickens. I could be wrong. My Spanish is rusty and seldom used. But that’s what I think I overhear. Except it doesn’t make sense because I see clearly before me a flock of at least a couple dozen chickens and some roosters.

I like chickens. They’re nice birds. I wish I could have chickens of my own. But not really.

The breeze is calming. Birds sing. Chickens scratch. Sheep call out. We shed our anxieties. Life here is neurosis free. Life here is without email and blogging; without Facebook and YouTube and Hulu. Life here is without the constant need for connection, for affirmation of place on the planet. It is without the constant need for validation. It is without Tea Party vs. Coffee Party, without Palin vs. Clinton, without The Culture Wars, without the New York Times, the LA Times or BBC America or NPR.

I am cut off and my thoughts are my own.

Next – the days here are long.

My Trip – Part Two, The Connection

2010-06-01T14:18:00.000-07:00

We are up early for our flight to Mexico City. Remember, Mexico City is not our destination, only a place where we must change planes on our way to Oaxaca. Except, there’s only one hour to make our connection. I never should have accepted this option in Houston, but I was exhausted and desperate to get to Oaxaca as soon as possible.

In that hour, between our Continental flight and our Mexicana flight, we were expected to change terminals in a huge airport and go through immigration. Because I’ve been given no direction by the airline, I assume we are also expected to pull our bags and go through Customs. Only when we don’t find our bags do I discover they’ve been checked though to Oaxaca. One lucky break.

Now we have to race to find our gate. Our flight appears nowhere on the Departure schedule. I have to ask Information (after waiting for a very long-winded lady to end her conversation.) I’m told I have to go by train to another terminal, the Domestic terminal. But to get to that train, we have to walk the whole length of this terminal, the International terminal. Once at the Domestic terminal, I still can’t find our flight # on the board. Then, briefly, it flashes on and immediately disappears again. We are cutting it very close.

We’re directed to the Mexicana ticket counter. “You can’t catch this plane,” I’m told. “It’s impossible.” What! “There’s another flight to Oaxaca in 2 ½ hours,” I’m told.

Because it’s on another airline from the one we’d purchased from originally, we have to buy the tickets. Either that, or go back to the International terminal and fight with Continental. I’m pretty certain there are no other Continental flights available for two days. That was the impression I got in Houston. We buy the Mexicana tickets and wait. Then, the flight is delayed by an hour.

Twenty-six hours after our intended arrival, we land in Oaxaca City.

The humidity tries my thinned patience.

Next – going to the ranch.

My Trip - Part One, Acts of God

2010-05-31T10:02:00.000-07:00

“I’M TRAVELING – and I wake up suddenly in the silence before dawn in a strange hotel room, in a poor country where my language isn’t spoken, and I’m shaking and shivering.”

So begins the play, THE FEVER by Wallace Shawn.

I’ve recently returned from a trip to Mexico. Around last Christmas, my mother expressed a strong desire for at least one more trip to the village where she grew up. She wanted to see her 80-year-old brother. She is 76 and traveling alone on such a long journey is not an option. I become the appointed mom-keeper. Mid-May became the date of departure because it would coincide with the celebration of the Festival of San Isidro, which this year, would be hosted by my cousin, Jorge. San Isidro is the patron saint of farmers and also the patron saint of my family’s small village chapel.

It was while in Mexico, not coincidentally, that I read The Fever.

I had the trip so perfectly planned. For our flight to Oaxaca City, I specifically chose to fly on Continental so that we could avoid the airport in Mexico City. I’ve never liked that airport and never had a good experience there. It’s too big, too difficult to navigate and for some reason, signage is scarce and information seems to be kept intentionally unavailable to travelers. On Continental we could change planes in Houston; things might make sense, might be logical; if not, I could always ask questions in English.

When my mother and I arrived in Houston, our flight was delayed by 3 hours. No biggie. We ordered margaritas at the bar near the gate. Then the delay turned to 4 hours. Lighting brightened the window at which I sat. I was startled to see rain pouring down as if from buckets.

Our plane, which was coming in from Tulsa, never arrived. There must have been bigger, scarier lightning in Oklahoma. Or maybe a strong wind came sweepin’ down the plain. Our flight to Oaxaca was canceled. Other flights were canceled as well. We stood in line for an hour to book another flight. At 10 pm, the terminal was filled with people with no place to go. There were only two agents rebooking planeload after planeload of passengers.

Stupid weather.

We finally reach the head of the line. We’re given tickets for a flight on Mexicana. We have to change planes in Mexico City. Just dandy. Our plane leaves at 2 the next day. I’m given a number to call for a “discounted” hotel room. I call and I’m offered a Super 8 Motel for $67. Doesn’t sound like much of a discount to me. But I take it. We head out to look for the shuttle service phone. Except there’s no answer. I find the phone number to the motel on the listings and call from my cell phone. The person at the Super 8 desk tells me that the shuttle service doesn’t run this late (it’s now after 11:00). It’s been 14 hours since I left my house and I’m still only in Houston. I freak out on her. I’m rude. I know she just works there but I’m tired and now I’m fed up. I hear her speak the word “taxi.” I hang up the phone while she’s talking. I know my mother knows that I’ve been rude. I don’t care. I’ve got to find us a room NOW. I run back to the board with the hotel listings. By now there are plenty of other people in line. I wait. I search for a hotel that seems to be reasonably priced and I call. They have two rooms left. I tell them I’ll take the one without the Jacuzzi. A man at the other courtesy phone shouts at me not to hang up. I hand him the receiver. He’ll get the room with the hot tub. It’s an extra $20. He’s alone. Why not?

Apparently, he’s now got the last hotel room in the Houston airport area. We head off to the shuttle pick up area, passing dozens who’ve elected to spend the night stretched out along the terminal floor. I’d rent a car and drive to Oaxaca before I’d sleep on an airport floor. I once slept in a train station in Cologne, Germany after a horrific mix-up in trying to get to Paris. Twenty years later, I ain’t sleepin’ on no airport floor.

The van for our particular motel takes over an hour.

Once we get to our room, we’ve got to get ourselves fed. There’s only one option, Waffle House.

We don’t have Waffle Houses where I live. In fact, the only other time I’ve visited a Waffle House was outside of Birmingham, Alabama when K and I attended his daughter’s grad school graduation.

Our experience at the Waffle House in Houston was, um, interesting. First, I wish more restaurants would offer hash browns topped with jalapeños. I can eat jalapeños, any time, any place and within any meal. If I had a restaurant, I would serve only foods that were made from or included jalapeños. Other than that, little was appealing. I wanted to suggest to our waitress that the menu carry more vegetarian options. Instead, I just ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. I asked for a bit of tomato.

The jalapeño-topped hash browns were the highlight. The post-1 am Waffle House crowd was a sight that I would not necessarily want to behold. I told myself it was a slice of real Americana. But the drunken woman who exposed more of herself than she was aware of worried me. I wondered too much about the men who sat at the counter. Why were they there so late? Where had they been? Where were they going? I could tell they weren’t stranded travelers. They weren’t truckers. They were locals – locals with no place else to go. They were people who’d rather be in a too brightly lit restaurant than at home. Teens dressed as if they’d just celebrated prom came and went. The Waffle House didn’t do justice to their fancy duds. It struck me as sad. I wanted more for them.

Our waitress was super sweet. I wondered if she was this patient all the time. Was she ever rude to anyone on the phone? Did she ever hang up on anyone who was just answering the phone at a dead-end job? Did she ever feel detached, separate and apart from everyone around her, as if she were observing them as one might observe animals in a zoo? Was she ever aware of a patronizing arrogance that distanced her from her fellow humans?

Exhausted, but sated by salt and grease, we headed back to our room.

Next – the dreaded airport in Mexico City.

Where in the World is Why?

2010-05-16T14:43:00.000-07:00

Not at home where I belong.

This is just a quick post to let my 3 1/2 readers know why I won't be updating for a couple of weeks. And if you write one of the dozen blogs I read, why I won't be commenting.

All I'll say for now is it's foreign here. And humid. And it took way too long to get here. And I'm soooooo looking forward to a good drink this evening.

Tomorrow, I move on. This is likely the last time I'll have access to a computer for over a week.

The withdrawal pains are gripping me already.

Hasta luego, amigos.

Hi Mom. Glad You’re Here.

2010-05-09T17:55:00.000-07:00

I’m laying my cards on the table here.

I’m not wanted in the state of Arizona.

In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I were despised.

If the mere fact of illegal immigration inspires the kind of mean-spirited nastiness we’ve seen from that state, then the logical conclusion is that the consequences of such immigration would inspire similar nastiness.

Thank you Arizona, for laying your own cards on the table. That trip to the Grand Canyon shall not be near in my future, if ever.

See, in the middle of the last century, my mother came to this country without the formality of work papers.

Of course, she eventually did get a green card and a work visa and eventually became a citizen.

By the time I came around she was married to my gringo dad and fully invested in her life in El Norte.

If Governor Brewer had her way, none of that would likely have happened. I would not have happened. My two siblings would not have happened.

I understand how the anti-immigrant bias is fueled by our current economic uncertainty. I also think a lot of it is cultural bias borne out of ignorance and bigotry and failure of imagination.

It’s easier to pass a grandstanding, anti-immigrant law than to confront employers who exploit the cheap labor the immigrant community provides.

It’s easier to make noise and announce your intentions to bully and intimidate than to advocate for a federal policy that would confront the failures of NAFTA and our failed “war” on drugs. It’s easier to placate the howling classes with hollow house bills on a state level than to address class division and the inequitable distribution of land that sends so many citizens northward.

It’s easier to expose your bigotry than your humanity.

It’s true that we can’t make policy for a foreign nation yet we seem pretty good at attempting to do so when we want something out of that country, like oil. Hard to believe we couldn’t influence foreign policy in Mexico to bring about a win-win for the citizens of both nations (albeit to the likely detriment of the oligarchs.)

It takes a lot of courage to leave your family and country behind and travel on your own to a new land, a new culture, with limited means and language skills.

It takes a lot of daring to face such a big unknown. It takes a lot of determination to create a life plan so different than the one you were handed at birth. It takes a lot of imagination to place so much faith in such an uncertain future.

I have relatives on my gringo side of the family who never left the small Texas town in which they were born. They never explored a world beyond their birthplace.

They never risked, never imagined, never rolled the dice. But because they are of Northern European descent and generations removed from those same Europeans, the state of Arizona would welcome them and likely never ask to see their papers.

It makes me think – which type person should we really want populating our country?

Thanks, Mom, for making the trip.

I’m glad we’re both here.

My Walk Back from the Farmer's Market

2010-04-25T18:15:00.000-07:00

On my way back from last weekend's Farmer's Market, I was happy to see progress on this building:

See what it is?

Plants growing on this wall:

The plantings are placed in a special fabric lining the exterior and soon enough, the entire building will be covered with living plants!

Ironically, the building is across the street from the official headquarters of all things plastic and made in China:

On that same block, I encountered this oddity:

It's a pedestrian subway. It was built so that peds could cross the street from here:

to there:

I can't imagine there was ever a Los Angeles so safe, so carefree that anyone could have thought "this will be fine. Pedestrians will walk unguarded through underground tunnels. That should be safe enough. Nothing could go wrong there." WHO'S IDEA WAS THAT?!?!

I've seen quite a few of these relics throughout the city. Not once have I ever seen one that wasn't closed off by that horrible fencing. Something about this reminds me of the Charlton Heston movie, The Omega Man. Right? Isn't that where those gremlin creatures lived during the day? Or maybe it's where the vampires now sleep by day. No one ever goes down there and in their bat form, they could easily escape through the fencing.

Next I came upon a new restaurant with this menu:

What? Tex-Mexican/Indian fusion? Is this a perfect city, or what? (except for the part about being too dangerous for underground walkways.)

Get it? It's like a play on Cowboys and Indians? Only with different Indians?

The is the quintessential LA mini-mall. Not only do you have the above gastronomical uniquity, but you can also get a Thai massage:

and Mongolian barbecue:

presumably, you can dine there while you wait for repairs on your car.

But wait! There's more!

Before or after having your nails done or your brows waxed, it looks like you can pop in for a quick medical consultation and then pop upstairs to pick up your prescription for medical marijuana:

Let me just add, I know nothing about the nature of services provided at "Consulting and Care for Wellness." I'm just guessing. My apologies for any confusion, inconvenience or legal entanglements.

That was the end of my walk last week. Groovy, huh?

Last Weekend I Took a Long Walk . . .

2010-04-25T01:26:00.000-07:00

. . . through Silver Lake on my way to the Silver Lake Farmer's Market.

I took a few pictures along the way, figuring I'd knock out a quick blog post about it. So much for that

Behold, a bunch of pictures.

This front yard has a nice river of colored rock:

Across the street, they like color:

and hand stencilled details:

and unique, angelic gates:

and sunny faces:

at this big house around the corner:

they have a sense of humor:

and, apparently, small children:

they also like little chairs:

then, I came across one of my LA dream houses, The Maltman House:

ok, these pictures don't really do it justice. Check out the link above for a much better idea of the delights this house has to offer.

But many a time I've stopped at this house and peered into those big glass windows. I love the house but I've often wondered if I could tolerate a bunch of yahoos driving by and looking into my windows. On the other hand, as shown in the link, the views from those windows are amazing.

Tomorrow, my return trip.

What Did You Do To Celebrate Earth Day?

2010-04-23T01:38:00.000-07:00

I haven’t done anything to celebrate Earth Day this year just like I didn’t do anything to celebrate 420 Day .

Getting myself to work this morning was all I could manage. And no, I didn’t take the bus. I don’t deserve that much penance for my sins.

But sometimes, maybe doing nothing is the best thing, especially when the something you would have done can only be more harmful to the planet than any helpful thing could have been helpful. Does that make sense?

Like this for instance: All day I've been hearing about a 13 year old boy's attempt to climb Mt. Everest, making him the youngest person to ever summit Everest.

If the boy wants to do this and if somebody wants to shell out the enormous amount of money for him to do it, then fine. But don’t run the story on Earth Day as if this were some kind of celebratory event. What resources were expended in getting that boy to the top of Mt. Everest? How many gallons of fuel are expended each year in getting wealthy non-Nepalese to the Himalayas?

How much detritus has the mountain accumulated in the years since this tourist climbing began?

I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer but this Everest climbing is anything but Earth friendly.

Everest climbing is nothing more than ego. Everest climbing is about fulfilling a fantasy of conquest. Everest climbing is putting oneself eye to eye with the gods, classic Aristotelian hubris. I think we know how that always ends.

I would love to visit the creatures of the Galapagos one day, but I would never suggest that the visit would express my love of Nature or would be in any way more eco-friendly than a trip to London or Rome. If anything, it would be less eco-friendly. At least in London I’m not trampling through the habitat of creatures any more endangered than I am.

To tell you what I think, I don’t think we’re going to make it. It’s 2010 and we in America have just now gotten the idea that we shouldn’t expect to receive a fresh, new plastic bag every time we go to the store? In 2010 alternative energy automobiles are not affordable for the majority of Americans? In 2010, the 2nd largest city in the US does not have a public transportation system that is acceptable for the majority of middle class commuters?

In the meantime, until we get those little kinks worked out ice caps are melting; the rain forests are still being plundered; bio-diversity shrinks on a daily basis; the hills in my county burn more often and more fiercely every year while those in other parts of the country face worsening hurricane seasons.

All this while a big chunk of our population continues to deny that climate change is driven by human activity.

To tell you the truth, I don’t really know who’s right in that debate. I could be swayed either way. But I’ll say this, it doesn’t matter. Even if we’re not at fault, there must be something we can do to mitigate the impending disaster. Something with more impact than a compostable chip bag.

The solution? I don't know. Cut out waste where you can and enjoy what we have while we have it?

A Really Quick Update

2010-04-17T09:56:00.000-07:00

It's just before 10 on Saturday morning. I'm sitting here on my back deck. The fountain is running. The squirrels are playing. I'm updating my Facebook and checking out my blogging homies. Everything is just ducky.

Then what the hell? The sound of some kind of gas-powered motor. I run upstairs to look out the back window and it's exactly what I expect to see - some fool two backyards away throwing up dirt and debris with a leaf blower.

I can still hear him as he moves down the street. Those things are banned in the city of Los Angeles. But nobody cares. I care. But I'm not going to chase him down and wrest it from his hands.

I hate those things. Hate 'em, hate 'em, hate 'em.

The Sarah Palin Network

2010-04-11T10:40:00.000-07:00

In case you missed SNL last night (as I did 'cause I was having too much fun with my taxes) here's what we missed:

I love Tina Fey. I love her enough marry her. Stupid H8ers standing in our way!

And yeah, the husband would be cool with it.

Why It's a Good Thing I Don't Have Children

2010-04-03T23:08:00.000-07:00

. . . because I think this home video is the funniest thing ever . . .

I could watch this all night. It just kills me.

The funniest part is that the mom follows them with the camera even though the kids are freaked out of their gourds as if Charles Manson had come to the window.

And the dad in the bunny suit? What's up with him? He's standing at the window just watching the chaos unfold.

Years of therapy? Priceless.

Try to have a happy Easter.

Being Good for Good Friday

2010-04-02T17:07:00.000-07:00

Good Friday is a day of penance and fasting. We abstain from eating meat. It is a solemn day for observant Catholics.

I’ve abstained from eating meat for each day of the past 22 years. I haven’t been observant for more than 30 years. Yet, I like the idea of a day set aside for contemplation. I no longer spend any time thinking about the meaning of a resurrection but I do like the idea of contemplating where I’ve erred.

Not that I’ve spent the whole day in contemplation. Having the day off, I did spend some time picking up around the house and sorting some receipts. And tonight I’ll be seeing a play. But still, I managed to get in some time for some guilt and recounting of my sins.

Nothing like a good old-fashioned Mea Culpa.

They’re always the same sins. My sins are usually sins of omission. They usually take the form of a failure of compassion or empathy or a failure to show respect. Sometimes they are one in the same, my failure to empathize combined with a failure of respect has manifested in what I was recently told by a friend to be my most salient characteristic.

“Did you know that when we think of you, the phrase that most often comes to mind is ‘I don’t understand how anyone could like/dislike (insert anything number of items here).” Apparently I am consistently intolerant of the views/opinions of others. Fancy that.

My intolerance can be directed at anything. “I don’t understand why anyone drinks beer.” “I don’t understand why anyone would vote Republican.” “I don’t understand why anyone would buy a home in a new housing tract.” “I don’t understand why anyone would have that many children.” “I don’t understand why anyone would live in that part of the state.”

You get the idea. I have strong opinions. That part is no secret. What surprises me is that it seems that I express myself almost exclusively in this way. It seems that I am not known for welcoming the ideas, thoughts or opinions of others. Yes, I knew that. What I hadn’t realized is that I so vociferously object to choices that differ from mine.

Lie. I did realize that. What I didn’t realize is that others had so taken notice.

So, to recap, failure to empathize and failure to respect are my downfalls. As in this post.

I wrote about those whose lifestyle choices differ from mine and an anonymous commenter called me on it. I do think that reader misinterpreted my tone. Perhaps wherever she is from, people write with irony-free sincerity. Not here. Well, what can I do? I have a case of congenital snarkiness. It runs in the family and I am not the family’s worst practitioner. You know who you are.

I just know someone is going to call me out on the beer thing. I’ll just say that at a young age I developed opinions about beer. I can’t let go of them now.

So . . . back to my sins. On the radio today I heard a host discussing with guests a new theatre project in the softest, most supportive and sweet natured of tones. This person really wanted to encourage and support the artists he was interviewing.

I didn’t buy a word of it. It sounded like a lot of New Age talk, where everything is supposed to be positive and upbeat. But I’d heard a song from the production that was the subject of the discussion and honestly, it was just dreck. And maybe somebody should have told them it was just dreck before they started selling tickets to the thing.

I think I can be supportive when something is worthy of my support. But I cannot speak that New Age Speak. I cannot be positive about everything. Considering my background, I’m lucky I can be positive about anything.

And no, I don’t understand how or why anybody would live in one of those beige cookie-cutter tract homes and I don’t understand why anybody with limited financial resources would have so many (or any) children and I don’t understand why anybody who truly cares about this country would vote for a party that seems determined to undermine our basic Constitutional rights and to consistently support acts of aggression in foreign lands.

Ah. Empathy. Respect. Tolerance. The challenges for the year ahead.

Wishing you a peaceful Easter.

We Shoot Game Shows, Don't We?

2010-03-25T23:41:00.000-07:00

Last week I was in a meeting in which the ratings for the new game show, Minute to Win It was given a lot of attention. We all want to know how it's doing.

You must have seen the TV ads for it. No? Here then:

There is something creepy about this show. Maybe it's the futuristic set that reminds me of Logan's Run or Rollerball. Maybe it's the dark anti-lighting and the beams of light that move through the set like ray guns.

Maybe it's the desperation built up by the voiceover and cliched Sci Fi graphics combined with the extremely limited increment of time in which a life could be changed forever. Or not.

People love a contest and these people are playing for $1 million. That's a lot of money to most people. Maybe even to millionaires it's a lot of money. It's enough to change a life.

We watch them scramble for it for the sake of our entertainment.

We like to say we live in a meritocracy; a place where the skilled are rewarded for their excellence. But as in much of life, in this show, the possibility of success is stacked against the contestants.

Shh . . . don't tell anyone but during the recitation of the ratings for Minute to Win It, all I could think of was They Shoot Horses, Don't They? a film about a group of desperate people exploited for the amusement of onlookers in a dance marathon.

Back during the Great Depression, they had dance marathons. For the promise of a cash prize, people danced until they dropped. Sometimes they even dropped dead.

While I was thinking of the movie and the dance marathons, it occurred to me that game shows and reality television may one day be the only path to earning money remaining in America. Farm land has been eaten by housing tracts that now sit foreclosed upon. Manufacturing is gone. Even customer service is out sourced. What have we left but our competitive spirit and our couch potato love of seeing others struggle and compete?

Are we a bread and circus nation, except without the part about the bread? All circus; no bread.

I used to like game shows. But now the stakes are so high and the lighting so ominous and in an age of so much desperation, it seems cruel to offer up so much with so little chance at winning. Did the $64,000 Question seem this cruel?

Me, I'll just keep playing Super Lotto as my path to riches plan of choice.

The L.A. Marathon Passes Us By

2010-03-21T09:58:00.000-07:00

Even as I type this, the LA Marathon is happening right around the corner. Every year we worry about the road closures and detours. Every year we realize later that the marathon is pretty much done before we even get out of bed.

This year, we were up early enough to actually see some of the runners. Coffee and camera in hand, we strolled around the corner to catch the action.

The runners come in all shapes and sizes.

For example, here's an ersatz Minnie -

Good luck, runners! See you next year! (maybe)

Cultivating the Age of Narcissism

2010-03-19T13:15:00.000-07:00

It all started with the pre-natal ultrasound. I don't know about you, but I'm not thrilled to be shown an expectant mom's ultrasound. How am I supposed to react to these things?

"Wow, he's got your eyes!"

I've never seen an ultrasound that looked any different than any other ultrasound. For all we know, the whole thing's a scam. Those people who get all worked up over an allegedly fictitious moon landing could focus a little energy on the pre-natal ultrasound industry.

But the moms love to show 'em off. In my day, you had to wait until you were at least born before your mom could start boring others with your image.

Then there's the license plate holder - - as in "Happiness Is . . . . Being Taylor's Mom."

Really? Look, I know she's proud of Taylor and all, but is that really the sum total of happiness for her - being an extension of someone else? I thought we were past that.

And, do you really think I'm impressed by your bumper sticker? I'm truly happy for you that your child reads at grade level at Suchnsuch Middle School or that your child has perfect attendance or whatever it is that you're bragging about. But these stickers have become so ubiquitous that they're a bit like Special Olympics awards, aren't they? You get rewarded for just showing up. There's bound to be a bumper sticker for whatever it is your kid doesn't suck at.

Sorry. That just came out.

Don't even get me started on Lifecasting

But now, just when it didn't seem possible to reference these kids any more than we do, the ad industry has created a new breeding ground for monsters of conceit -

(and in today's irony alert - yeah, I believe every random thought I have to be so important that I must post it on the internet for the whole world to read. Funny that.)

On This St. Patrick's Day . . .

2010-03-17T14:02:00.000-07:00

. . . . let's remember that hunger is a man made problem.

For more about Ireland's Great Famine - see here: http://www.nde.state.ne.us/ss/irish/irish_pf.html

or you can start with Sinead -

OK, I want to talk about Ireland

Specifically I want to talk about the "famine"

About the fact that there never really was one

There was no "famine"

See Irish people were only allowed to eat potatoes

All of the other food

Meat fish vegetables

Were shipped out of the country under armed guard

To England while the Irish people starved

And then on the middle of all this

They gave us money not to teach our children Irish

And so we lost our history

And this is what I think is still hurting me

See we're like a child that's been battered

Has to drive itself out of it's head because it's frightened

Still feels all the painful feelings

But they lose contact with the memory

And this leads to massive self-destruction

alcoholism, drug adiction

All desperate attempts at running

And in it's worst form

Becomes actual killing

And if there ever is gonna be healing

There has to be remembering

And then grieving

So that there then can be forgiving

There has to be knowledge and understanding

All the lonely people

where do they all come from

An American army regulation Says you mustn't kill more than 10% of a nation

'Cos to do so causes permanent "psychological damage"

It's not permanent but they didn't know that

Anyway during the supposed "famine"

We lost a lot more than 10% of our nation

Through deaths on land or on ships of emigration

But what finally broke us was not starvation

but it's use in the controlling of our education

Schools go on about "Black 47"

On and on about "The terrible famine"

But what they don't say is in truth

There really never was one

(Excuse me)

All the lonely people

(I'm sorry, excuse me)

Where do they all come from

(that I can tell you in one word)

All the lonely people

where do they all belong

So let's take a look shall we

The highest statistics of child abuse in the EEC

And we say we're a Christian country

But we've lost contact with our history

See we used to worship God as a mother

We're sufferin from post traumatic stress disorder

Look at all our old men in the pubs

Look at all our young people on drugs

We used to worship God as a mother

Now look at what we're doing to each other

We've even made killers of ourselves

The most child-like trusting people in the Universe

And this is what's wrong with us

Our history books the parent figures lied to us

I see the Irish

As a race like a child

That got itself basned in the face

And if there ever is gonna be healing

There has to be remembering

And then grieving

So that there then can be forgiving

There has to be knowledge and understanding

All the lonely people

Where do they all come from

All the lonely people

Where do they all come from

In the Wee Hours of the Morning, Something Shifted

2010-03-16T09:01:00.000-07:00

L.A. earthquake rattles region awake but no major damage is reported [Updated]

Posted using ShareThis

Last night, K sat up suddenly, sometime in the wee hours.

Me: wha?

K: We just had an earthquake.

Me: (expletive deleted)

K: 4:10

Me: Are you sure? (but I'm thinking "strike-slip fault?")

K: yes

Me: (realizing that 4:10 meant the time, not an estimation of magnitude) Call it.

K: What?

Me: Call it. Then we'll see how close you came.

K: 3.7

Me: That's not so bad. (I'm thinking "should I get dressed? get ready to flee?" But I didn't think it for long.)

We go back to sleep.

According to the article, it was 4.4. Still, not so bad.

Still, I don't like it.

A Pictorial History of Economic Theory, from A to B

2010-03-14T19:00:00.000-07:00

Remember when I said that Echo Park had been dubbed Red Hill because of the Socialists and other progressives who gathered here in the '30s? That's all ancient history now. But even as late as 2002 when K and I first moved here, there was a great lefty bookstore down the street.

The building bore this sign -

I loved the non-mainstream selection of reading material and I planned that, when the house was done and I had time to read again, I would become a frequent patron of the store.

The house and I took too long. Quite a while ago, the old Labor sign was replaced with this one -

Yep, that says it all. Forget the worker. Forget the value of labor. Just shop.

(and yes, I do get the irony here.)

Local News

2010-03-12T14:21:00.000-08:00

Falling a little behind on local events and happenings? You can catch up here -

(warning: language in this video is not safe for work, your mom or my mom, but I liked it)

Isn't the real news exactly like this? You know it's true.

No wonder we can barely think any more.

Shopping for Furniture?

2010-02-28T12:52:00.000-08:00

You might try here (or not):

It seems to me if they can't synch their sound, they shouldn't be licensed to sell furniture.

Colonialism in the Modern Age (or The Age of the Moderns)

2010-02-26T00:07:00.000-08:00

First, giving credit where credit is due, I swiped the image below from the blog, LA Curbed

I don't know where this was found - a laundromat or something.

There is so much friction in Echo Park between the old timers and recent transplants ( also known as the gentrifiers and those sometimes known as Hipsters). So, as a relatively recent transplant, how do I stack up against this evaluation of Hipsterism?

1. Hipsters are usually white - in this case, "white" means of non-Hispanic European descent. In my case, well . . . it's complicated.

2. Hipsters are dirty but have homes with showers - The husband thinks I'm a germaphobe, so there.

3. Hipsters wear stupid hats - OK, I confess, the picture below is of me . . . but it was my birthday. Does that let me off the hook?

4. Hipsters wear tight pants- I've put on some weight. Cut me some slack on the slacks thing.

5. Hipsters complain about parking when its there fault there's no more parking - yes, I do complain about parking. But I complain about everything. One of my favorite things to complain about is people who can't grasp the concept of the contraction for it is and who fail to grasp the difference between there and their. So there.

Incidentally, according to this post from the blog, Stuff White People Like, I've just answered the question posed in #1.

6. Hipsters wear t-shirts with ironic slogans - whenever I have anything ironic to say, I like to say it myself, thank you.

I will not continue on to the next point because my mother reads this blog. But, I will say that I did in fact read the list and laugh - not because I am a Hipster but because the writer is so ridiculously self-important in his little rant.

I didn't come to Echo Park to displace low-income residents but I admit that may have been the unintended consequence of our relocation. At one time this small house was divided into a duplex and rented to people who couldn't afford more spacious accommodations. I have no idea who the renters living in this house might have been. I suspect they were immigrants, meaning they probably had few resources and may have been unaware of their rights.

Whoever they were, I know they were living among a lot of building code violations. The upstairs room had a vertical window installed into a horizontal space. Outside the window were security bars with an escape crank that didn't work. This means that in the event of a fire, even if you could remove the bars you probably wouldn't have been able to easily escape through the opening of the improperly installed window.

I know that the fireplace was a carbon monoxide hazard even though I was told by the PO (who was by then living here instead of renting it) that they often used the fireplace to heat the home.

I know there was a gas heater in the downstairs bedroom. I also know that for us, the gas company refused to turn on the gas for that heater because apparently, one is not supposed to have a gas heater in a bedroom.

I know that when we moved in, the house had later electrical wiring tapping into the original knob and tube wiring with open splices. Big no-no.

I don't know where the low-income people that rented the apartments in my house are living now, but I hope it's in safer conditions.

Yes, the neighborhood has gentrified over the past seven years that we've been here. There's now a wine bar down the street and a doggy daycare around the corner. Formerly there were more botanicas selling herbs and religious items for a variety of magical uses. Not to be patronizing but I'm not sure poor people are better off spending their money on promises of magic.

The ranter/writer is correct that this country was stolen by Euro-invaders but he makes the common error that invasion is unique to Europeans. The Toltec people were conquered by somebody but it wasn't Europeans. Genghis Khan wasn't European. And if anybody was forced out of Echo Park, I don't think it was the family who sold us this house and moved on to a fresh new house in the suburbs where they are now living their own American dream. They probably think of us and think suckers.

The ranter/writer lacks historical perspective. He's only thinking of the Echo Park he grew up in in the '80s and '90s. He is nostalgic for the Echo Park of legendary gangs, rampant tagging and nightly shootings. It must have been a paradise.

What he doesn't remember is that the socialists and progressives who gave Echo Park the name Red Hill were likely not Spanish speakers. He doesn't remember that the people who founded the first movie studios in Los Angeles built those studios in Echo Park and those people were probably not Spanish speakers. He must be delusional if he thinks the grand Victorians of the Carroll District were built for people of MesoAmerican descent.

He forgets. He forgets that the only reason this area was ever affordable for low-income residents is that the middle class moved on, leaving behind the old, turn of the century houses they didn't want. They left behind the fire traps, the lead paint, the cracked foundations and structures with shaky brick to be inhabited by poor people.

He forgets that, for many people, the only way to to accumulate wealth is (or was) through home ownership. Because the family who sold us our home saw a pair of suckers coming, they were able to move into an area that was (for them) more desirable. Without the promise of gentrification it is highly unlikely that they would have been able to sell their home for a price that would have allowed them to buy into their coveted new construction. Without the promise of gentrification, there would be no child-free entertainment industry professionals all up and down these streets, paying the property taxes to fund the fresh new elementary school at the end of my block that will benefit the families that have been longtime residents. Without the promise of gentrification, these century old homes would continue to age and to decline and the people renting them out to poor people would continue to strip out the original fixtures as necessary and replace them with the cheapest possible replacements.

Hey, ranter, we're not all hipsters; we're not all invaders and we are not the only ones who benefit from the changing landscape.

While we should always advocate on behalf of the less privileged, we should make sure our arguments are truly on their behalf and not self-involved rants against incursions into our own tiny little comfort zones.

So there. That's my rant for the day.

I Don't Mean to Creep You Out, But . . .

2010-02-25T14:04:00.000-08:00

. . . this is a good reason to check between your sheets each night.

Last week I woke up with a nasty three-pronged bite from something or other. I hope it wasn't her. Eww!

I Don't Mean to Shock You But . . .

2010-02-15T10:31:00.000-08:00

. . . did you know that the average age of a homeless person in the US is often cited as . . . 9?

Can that be right? The statistic has been disputed but the National Alliance to End Homelessness does estimate that about 5 to 7.7 percent of youth experience homelessness each year.

This is one child's story.

You can see all 5 parts of the series here.

You may not see them. You may see the panhandlers but you don't see the children. But just because we don't see them, it doesn't mean that they're not there. Where do they go?

Last week, the city of Los Angeles decided to eliminate 1,000 city jobs. Yeah, I know the city is broke. But I don't see how adding 1,000 unemployed people to the population is going to help anyone. That's 1,000 more people in danger of losing their home. That's 1,000 more people at risk of losing their health insurance. That could potentially be 1,000 more families with 1,000s more children at risk of falling in with gangs, selling drugs, dropping out of school and more, all so that the city can save the costs of 1,000 workers in the short-term.

When so many are struggling, shouldn't government create jobs, not eliminate them?

Think, Mr. Mayor. Think! Think of the long-term.

The homeless problem isn't about cleaning up a public nuisance. This isn't about making downtown safer or more business friendly. This is a national security issue. One day, and probably one day soon, extremist terrorist organizations won't have to recruit from Somalia or Yemen to plan attacks on the U.S. The children who are now growing up on our streets are ripe for recruitment. They are ready and willing to fall under the spell of some charismatic leader. These children have no investment in our society. I've written in the past, here and here and here, about class division and disenfranchisement and the elements of the population who have no investment in the community. One day, it won't be about tagging, or litter or class struggles between hipsters and bobos. One day, it will be about real destruction.

All that blather from the last administration about fighting them there so we don't have to fight them here - why do I have to be the one to say this? They are here and they are here now. They're just not trained yet.

On this President's Day weekend, if I had the attention of the President, I would say, "Can we please take the billions of dollars that we are sinking into failing wars and invest in these kids now?"

We need BOTH jobs and health care reform to prevent more families from falling into the state of homelessness. We need an aggressive effort to lift up the families that are already there.

Solid statistic or not - remember that number. 9. If it's not true now don't let it be true, ever.

I Don't Mean to Bum You Out, But . . .

2010-02-12T20:16:00.000-08:00

. . . this long President's Day weekend, as you work around your home, consider the millions of Americans who have no home . . .

Beth's Story from TakePart on Vimeo.

To see and hear them tell their stories, visit http://vimeo.com/invisiblepeople/videos.

Billy? Is That You?

2010-02-07T00:40:00.000-08:00

I never got around to showing you the transformation of the library. I only started writing this in July. Ready to see some pictures? -

And to answer the question in the title, yep, that's him. That is indeed the ubiquitous Billy from Ikea:

except, you know, with the glass front doors and moulding. But more about the moulding later.

I wish I had pictures of this room from before The Destruction. But, there was really nothing to photograph. Before we moved in it was just another room with white painted paneling, Listerine green carpet, broken louvered windows with security bars on the outside and an air conditioning unit stuck into the louvered windows with a piece of plywood holding in the a/c's lower half.

Yeah, it was something to look at.

Then, we took it apart. The door to the living room used to be way over to the side

With the old window gone, we had a view to the great outdoors -

we also created a view to the living room -

Fast forward to putting in the new window -

And the light shelf. Remember the light shelf?
Here's a start -

After installing rope lights (not florescents as had been threatened) K put up moulding -

Finally, to give Billy that built-in look, K had to build him up with a little moulding at the base -

(before)

(after)

Now, K had to cannibalize a third unlucky Billy just to get the shelf that would straddle the window space. But first he had to create a way to hang the shelf, as it would have no natural support (the width of the window was greater than the width of Billy)

At last! we were ready to unpack our precious books that had been in storage for 6 1/2 years:

(I know, the timeline is not successive here. For some reason, the books had to be unpacked before the moulding was complete. I don't remember why.)

And here we are, theatre books on the left -

(remember the desk?)

All non-theater related books on the right -

(note the painting, painted by an actual movie star. I'll tell you about that one day.)

The weirdly fortuitous thing is that that Billy's width exactly matched the wall space available on both sides of the window.

On the other side of the room, another fine Ikea product, Benno, holds our CDs and is dwarfed by the giant vintage armoire K bought at a thrift store -

We bought this old wicker trunk at Montgomery Wards, probably in 1985. We've had it ever since and now it gets to be a window seat -

That's a patio seat cushion. I don't think I love it but it'll do for now.

She seems to like it -

(update: I should have included in the original post that we don't have the luxury of having a room solely devoted to books. This was house's original and only bedroom and it now holds the only closet - the door is between the CDs and the armoire. So really, in addition to storing books, it also serves as a dressing room and with the desk, an alternative office space, alternative to the office space upstairs.)

Why Why? don't Wii

2010-01-22T13:37:00.000-08:00

Enough said.

Turns Out, We Live in a Mansion

2010-01-19T01:17:00.000-08:00

At 1100 square feet, I thought our house was small. I never realized it's practically palatial. Everything is relative.

Check out this video to find out about this house that measures 84 square feet:

Imagine the effect on the planet if we could all live like this. (I couldn't do it, but I think you should.)

Dee Williams is my new hero.

The Gravity of Gravity or A Really Messy Kitchen

2010-01-15T22:15:00.000-08:00

Last summer I wrote about my recent experience in Eureka, CA. A week ago, the area experienced a 6.5 earthquake. Our friends there wrote to say that while there was a lot of broken glass to clean up, they were all ok.

Of course, that wasn't the only earthquake in the news.

It all forced me to start thinking again about putting latches on our kitchen cabinets. After the Northridge quake in '94, we had a lot of glass to clean up and so we put latches on at that time. Personally, I hated them. They were a pain. Every time you wanted to open a cabinet you have to unlock the childproof latch. I was constantly grabbing a handle and thoughtlessly pulling a cabinet door open, only to be quickly stopped by the stupid latch.

But now I have a lot more glass to worry about. This is but one cabinet of two devoted to glass ware -

We plan a lot of entertaining in our future. No more plastic cups for us.

Anyway, with the way this particular type of cabinet is constructed, I don't know if those childproof latches are feasible. Maybe just a little magnet thingy will be enough.

I don't want to seem ridiculous writing about my potential floor full of broken glass when there are millions who are truly suffering right now after a horrific quake. Still, I do think about all that glass tumbling out one day. I think about possibly running through it in bare feet. I think about the cat, who will definitely be running in bare feet.

Speaking of tumbling out, when you have a spare 11 minutes, have a look at this video from an art installation in Dusseldorf -

rotating kitchen from Zeger Reyers on Vimeo.

To friend and loyal reader, GR, the exhibit is at the Kunsthalle until February 28th. Maybe you'd like to see it. Ich wundere mich, was Sie denken.

And thanks to other friend and loyal reader, TMA, for the video.

Epiphany

2010-01-06T13:18:00.000-08:00

If I'd traveled for 12 days by camel to visit you (bearing gifts) I'd expect you to leave the lights on for me.

It’s tempting to take down the holiday decorations right after New Year’s Day. Some like to begin dismantling on the 26th. I guess if you were organized enough to have gotten your lights up over the Thanksgiving weekend, you’re probably pretty sick of them by now.

Still, I believe the rule is, or should be, that the lights stay up and on through January 6th.

Last year I ranted about those who leave up the holiday decorations too long. This year I’m cranky about those who take them down too soon (as if I don’t have enough to be cranky about). As much as anyone, I’m tired of the shedding pine needles. The cards have ceased to flow in; the gifts have been unwrapped; the corks have been popped and now I’d like to get back to enjoying my home in its normal state.

Even the snake plant is weary of bearing her burdens.

For once, I want to put things away. But a civilized society must have rules. Once of those is that the trimmings stay up through Epiphany.

Do not dis’ the Magi. They will not want to be greeted by darkness.

If you're one of those who insist that the U.S. is a Christian nation, you had better leave your lights up until January 6th or admit your are living a lie.

Thank you illuminated inflatable Snowman for lighting the way for Melchior, Balthazar and Caspar on behalf of the good citizens of Kent Street. Just make sure to pack yourself away sometime tomorrow, the 7th.

Preparing for a New Decade

2010-01-01T12:50:00.000-08:00

The china was out and ready to receive dessert -

The flutes stood ready for their moment -

The mistletoe only awaited someone to stand underneath -

We enjoyed a lovely New Year's Eve in the company of good friends.

We hope you did the same.

Have a happy and healthy 2010 and good luck with all your resolutions!

Good House, Bad Kitty

2009-12-28T19:38:00.000-08:00

I’m still alive. Barely. I’ve absent from this blog and from blog reading and commenting for so long that one might think the laws of gravity had failed and I’d been flung from the face of the planet.

Not to fear. I’ve just been preoccupied. K and I hosted a birthday party for a friend’s 50th on December 19th. We entertained about 50 guests with peppermint martinis, cranberry margaritas and a slideshow starring the birthday boy. At just under 1100 square feet, we were really pleased with the layout of the house. Throughout the remodel we focused on maximizing the space for entertaining, with attention to traffic flow and to creating conversation areas. Except for the bathrooms and the guestroom upstairs, each room has two doors, encouraging guests to move freely through the house and limiting congestion. Even though the house is small, I think the layout really kept guests from feeling trapped or crowded in.

Planning the party was fun but nothing would come together if I even glimpsed at my blog or other blogs in the days leading up to the big event. Internet gets a grip on me.

Speaking of getting a grip on me, there was one thing that happened the week before the big party. The quick story is that a neighborhood cat thought she would have a peek into one our windows. The Kitten became enraged and I thought she was going to claw the wooden grill right off the newish window. She’s already done plenty of damage to the wood on the bedroom window. I should have given up after my first two attempts to distract our little demon. The third time she meant business. Before I knew it, I had 9 pounds of angry calico locked on my right forearm.

When I returned from the emergency room, she ran out to greet me with big eyes and meows. She never runs to greet me. I really do believe she came out to apologize. I don’t think she knows that her damage required stitches and a sling keeping my arm still while the wounds healed. I don’t think she knew that I had a lot of work to do for the party that was 6 days away and that her vicious attack would put me behind schedule. I don’t think she knew that even if I could find time to blog, I wasn’t inclined to do it with one hand. And in spite of our decorations, I don't think she even knew that Christmas was looming with all that entails.

I do think she knew that she had bitten (and clawed) the hand that feeds her – and sometimes gives her treats.

Our Kitten is named for a character in A Midsummer Night’s Dream; the character, Hermia, of whom it is said “though she be but little, she is fierce.”

Never was a kitten more aptly named.

So if I haven’t commented on your blog lately or if your Christmas card still hasn’t arrived, now you know why.

The Box

2009-11-22T10:42:00.000-08:00

I’ve been seeing trailers for the movie The Box. The plot is that a couple is offered $1 million if they push the button on a box. The catch is someone on the planet will die.

So, the question is, would you be willing to let someone die if it means you’d pocket one million dollars?

In a way, it's a laughable proposition. One million dollars isn't even that much anymore. It's a lot. It's enough to pay off my house and our Home Equity Loan and still replace the exterior siding. We would still have enough left over to throw some fresh sod on the front lawn. But it's not the unimaginable sum it once was (as Dr. Evil discovered in the first Austin Powers movie.)

I wouldn't do it for 1 million or 20 million. Not because I'm such a decent human being. More because I don't want to be a really indecent human being.

Although, there are a few people that I would like to see off the planet anyway. So, if I could Nero a thumbs down to those specific people while pocketing $1 million for my suggestion, why not?

But really, other than a common criminal, what kind of a person would take a life for financial gain?

****************

Hey, remember Donald Rumsfeld? It seems this was widespread knowledge but I have only recently learned that he was a former chairman of the company that makes Tamiflu. He left that position to become Secretary of Defense but retained several million dollars worth of stock in the company.

The US Government stocked up on Tamiflu to combat the H1N1 virus but back in 2005 it was stocking up on Tamiflu to combat the Avian flu virus. Crazy coincidence, what with Rummy being part of that administration and all. And remember back in late 2001 when we were ripe to be worked up into a frenzy of fear? We were fearful of envelopes in the mail and salad bars and we hoarded rolls of plastic and duct tape . . . just in case. The threat of biological weapons was just entering the collective consciousness of The Homeland and who knew what man-made plague could be inflicted by the Evil-Doers?

So you have to ask yourself, if there are those willing to concoct nasty viruses for political/religious statements, why not for profit?

I am in no way saying that Rummy had anything to do with the release of a lab-created virus into the general population. I’m just saying that there was a profit to be made and where there’s a profit to be made, anything is possible.

Just saying.

*******************

And while we’re on the topic of Crazy Coincidences, how did you participate in this year’s Breast Cancer Awareness Month? Is there really a single person out there who would not be aware of breast cancer were it not for its special corporate sponsored month? Were you also aware that the company that is the principle sponsor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month is also responsible for tamoxifen, one of the most commonly used drugs in the treatment of breast cancers? Maybe you don’t see a conflict there. Maybe there’s a conflict in this (from The Sierra Club website)- The primary sponsor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, AstraZeneca (formerly known as Zeneca), is a British-based multinational giant that manufactures the cancer drug tamoxifen as well as fungicides and herbicides, including the carcinogen acetochlor. Its Perry, Ohio, chemical plant is the third-largest source of potential cancer-causing pollution in the United States, releasing 53,000 pounds of recognized carcinogens into the air in 1996.

Maybe there’s a conflict in that information disseminated during Breast Cancer Awareness month never points a finger at environmental carcinogens. It’s all about lifestyle and early testing. It’s all laid at the feet of the patients, never at industrial polluters.

In addition, apparently the Susan G. Komen Foundation (sponsor of The Race for the Cure) also owns stock in AstraZeneca as well as in General Electric, another big time polluter and "one of the largest makers of mammogram machines in the world." For more interesting details on The Komen Foundation, including the foundation’s support of tamoxifen in spite of evidence that its use is implicated in uterine cancers, see here.

*******************

Suddenly, pushing one button and causing the death of a single person in exchange for financial gain seems like such a minor thing compared to the causing the deaths of thousands or millions for the sake of financial gain.

*******************

And to think, some people's biggest fear about healthcare is the possibility of socialized medicine.

CoolWall

2009-11-15T23:41:00.000-08:00

I recently received an email from Costco hawking a product called “COOLWALL.” It’s an exterior paint that the manufacturer promises will keep your home cooler and never requires reapplication.

As removing the aluminum siding will be our big project for next year, this could be an interesting product. According to the web site, their dealers must do the application. OK, sounds expensive, but I like the idea that it will never have to be done again. If we go with this product, I just hope we’re happy with the color we choose.

I’m thinking of either Budding Bough or Essex Green -

Here’s their main selling point: “COOLWALL® is a patented, non-toxic, heat-reflective exterior coating that reflects the sun’s heat back into the atmosphere. This unique product reduces the outside wall temperature of your home up to 40ºF, helping your home stay cooler without overloading the air conditioning on even the hottest summer days.”

Interesting. As we’ve elected to forgo air conditioning, this could make a big difference in the months of July, August and September. I’m not sure about that part that claims “heat-reflective exterior coating that reflects the sun’s heat back into the atmosphere.” Is that what the planet needs, to have all this heat bounced back into the atmosphere? Yikes. Is that balanced out by the fact that I’m not eating up energy running an A/C unit? But, isn’t all that heat going back into the atmosphere anyway? Just because my house warms up, that doesn’t mean the planet is staying any cooler, does it? ‘Cause, my house is on the planet, so my house absorbing heat doesn’t take any off the planet, right? Ugh. My head hurts now. Al Gore, call me. I can’t work out this climate math on my own.

If you’ve ever heard of this product or known anyone who has tried it, let me know. I like the idea of only painting my house once but I don’t want to be the 2010 equivalent of those all those suckers that bought aluminum siding.

Twenty Years Later

2009-11-09T13:45:00.000-08:00

Today the world celebrates the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall. Twenty years ago, K and I were living in Germany. We didn’t live in Berlin. We lived almost 300 miles from where the action was happening that day. As I recall, that was about a five-hour train ride. I don’t think we had a television at that time but we listened to the news on radio. We knew we were missing an historic event. It seemed like a shame to miss it. We wanted to be there. Not for any good reason other than just to be there - to later say we were there. We thought about getting on the overnight train.

We didn’t get on the train. We heard the trains that night were packed. We’d heard there were no seats. We’d have to stand through the whole 5-hour trip. We’d have no place to stay once we arrived. We’d likely have to sleep in the train stations or on the sidewalks as we heard so many others were doing. This would all be for the thrill of “being there.”

That night, at about 4 a.m. for us, a friend called from California to ask if we were seeing any of the action. He wasn’t any more clear about our location than our time zone. “No,” we answered. “We’re not even close to it.”

Not boarding the overcrowded trains was a practical decision. Staying home that night was the right thing to do. I hate crowded trains and I knew there was no way I was going to sleep on a sidewalk. Even in my youth I was fussy and a little germaphobic.

We let it go and 8 months later traveled to Berlin for a concert at the site of the downed wall. We collected our own little chunk of it from the rubble that still remained.

While our choice made sense at the time, I’ve always felt a little regretful about that decision - the practical decision – for choosing physical comfort over witnessing history.

Twenty years later, it’s easy to regret not having been there.

In a lifetime, our regrets are probably more often about the choices we didn’t make or the things we didn’t do than about the things we did do. I don’t know if anyone regrets having attended Woodstock. We all know what a muddy, uncomfortable mess that was. But you never hear anyone say, “I wish I’d stayed home.”

It would have been cool to be there. But we weren’t there.

*********************************************

What does this have to do with my house blog? Maybe nothing. Or maybe it’s about those who choose the physical comforts of a large house located in an area of cultural deprivation. Or maybe it’s about those who don’t opt for the turnkey condo, choosing instead the more adventurous path of fixing up an old but interesting home, located in an interesting but perhaps dicey neighborhood.

I often wonder what fun and creative things K and I would have done over the past seven years had we stayed in our apartment.

But hey, twenty years from now, we won’t wonder if we could have made something livable of that fixer upper we passed on.

Porta Potties

2009-11-08T19:53:00.000-08:00

I kept seeing this truck full of toilets parked down the street and around the corner and here and there around the neighborhood.

I finally had a chance to take a picture -

It wasn't until I was taking the picture that I saw that the truck once belonged to the City of San Diego -

No big deal.

Bigger deal is that the truck was missing a license plate in front -

and back -

There's a story here. I just wish I knew what it was.

Why I Live in Los Angeles

2009-11-06T14:10:00.001-08:00

I don't drive in snow. I've never driven in snow. I never will drive in snow. If I ever HAD to drive in snow, I wouldn't. I would just stay in and order Pay per View or something.

I know my limits, especially when it comes to operating machinery and Newton's Laws of Motion.

This kind of stuff is making me stay put:

Loook Ouut!!!

How I Roll

2009-11-03T21:07:00.000-08:00

Change is good. That's why I'm changing up my blog roll a bit. I've added a few new blogs that I've been following, replacing a few others. I find it easier to follow blogs through my own blog roll than via the Google Reader, so the ones I've added are ones I especially want to keep an eye on.

If you notice your own blog gone and want back in, let me know and I'll put it back. If I've never featured your blog but you want a space on my list, let me know that too.

If you're not already familiar with them, I encourage you to visit the new house blogs I've added. At Fun and VJs, Brismod is having fun with her Australian Sow's Ear to Silk Purse transformation. Goddess of 4 is making her magic in my husband's birth state and they're fixin' it up in Toronto at 416 Fixer Upper. When you're tired of watching the progress at other people's houses, check out the art and poetry being conjured up by The Conjurer.

I hope you enjoy them.

Red House Furniture - Not Just for Red People in Red Houses on Red Hills

2009-10-28T19:05:00.000-07:00

The commercial for Cullman Liquidation went over so well, The House on Red Hill would like to bring you this commercial for Red House Furniture:

What a colorful country we live in.

They're Mobile Homes, not Mansions

2009-10-27T19:09:00.000-07:00

I'm not looking for a mobile home, but if I were, that's what he's got.

He owns Cullman Liquidation:

Git y'self a home. Or don't. He don't care.

It Happened to Someone I Know!

2009-10-18T09:34:00.000-07:00

Just this past week, a co-worker had to take his cat for emergency care after she got into an Asiatic lily. The kitty spent a night in the hospital, receiving a treatment of IV fluids. Fortunately, she will be fine and is now back home with her very relieved human parents.

A commentor, Dr. Farmer, provided a link to the ASPCA web site (http://www.aspca.org/pet-care/poison-control/17-common-poisonous-plants.html) that includes this helpful YouTube video for an informative visual lesson on toxic plant identification:

Thanks, Dr. Farmer!

While the video is helpful, I don't think it is a thorough discussion so I would add that just because a plant was not included in the video presentation does not mean that is 100% safe for pets.

While we're on the subject, K and I have been planning to get health insurance for the Kitten. We just haven't gotten around to it yet but the ASPCA offers what seems to be a reasonable health plan:
http://www.aspcapetinsurance.com/pet-insurance-default.aspx

I guess we'll do it this week.