Woof

You can dress your dog up in all the holiday finery he'll allow, but you can't force him to feel the holiday spirit until he's good and ready.

Turn and face the strain...

Hello,

I'm so sorry (I know I wasn't going to say that, but I really am) for the sporadic nature of my musings this fall ... there's been so much going on that I haven't really known where to begin chronicling it. I've been inspired at inconvenient times and thought through what I wanted to write, and by the time I was in front of my laptop, more things had happened and my original thoughts were rendered obsolete - incongruous - uninspiring and blah blah blah insert one from my arsenal of excuses here ...

'Tis the season to be scatterbrained.

So, 2008 ... oy vey. So much change, so many endings and beginnings, it's been mind-boggling, but I must say, I think I've come out stronger and smarter for it all.

I have accomplished a lot this year, much of it intangible. I have made some mistakes, large and small, and I have learned from them. It's said that the definition of insanity is repeating the same behavior and expecting different results. I'm not sure that's insanity ... I have a whole lot of everything to say on that topic ... but I get the message. And that is what separates the people with whom I connect ... truly, deeply, connect in a wavelength - kindred spirit - fleeting-or-permanent soulmate kind of way ... from those with whom I don't.

I've severed ties (sans premeditation) with two people who had been vital parts of my life for several years. And as painful and disappointing as the processes have been -- you all know how infrequently I sever ties -- they've also been necessary acts of self-preservation. When the scales tip in favor of the toxicity of a relationship, and stay there, it is time to move on. And for someone like me (whatever the hell that means) there likely needs to be an explosion to precipitate an ending ... lest there be an implosion further down the line.

I have learned so much this year about myself and the world and the people in my life. And I forgive myself my errors in judgment and messy actions and reactions. If I had to choose one all-encompassing goal for the duration of my days, it would be to move into the great unknown (another topic about which I could spew for hours) with no regrets and a hugely expanded mind.

I'm feeling really good these days, but the Christmas thing hasn't hit me yet. That said, I rarely say no to a festive cocktail or passed hors d'oeuvre.

More to come. Welcome back.

Blue

A friend told me to go out and look at the moon tonight, because for about 45 minutes it shared an unusual alignment with Jupiter and Venus, I believe it was. This was good advice and took me out of the melancholy I've wallowed in all day.

This weekend I spent time with someone I've known for quite a while, someone who will always be a link to my younger days. To some of the most significant moments of my life thus far. This is a person I care about deeply, and who represents, in a way, other courses my life might have taken.

I don't mean to imply that I wish I were elsewhere -- my life is rich and wonderful -- but at times I'm reminded of how vast and infinite our possibilities are. As I described it to a friend, I feel as though I stopped by a world I once lived in, and it's jumbled my mind and my heart.

I'll always hold a torch for days gone by, but I truly do love my life right now, and the choices that have led me to this point are among the best I've made.

I just went into the kitchen, where Neil is preparing a tagine of lamb and root vegetables and something with mint, and told him how I'm feeling. And he said, "This is a melancholy time of year." And this is part of what is so right in my life -- my sweet little family.

Whenever I hear the song "Kooks" by David Bowie, I feel as though it's Neil and me singing to Louie:


We bought a lot of things to keep you warm and dry
And a funny old crib on which the paint wont dry
I bought you a pair of shoes
A trumpet you can blow
And a book of rules
On what to say to people when they pick on you
cause if you stay with us youre gonna be pretty kookie too

Soon you'll grow, so take a chance
With a couple of kooks
Hung up on romancing

Writing this has been cathartic.

In good hands . . .

Speaking with a dear friend yesterday (as opposed to one of my many deer friends), I inquired whether her son, who is 7, is aware of the elections. She said that he is; in fact, when Obama was declared the winner, she woke him to tell him the news and they high-fived -- that's how he rolls. She then said to him, "You know, it's because you wore your pin to school that he won!" at which point this generally savvy fellow hesitated, then asked, "It is?!"

For the first time in a long, long time, I think many of us echo this sentiment ... wait -- we actually can help shape the world around us? The older and more confident I become in my ideology, the more I realize that this is true. And even better? We're raising subsequent generations to intrinsically hold this belief -- to assume that they can make a difference.

This is not about bipartisanship. I don't think President-elect Obama will only ultimately better the lives of Democrats. I truly, deeply believe that he will better the lives of most Americans and many non-Americans, and I expect that in time he'll have made substantial strides in blurring the categories that define us by dividing us.

Brightness follows every squall . . .

*exhale*

A new era begins.

I am deeply encouraged and dare-I-say happy about this! I truly believe that Barack Obama has the desire, determination and ability to steer our country toward well-deserved better times. He has a long, difficult path ahead of him, but I've no doubt that he's the right person to embark upon it.

Thank you, God, and thank you, people.

I've clearly been steeling myself for disappointment more than have my more confident friends ... we had a few people over for a viewing party last night, and have three as-yet-untouched bottles of Champagne in the fridge.

Really, what choice have we but optimism?

p.s. I have now heard from some of my friends who did not vote for Obama, and they have all expressed that they, too, are proud of this major milestone in American history -- how could you not be? -- and plan to throw their support behind the President-elect and celebrate when he takes office in January. That warms my heart and gives me even more hope. No more divisiveness.

Election Eve

Like most of you, I'm too anxious about tomorrow's outcome to think straight (which doesn't explain the crooked thinking the rest of the time). I've made calls for MoveOn, I've donated small amounts of money, I've discussed issues with those who wished to discuss them and listened to alternate points of view. I have to resign myself to the fact that, if tomorrow does not go the way I and so many people I know want it to, it's NOT because I didn't do enough.

Ugh. This is a stressful one.

In lieu of belaboring points that have been belabored and then belabored some more since this campaign began, I am going to switch gears and promote a friend's beautiful work, proceeds from which go to another cause I strongly support.

Gary is a longtime friend, from those hazy, just-out-of-college days. He is also an excellent jeweler (and musician) and a former resident of New Orleans; in fact, he pretty much introduced me to the city, which I'd known little about, and when I first visited almost a decade ago, he armed me with a list of places to go and things to do. He and his lovely wife, Elyse, are animal-lovers and have over the years given homes to a menagerie of pets they've rescued from New Orleans (pre- and post-Katrina) and elsewhere. I can't drive down Tchoupitoulas Street without thinking of dear, departed Funky Tchoupitoulas, who, along with Zigaboo, were the first of their dogs whom I'd met.

And so, as we're gearing up for the holiday season, I want to turn your attention to a project Gary's recently embarked (woof) upon: with the Louisiana Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, he has created these gorgeous Fleur de Lis pendants, half the proceeds of which will benefit the LA/SPCA.

This year I've decided that my holiday gift-giving will contain an element of altruism ... money's tight for so many of us this year, and while I've long lamented how materialistic the holidays have become, I've also developed a steady habit of procrastinating my gift-buying, getting frazzled and caught up in the melee, and spending far too much money on gifts that don't mean as much as something like this would.

Okay -- now back to MSNBC and stress ...

Isn't this your year?

Let's try this again.

My mother, who has a lovely speaking voice, had a fairly successful voiceover career in the 70s. This is one of the commercials I remember best and, thanks to the magic of YouTube, I can now enjoy it some three decades later. It's a commercial for Cougar cars; the voice at the end is hers!

Arc-en-ciel

I saw a rainbow yesterday, down 24th Street. Not the one pictured above; that was from a few years ago and was further uptown, if memory serves. Yesterday's was the first one I'd seen in a while.

When we were in Ireland last year, I kept expecting to see one -- the weather was conducive. So I guess this was my consolation prize for not being on tour with Neil this time around.

Say what you will, I LIKE rainbows, puppies, and long walks on the beach.

But I DON'T like that cloying "Pina Colada" song.

When I was in fifth grade, all the gals had those metallic puffy clouds and things of that nature hanging from the ceilings of their bedrooms. There were a couple of places in White Plains that sold these items -- "It's New" and "What's What" -- on Mamaroneck Avenue, I think. They sold all those mid-80s novelty gifts, like upside-down soda-can sculptures and enormous pairs of dice. Useful things. Learning toys. My sister had the coveted beanbag chair in her bedroom. Though life has taken many important twists and turns since and those were not the best years of our lives, I have some very warm memories from that house.

Whenever Jules wasn't feeling well, I'd "entertain" her by acting out "Gilligan's Island" -- a spastic, one-kid show in which I played all the parts:

Maryann: "More coconut-papaya pie, professor?"
Thurston: "Lovey, darling!"
Mrs. Howell: "Oh Thurrrrston...."

and so on.

Jules returned the favor by teaching me how to dance which, at the time, involved a lot of finger-snapping. My bedroom had the best mirror in the house, one that took up the entire wall behind my bed (get your minds out of the gutter -- we were children). This meant that many a night, I'd be lying in bed when the door would fly open, the overhead light would go on, and there she'd be, assessing her going-out outfit.

I learned a lot from my sis -- besides how to dance-and-snap. I still learn a lot from her. And she's still a much better dancer.

Erin go bragh

Neil is off to Ireland for the week, to play the Guinness Jazz Festival. Actually, at the moment he's en route to JFK from which he will fly to Boston and then, after a three hour layover, he heads to Shannon. Anything to save a buck, according to the person-who-plans-his-travel.

The festival takes place in County Cork, which is actually Murphy's Stout territory. Apparently the rivalry between Guinness and Murphy's is akin to Yankees/Red Sox -- to the degree that people (mostly older gentlemen who spend a lot of time in pubs wearing caps) actually leave the county during this festival.

I had my very first pint of Guinness a little over a year ago, moments after we arrived in Dublin. And I grew accustomed to the perfect pours and the blackness of the Guinness in Ireland; have yet to find a pub in NY that elevates it to the art form that the Irish do. I'm sure it's out there, but Irish pubs in this city are a far, far cry (charm- and clientele-wise) from the ones there.

The day we arrived in Dublin was another fine example of saving a buck on travel. We had breakfast in Norway, lunch in England, and dinner in Ireland ... 'twas an adventure.

More soon.

Punch and Judy

The puppeteer who operates Cindy McCain really isn't very good.

Ugh...

Send some good health karma our way ... there seems to be a bug in the Buchwald/Thomas household, and not the adorable six-legged variety that skitters away when you turn on the lights.

When Neil was a little boy, according to his mother, he would occasionally announce that he couldn't go to school because he had a case of "the blahs". Unfortunately this is more a case of "the blechs". At least Louie seems to have been spared, but we have extra seltzer water and bitters should he prove otherwise. It seems to be Neil's turn to sleep, poor guy, and mine to sit on the couch feeling sorry for myself.

Happy Monday!

L-O-L-A

The aptly named, gender-confused Lola makes her/his singing debut.

Lola would be the bird, by the way. Erika is playing the role of the perch. I'm the one filming with the laugh of a heavyset man:

"Why I love my dog reason #4,629"

He makes an excellent pillow:


(not to mention his French toast ...)

... or highwater

First to id this locale gets a copy of my book ... which is to say, the book that I edited. 'Twas a labor of love.

I hope you'll love it too.

emailez-moi.

Nevermore

Semantics

Maybe I told you this already. One day while we were in Utah in June, we were hanging out in the hotel pool. We met a couple from (I think) southern California, who were very friendly. We told them it was one of our birthdays, and what our plans were for the evening. Invited them to come by the suite. They asked:

"Do you party?"

Um ... how do you answer that? "Party" means different things to different people. Do we drink? Do drugs? Swing? Enjoy a good laugh?

They stopped by after birthday dinner. As it turns out, "party" means "drink Grand Marnier".

And there you have it. After one month, this is what I have to offer.

I'm back. Won't leave you hanging like this again.

Happy autumn.

In the blinking of an eye

In the blinking of an eye
Soon everything will change
From a blue September sky
The brimstone falls like rain.
If true Love
Soars the heavens
Pretend and we can fly
Soon everything will change
My love
In the blinking of an eye.

-Neil Thomas, September 2001

-

Anniversary

My sweet, sweet friend, you are loved and you are missed, today and always.

Speaking of the vapors ...

Neil in Haugesund, Norway, summer 2007

Neil in Cooperstown, NY, summer 2008

Brian and me, faking it.

Neil's mom sent him a couple of articles from his hometown newspaper yesterday (did you know that there's a $1.00 bus to Philadelphia?), and told him of a story she'd read recently about a 5-year-old accordion prodigy. Apparently this little boy's dead grandfather, himself an accomplished player, appeared in a dream one night and taught his grandson everything he knew. The little guy woke up the next morning "fluent" in accordion.

Weird.

I have had two dreams in which Mel Gibson, whom I'd never found particularly attractive even before his anti-Semitic drunken rants and weird relationship with Britney Spears (I have to skim US Magazine. It's part of my job. I swear.), proposed to me. In the second one he proposed on stage at my highschool (what was the name of that room, TJ?) with a pair of sapphire earrings.

I woke up fluent in Aussie and best friends with Danny Glover.

Autumn

Alright, despite the rental and lack of photos, I feel like writing a bit. We're coming up on what may be my favorite time of year -- or at least my most energetic and productive time. The languid summer days are drawing to a close ... and the stress of the holidays is miles away. Or seems to be, anyway. They do start decorating earlier and earlier these days, which drives my mom and me nutso -- she takes the same stance on people who leave their decorations up well into January, and I can understand why. There's something forlorn about it, unloved. Like a hanging clock that stopped working ages ago - or a calendar set on the wrong month.

When I was looking for apartments before finding this one, I was particularly interested in a much larger but affordable place in the West Village, on Barrow Street. Actually on the corner of Barrow and whatever Christopher turns into across 7th Avenue. I visited it twice -- brought my mom by -- but there was always something that felt a little off -- like it had been suddenly abandoned. According to my sister I've "got the vapors"; I tend to pick up on weird energy (I know how flaky that sounds to some). There've been many times that I've sensed something forboding -- have not wanted to enter certain rooms, all that. This has been happening since I was a child. Some years ago I went to a party at the home of someone I was just getting to know. After a glass of wine or two I asked if someone had died there recently -- and, as it turned out, his roommate had a couple of months prior. Once in a bar in New Orleans I headed toward the ladies' room and couldn't bring myself to open the door ... I said something to the bartender and she said, "Everyone says that room is haunted!" If the vapors do in fact exist, I believe I've got 'em. With regard to the enormous apartment on Barrow Street, I asked my realtor to look into why the apartment was for sale ... I think you can guess how this story ends, but yes, the previous tenant had died there.

This was not at all what I intended to write about.

Are we all going to have arthritic thumbs in the future from all the texting that's suddenly required of us? I hate texting -- but sometimes it makes the most sense.

That said, I have an errand to run -- perhaps I'll be back later.

Insomnia

This time it's seasonal ... hi TJ, my dearest friend, who lives much too far away. So far away that the time zone is convenient both for an insomniac and for one who has trouble remembering time zones.

My grandfather, Wei Liang Chow, was a mathematician and fellow insomniac. I've long assumed that it was on one of these nights, while pacing the house in his slippers, efficient pajamas and dark blue robe, that he discovered what became the Chow Theorem of Algebra.

I've read this theorem, have had it explained to me (by an exceptionally quiet man), have spoken it aloud, and I have absolutely no idea what it means. I completed my formal mathematical education early in college, in a course widely referred to as "Math for Morons". It involved arranging match sticks in patterns. So I love and appreciate Tara for finding such an efficient time zone, one that eliminates the need for any calculation whatsoever, and for a slew of other reasons. We're coming up on 25 years of knowing one another, having met as infants. Give or take 12 years. I can't do the math.

Which brings me in a roundabout way to my next point: for a few days I'll be communicating the old-fashioned way, via Skype and Blackberry, as I will be taking a slight hiatus. Due to the unfortunate union of my laptop and the floor, I will be on a rented machine for a couple of days. And I don't have all my extras, so I can't post the photo of my Papa (Chow) that I otherwise would and so on and so forth, and I'm taking a few days off.

Until we meet again -- the nice fellows at Tekserve promise by Monday -- enjoy the waning days of summer.

Responsibilty

My friends,

If you are a McCain supporter -- and I don't think that McCain is an evil man -- please, I urge you as responsible and educated citizens and free-thinkers to read everything you can about Sarah Palin's politics. The Vice Presidency is a crucial role -- Dick Cheney has been a formidable and influential presence during his years in office. This is the year that the fate of many, many people in our and other countries rests upon this election -- people you know, and people you read about.

I will now be stepping down from the unusual political soapbox I've been on lately and write, mostly, about other things. I'll save the politics for lulls in cocktail party conversation and dialogues with some of the mostly foreign-born cabdrivers in this fine city.

With love, truth, and good intentions,
LLB

Balance

I'm a great believer in luck and I find that the harder I work, the more I have of it.

-Attributed to Thomas Jefferson

Happy Labor Day, folks. A new chapter begins ...

A chance for redemption

In 2002, the late writer and historian Stephen E. Ambrose described New Orleans as "the city that care forgot". Little would he know the prophecy of his words.

As I've mentioned several times, New Orleans is very dear to me for countless reasons and experiences. This time around they are doing things better, according to my friend who is down there on assignment. He is a brilliant photojournalist who has spent extensive time there and in farther flung places I have never traveled. This time around he saw people rounding up the homeless and driving them to safe shelters.

But the city is still miles away from being as prepared as it could be and is still, physically and emotionally, suffering the aftermath of Katrina, and I place the blame entirely on the unbelievable corruption and idiocy of this current administration.

My heart broke during Katrina, and these feelings are surging inside me now. I will try to keep the vitriol at bay.

This time around I plan to do more.

...upon my doorstep

I really do wish I wrote in this every day, but here's one of the problems: when I write here, I'm aware that I should be working on my book. When it comes time to work on my book, I realize that the apartment's a mess/the dog needs to be walked/there's laundry to do/I need a nap.

Procrastination is one of my strong suits. As are erratic driving and the ability to trace the origin of any conversation, no matter how tangential it's become.

I'm out in LA right now, where I briefly lived 130 years ago. Nice to be here, spending quality time with sister and niece and friends. Yesterday we went to the beach in Santa Monica and then came home and took a swim + jacuzzi in their saltwater pool. Their pool, by the way, is about the size of every apartment I've lived in in NY put together. When I visit the rest of the world, I question my decision to reside in NY. But when I see a free outdoor concert, amazing Broadway play (August: Osage County ... see it!), walk to just about anywhere I need to go, order in just about anything I feel like eating, and spend time with my parents and amazing friends, I remember why. Still, it would be nice to have an apartment that takes more than 11 seconds to tour.

There is either a very industrious gardener or an automatic sprinkler system outside. It's not yet dawn here so I can't tell, but the aforementioned woke me up a little while ago.

Tomorrow we are having a couple of friends over to swim and snack. Among them is my best friend from third grade whom I haven't seen in nearly as long. Through the magic of the Internets (please vote for Obama, people), we reconnected earlier this year. We're so oldschool that we did so via Myspace, not Facebook. Anyway she was a beautiful gal back then and is a beautiful woman today, and I'm really looking forward to seeing her!

What else, what else ... reading a good book recommended to me by the woman working in the bookstore in Woodstock, Vermont, where we were last weekend for a wedding. It's called Loving Frank and is a fictionalized, though thoroughly researched story about the love affair between Frank Lloyd Wright and Mamah Borthwick Cheney. Poor thing probably longed for a simpler last name. Speaking of Cheney ... VOTE OBAMA.

Today we are hiking Runyon Canyon, my sis and me. Last time we did that we ran into Will Ferrell at the top. Of all the canyons in all the towns in all the world, he hikes up mine.

Speaking of hikes, remind me to tell you of our harrowing, treacherous, and vastly understated "hike" in Norway last year. Now I'm going to attempt to sleep a little bit more.

Love you! Miss you! So does this guy:
Triangles make excellent pets.

Gadget's looking happy, isn't he, shyguy?

Will write more.

UPDATE: I just rescued and put outside a bug that had more legs than the Radio City Christmas Spectacular. Blech.

Levee's gonna break ...

There is the most incredible rain storm happening outside right now. I have never seen anything like it.That's one of my favorite things about this apartment, it's a great place to watch storms as they drift off the Hudson. I would photograph this one if I could but as I CAN'T FIND MY CHARGER, I can't take photos. This has been driving me nutso since August 1, when I took a bunch of great photos during our sailing trip for Erika's birthday. Alas, I have nearly given up hope and may go get a new one today, after which I will inevitably find the first one. Louie is staring at me as I type. He's taken to jumping on the couch and l-e-a-n-i-n-g against me while I'm working on my laptop. Strange little gadget, that one.

In lieu of today's weather, I offer you other rain photos:

Don't stop believin' ...

Me, my pants, the front hall, the piano I miss. 1974-5ish

Jules in our kitchen, Easter. As opposed to Passover, which we celebrated too. Confusing, but festive.

Jules on horseback, me riding shotgun in a bouncy thing. Jackson Heights, 1971.

I've mastered my scanner. I love it when things work.

Tonight we heard the above-named song, which has become an iconic one, due in part to its brilliant placement in the Sopranos' finale. One of the first MTV videos I saw was by Journey -- the one with the quick angle changes, that appears to be set in a warehouse. The Buchwalds were latecomers to the cable TV trend -- among the last on our street to install the faux-wood contraption with the three-tiered switch and the stubborn push buttons. My very first cable experience was an HBO presentation of Zeffirelli's Romeo and Juliet -- of which I have vivid childhood memories. I had a crush on Tybalt.

As long as it took us to get cable, it took us double that to embrace the answering machine. We held out for years, the yellow wall phone in our kitchen echoing aimlessly through the empty house. When the four of us would come back from dinner, my sister and I would play a rousing game of Pretend Answering Machine. One would beep and deliver the outgoing message, the other would re-enact messages from family members, our parents' friends, and all those cute boys whose calls we were certain we'd missed.

We finally got a machine and left the requisite outgoing instructions, that the caller leave his name, his number, the time of his call, and that he wait for the tone before doing so.

I got a care package last week from my new friends in Moab -- a book, some sagebrush, a piece of local artwork, and the water bottle I'd left in somebody's car after spending the day on the river. It's a beautiful gift and memento of that strange, mystical, life-changing day.

I wish that I had time to see the whole world.

Lie, Cheat and Steel (Pulse)

This morning I was perusing one of the freelance writing job sites I frequent, and I came across this gem:

Wanted: Someone to Write my Ethics Papers

Oh, the money I could make were I less scrupulous...

Last night, Neil and I went up to Central Park with a bottle of wine and a blanket and eavesdropped on the Crosby Stills and Nash concert at Summer Stage. They were really good. As always, there were many people doing as we did, picnic baskets, wine, dogs, babies, marijuana (the others, not us) ... and we moved a couple of times till we were finally not sitting among large groups of people talking loudly and paying absolutely no attention to the music. I understand that it's a social event and fun to come with your friends and all that ... but the "free" seating area is, literally, on a bed of wood chips. Not comfortable, reminiscent of the environment in which my childhood pet gerbils lived ... wouldn't these people rather be in the comfort of one of their homes -- or at least on a grassy knoll somewhere?!

A few weeks ago we went to a free-for-everyone show on one of the piers downtown -- Steel Pulse, a great reggae band from England. This was a banner evening as, not only was the band amazing, but I got a step ahead with my new camera! I learned that, when photographing live musical performances, Sports mode works best. Finally, I'm making progress with this thing:

Been a long, long time ...

Hello my friends! I've been a terrible blah-ger of late, and for this I apologize. I got in a non-blah-ging rut and grossly overstayed my welcome. But now I'm back and I will de-rut immediately.

Much has happened. Still working on my "novel", I'm happy to say -- it seems that I just might reach my goal of 20,000 words by Labor Day, thanks to the guidance of my excellent writing coach, Jill Dearman. Any NYC-based writers who might be interested in her services, check her out on line. Her approach, which has become my approach, has really been working. I made a big deal out of hitting 10,000 words. As Brian said, "Now you just have to put them in some kind of order," which lead to a short-lived banter of nonsensical words "Platypus toast might World War One ever in being for spoke bartender taking the" and that sort of thing. Two people -- my mum and my friend Steve -- asked what word # 10,000 was: overtanned.

Who knows how much of this will remain after the first round of edits? Not I.

In other someday-they'll-catch-on-to-me news, a memoir that I edited is being published this fall, and is in pre-sales on Amazon and B&N at a sizable discount. The book is called Living in the Woods in a Tree, and is about the late country singer/outlaw Blaze Foley and his relationship with the author, who was his girlfriend in the mid-70's. The title refers to their temporary makeshift home in a treehouse in rural Georgia, amidst an enclave of artists and bohemians. Blaze met an untimely death -- by murder committed by a man who got away on a technicality and is now a minister of some sort in Las Vegas -- and there has recently been a resurgence of interest in him. A documentary is in the works, as well as a release of some of his music, which is amazing. Lucinda Williams wrote a song for him following his death: Drunken Angel. If you are at all interested -- it's really a beautifully written book and a great story -- I hope you'll consider pre-ordering a copy! I stand to make at least $37.00 off this project. Celebratory PBR's are on me.

What else ... I'm in insomnia mode right now so will have to save the real catching up for a post later today. The sky is turning Crayola's Thistle ... do they still make that one? I always liked it in the way I liked Cornflower. My alma mater, Lafayette College, is in Easton Pennsylvania ... home of Crayola. And Larry Holmes.

Must go try for another hour or so of sleep. I shall return.

Bad dog...

Independence

Man in the moon

I wrote this post about 24 hours ago:

I've had several ideas in the last two days of what to write -- and I feel that the answer's made itself clear. This is a significant day, the one I've just lived through. I had a scary-but-dealable medical issue -- a procedure -- to contend with; it's all good now, but things of this nature always bring with them bouts of melancholy and contemplation. Today was also my sweet friend Laura's birthday. Laura left us six years ago and has been on my mind nearly every day since.

Happy birthday, my dear!

Earlier, I spoke with a friend who's been having a hard time with things lately. One recent morning -- he'd been out all night with nowhere to stay -- all the sadness and pissed-off-ness he's been swallowing for far too long began to surface. He feels like he's about to lose it, he's out in public (midtown) and he meets a man -- a Cherokee man, he explained, though I'm not sure this was a necessary descriptor -- who takes him under his (Cherokee) wing and calms him down. My friend, who's a fairly spiritual guy, tells me he ends up having "an amazing day with this stranger," to which we both said at the same time, "That's magical."

I'd told him the story of my second-to-last day in Utah, a kindred experience. I was feeling blue and planning to spend the day by myself. Despite my best intentions, given my state of mind, the day would have likely degenerated into nothingness. Or nothing productive, anyway. I went across the street to the store and was considering the beverage display when the girl next to me asked if I was okay, because I "looked sad". We introduced ourselves, I told her the bare bones of what was going on -- it can be very freeing, opening up to a total stranger --and she invited me to go rafting with her and her friends. So I did -- there were about fifteen of us and three or four rafts -- and it was amazing and beautiful, and magical. I couldn't have imagined a more perfect remedy than being taken in by this group of lovely and comforting strangers -- all of whom had gravitated toward Moab to embrace the lifestyle -- and spending the day on the Colorado. It helped me to realize how much larger than our lives the universe is. As broadminded, experienced, and adventuresome as we might be, there is limitless room for expansion. Who's to say whether this is the life I'm supposed to lead in the place I'm supposed to lead it? Every decision made along the way, from where to go to college to which corner to turn one afternoon, has collectively led me to this very moment.

In early 2000 I went to New Orleans* for the second time to visit my friend Bliss, a writer who was down there researching for her next book. On my first night there we attended a party at a well-known New Orleans writer's house -- he and his wife had a beautiful home in the Marigny, the neighborhood I stay in when I visit. I spent the end of the evening talking to a man named Charlie Smith, a seasoned fellow who was, he explained, an out-of-print poet. He recited to me various lines and verses from his work, most of which seemed to be about drinking, and falling futilely in love. I asked Charlie where I could find a copy of his book of poems, Still Waiting for Last Call. He told me that I probably couldn't, that it was gone forever.

A year or so later I found a copy -- signed, no less -- through an out-of-print bookshop. The poetry is simple, imperfect, lyrical -- and, for the most apart, about drinking and falling futilely in love.

Earlier this evening I was sitting alone in the living room (the boys were sleeping) and thinking about Laura, and a line from one of Charlie Smith's poems popped into my mind. I couldn't recall the name of the woman to whom the piece was written, but I rememembered the line, "You left us too soon." The poem is about the loss of a friend who grappled with drugs and demons. This was not the case with Laura, but the sense of loss and of a life snuffed out long before its time is the same.

I found my copy of Still Waiting for Last Call in the other room and -- despite the fact that most of the pages are loose and the cover functions basically as a folder -- I opened right to the poem. This could just be coincidence, but I think it's more than that. Magic, the universe, a sign from beyond ... to me it's all one.

Anyway, here 'tis:

You Left Us Too Soon

Butterflies reach out
when they break their cocoon
Stretching their wings
and seeking more room.

Reaching out for the man in the moon
with a go-to-hell smile
and a gold plated spoon.

But,
Nikkie
Sweet Nikkie
you left us too soon.

Bright eyes can disguise
the person within
Pain can be hidden by
a quicksilver grin.

So Nikkie went looking for the man in the moon
with a go-to-hell smile
and a gold plated spoon.

And
Nikkie,
Sweet Nikkie
you left us too soon.

It's a short one ... I wish there was more. I guess that's the point.

*The photo above is from the Lower Ninth Ward in New Orleans, February 2006

Pride

Argh -- sorry I haven't updated in almost a week! It's been a busy one since the long weekend, but that's no excuse not to write. I will do so later this evening.

In the meantime, and in the spirit of Gay Pride, which was two weekends ago, I post some photos from last year's festivities. Despite living in what was once considered a predominantly gay neighborhood (gayborhood?), this year's Pride weekend almost went by without my realizing that it was happening. Most of my gay friends skip the festivities, which I can completely understand. With the exception of those taking place in New Orleans, I do not fall into the "Everyone loves a parade" demographic. Last year, however, we were aware of the weekend and stopped by the parade to lend our support:













The moral of this post: be proud of who you are.