First off, thanks to all of you for reading my blog and commenting too. Your feedback has made me a better writer and hopefully a little bit more spiritual as a person. I say this in part because this will be my last blog for awhile. School begins next week, along with 2 part time jobs. Realistically, I don't see how I'll have the time to keep this up.
So I'll close with some thoughts about our short trip to New York. Our itinerary, which we realized needed to be flexible, was:
1: Take a tour through my old neighborhood in the Bronx.
2: Museum of Natural History.
3: Out to our hotel in Queens.
4: Mets game in evening.
5: Have a relaxing next day and get back to CT in late PM.
Now, this is New York. And I know two things about the city. One is that plans can change in a (ahem) "New York" minute. And two is that there's probably something wrong with any plan that involves parking in Manhattan.
So we began...My girlfriend was not only curious about my old neighborhood but had a ton of really good questions about the layout, the people I grew up with, etc.
I grew up in Spuyten Duyvil. Most New Yorkers have no idea what this means. It's actually a Dutch term which probably means "Spouting Devil", due probably to the currents from the Hudson and Harlem rivers, which meet here. It's in the far northwestern corner of the Bronx, just south of Riverdale, which is one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city. But Spuyten Duyvil is solidly middle class to working class, depending on elevation. It's in the hilliest part of New York, which is probably why I love hills to this day. And let's face it, the name is way cooler than "Riverdale", a name only popular due to the Archie comics of the 60's. They may have money, but we have a cooler name.
The best part of growing up may have been the view from our west-facing apartment. I could see both rivers; the Henry Hudson bridge connecting Bronx and Manhattan; the Palisades of New Jersey, and some breathtaking sunsets. There were also boulders going down to the rivers that were literally big enough to create caves, which we played in as kids. If I had any talent as a painter, I could probably have sold one to the Louvre.
By the way, it always bothered me that the little creek separating the Bronx from Manhattan is called the Harlem "River". To my way of thinking, it's not a river. It's really just an arm of the Hudson.
Nonetheless, we did the tour. I grew up in a 1 BR apartment with my brother and mom, on the 2nd floor of an 11 story building. The building itself was part of a 4 building complex, all the other buildings being 10 stories. Each floor has 12 apartments. So, by my math, that's 492 apartments, of which 490 of them were probably Jewish. And yes, I mean the APARTMENTS, along with those who lived there. That's because most Jews put up something called a "mezuzah" by the door. It's a finger length size piece of metal containing part of the Torah. Meant to bring good luck.
Up until age 7 or so, I assumed the world was Jewish. All those people in Vietnam? Jewish, of course. All my favorite baseball players. Naturally, they were Jewish. (Hey, at least I was right about Koufax).
The 2 non-Jewish entries would be apartments 9F, which was Mrs. Yuen. And 7C in my building, which is where the Catanzaro's lived. I remember their daughter, Josephine, a tomboy, beating me up when I was 9. Yes, I lost to a girl. And I lost count of how my fights I lost to boys. Anyway, I can safely assume that the family probably wasn't Jewish. I suspect there were other "goyim" as well, but I can't remember a single one.
So we saw the buildings, my schools and synagogues, and lots of steep hills and beautiful views. The neighborhood is remarkably unchanged in 40+ years. I'm still amazed that I was lucky enough to grow up in a place so imbued by nature. I can't imagine any place in New York City like it. And it was a rent controlled apartment, no less.
I suggested afterwards that instead of the museum, we go to the Bronx Botanical Gardens. I went there once when I was very young, but remember next to nothing. I'm glad we revisited, because it really is a beautiful place. I suggested it in part because I thought V would like it, and as a hedge against the baseball game we were going to later that night. If she was bored silly at the game, at least she'd remember this part of the trip. And she had a wonderful time here.
The Mets game was great. We won 5-3. It was a thrilling game, capped by a moment that I'll remember forever. We sat three levels up, just inside the rightfield foul line. I told V that we were too high up for any home runs but if there were any, it would probably be by the visiting Atlanta Braves, who have a bunch of lefthanded power hitters. Our only guy was Ike Davis, who's having a miserable year. Well...it was the 8th inning. We're winning 4-3. Ike at the plate. And he launched a rocket. I will remember forever the picture of a baseball literally flying over our heads, 100 feet above the field, and 420 feet away. The ball landed 10 rows behind us and almost cleared the stadium. Measured at 440 feet. Interestingly, probably the closest I've ever come to catching a ball, in hundreds of games.
All in all, a wonderful evening. Only problem occurred on the subway back to our hotel. As the door closed, a woman next to me lost her balance, spilling the contents of a pouch containing, I'd say, 50 pills of a kaleidoscopic nature. Not only in appearance, but if ingested, probably what the user would see. She said she was an acupuncturist. I wanted to tell her that if that was true, then I was Alex Rodriguez. Helped her pick up her stash. She insisted on repaying me for my kindness, which I declined. Didn't stop her from putting something in my pocket. At first, I thought she was trying to pick my pocket. Then I thought maybe it was money. It was, instead, some of her private collection, which I promptly flushed down the toilet when we got back. She also gave another present...that being a foot wound to my girlfriend. Seems that when the train lurched a 2nd time, she lunged forward and accidentally stepped on V's foot. She gave a perfunctory apology, then turned to the embrace of some guy who may or may not have been her boyfriend. Or it could have been a perfect stranger. Couldn't tell, as they were into some heavy foreplay, albeit fully clothed. If not for the pain V was in, it would have been funny. I'm thinking, "only on a NY subway would this happen." I also thought about politely interrupting her from her probable impending climax, insisting on a real apology, but reconsidered.
We finished the trip with a driving tour of Manhattan (since parking is impossible, that was the only option). North on 1st Ave., across 125th St, north on to Amsterdam Ave. Stopped at the Cloisters but the $25.00 admission was too steep. I mean, the Cloisters are definitely worth seeing at a 15-20 admission. But 25? We headed home, stopped at a deli in my old neighborhood, and returned back to CT.
I find that I love the energy of the city. But only up to a point. And I hit that point near the end. I can't imagine ever living in New York. Or even commuting. I just get overloaded after a day.
Besides the bad foot, V also caught a cold. Probably the same one I caught in Rhode Island, 2 weeks earlier. But she also said she "had the time of her life" at the game, which just got me beaming.
That's New York for you...lots of highs and lows.
And with that, I want to thank you again for taking the time to read this little blog. (Well, a bit long today. Sorry.)
See you around...gp
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Big ch-ch-ch-changes
So here's the deal...I start school on Aug. 29th. 12 credits this semester. I'm scared. I'm excited. I feel absolutely 100% this is the right thing to do. Yet, like someone about to go on stage, I wonder about bombing. I also have a tendency to take myself way too seriously, so in the end, I have a gut feeling that everything will go fine and I'm just being a drama king.
The background is this: 2 years ago, possibly this very week, I had an epiphany. I woke up with an image of my own therapy practice. My patients were mostly veterans, many of them Vietnam vets. And I pictured the conventional ways therapists and clients interact. But I also pictured using music, perhaps working with a licensed music therapist (a side goal for me). We all know the healing power of music. As a musician, I've seen music's transformative powers in action, both giving and receiving.
My to-do list for fall is:
The key to how well things go for me (and most people, I suspect) is organization.
I don't have an opinion about Martha Stewart, but I think she may be on to something. There was a time in my life when I was super-organized. I believe organization, on the surface, is the key to success. If I'm not organized, and there have been many, many times when this has been the case, there's some explanation. At these times, I'm almost always rushing things.
I'm not scattered, but on the other hand, my organizational skills have declined. Part of the problem is that I essentially have two addresses. My official address and the time I spend with my girlfriend at her house, which is about 20 miles away. I have trouble wrapping my head around two physical locations. What belongs where? Invariably, I find that wherever I am, the things I need are at the other place. My girlfriend said, "Why not just have two of everything?" For example, when it comes to vitamins, etc., all I have to do is split them into two bottles.
She does this frequently. That is, come up with a solution that's so obvious that I almost feel stupid not having thought of it. But she says these things in such a way where I don't feel stupid. Actually, it feels very humanizing. I call these moments "Love-duh's."
So, all these organizational skills will be put to the test over the next few months. As is always the case, when the challenge arises, a list of obstacles arises like targets in a video game. Some are true distractions. I don't have to have my place looking spotless. I don't need to upgrade my car. Or see every movie that's released that sounds moderately interesting. Or for that matter, rent every movie ever made that also might appeal to me. Or work on every side project I've ever envisioned. Or learn every gadget in the world that begins with "I-". Or single handedly bail out every poor nation in the world. Or even write this blog.
I do want to keep making music. I love playing with the band I'm in. They're a terrific group of people. Our chemistry is excellent. And we're pretty good, if I say so myself. Also, I DO need to go on a foliage trip. I've been doing that every year for most of my life. Nothing outdoors soothes my soul like seeing fall colors.
And even without the Mets, I want to see the World Series on TV. V told me yesterday that she was considering getting rid of cable. I was thunderstruck. The best WS of all time, for me, was 1991, Braves-Twins. No real rooting interest. Just great baseball. If it happens again, I don't want to miss it.
Music, baseball, fall trips. This so-called "must do" list is getting long. Maybe I can keep my blogs shorter, if I continue. Good time to quit for this week.
Happy rest of summer, y'all...gp
The background is this: 2 years ago, possibly this very week, I had an epiphany. I woke up with an image of my own therapy practice. My patients were mostly veterans, many of them Vietnam vets. And I pictured the conventional ways therapists and clients interact. But I also pictured using music, perhaps working with a licensed music therapist (a side goal for me). We all know the healing power of music. As a musician, I've seen music's transformative powers in action, both giving and receiving.
My to-do list for fall is:
- Do well in school.
- Do well at a 20 hour a week job, which happens to be in the social work department at SCSU. I've been told by my supervisor, who's also one of my professors, that if things are slow, I can spend some time studying.
- Do well teaching my one course as an adjunct professor at a different college.
- Keep playing in my band...and keep up with our rehearsals and gigs.
- Keep my relationship thriving. Something that I believe I will do but will still be a challenge. My girlfriend is also going back to school, plus she has a pretty stressful job as well.
- Keep in touch with all my good friends. A list which has expanded significantly in the last year, I might add.
- Stay healthy, including exercising every day. At minimum every other day.
The key to how well things go for me (and most people, I suspect) is organization.
I don't have an opinion about Martha Stewart, but I think she may be on to something. There was a time in my life when I was super-organized. I believe organization, on the surface, is the key to success. If I'm not organized, and there have been many, many times when this has been the case, there's some explanation. At these times, I'm almost always rushing things.
I'm not scattered, but on the other hand, my organizational skills have declined. Part of the problem is that I essentially have two addresses. My official address and the time I spend with my girlfriend at her house, which is about 20 miles away. I have trouble wrapping my head around two physical locations. What belongs where? Invariably, I find that wherever I am, the things I need are at the other place. My girlfriend said, "Why not just have two of everything?" For example, when it comes to vitamins, etc., all I have to do is split them into two bottles.
She does this frequently. That is, come up with a solution that's so obvious that I almost feel stupid not having thought of it. But she says these things in such a way where I don't feel stupid. Actually, it feels very humanizing. I call these moments "Love-duh's."
So, all these organizational skills will be put to the test over the next few months. As is always the case, when the challenge arises, a list of obstacles arises like targets in a video game. Some are true distractions. I don't have to have my place looking spotless. I don't need to upgrade my car. Or see every movie that's released that sounds moderately interesting. Or for that matter, rent every movie ever made that also might appeal to me. Or work on every side project I've ever envisioned. Or learn every gadget in the world that begins with "I-". Or single handedly bail out every poor nation in the world. Or even write this blog.
I do want to keep making music. I love playing with the band I'm in. They're a terrific group of people. Our chemistry is excellent. And we're pretty good, if I say so myself. Also, I DO need to go on a foliage trip. I've been doing that every year for most of my life. Nothing outdoors soothes my soul like seeing fall colors.
And even without the Mets, I want to see the World Series on TV. V told me yesterday that she was considering getting rid of cable. I was thunderstruck. The best WS of all time, for me, was 1991, Braves-Twins. No real rooting interest. Just great baseball. If it happens again, I don't want to miss it.
Music, baseball, fall trips. This so-called "must do" list is getting long. Maybe I can keep my blogs shorter, if I continue. Good time to quit for this week.
Happy rest of summer, y'all...gp
Monday, August 12, 2013
Rhode Island, etc.
So, we just came back from Rhode Island yesterday. I get rather opinionated whenever I drive through Rhode Island. All my geographic training kind of comes back. There's a part of me that thinks the state is a joke, and shouldn't be allowed to exist. Why does RI get equal representation in the Senate with the big boys (or girls...I don't want to hear sexist charges) from TX and CA? Doesn't seem fair. Not only that, the official state name isn't Rhode Island. It's "State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations." Actually the longest state name in the country. With a 72 point font, you could make a banner with the state name and it would stretch from CT to MA.
Then again, there's something uniquely beautiful about RI. To begin with, the beaches are the nicest north of the Jersey Shore. Plus, there are some cool names like Misquamicut. We stopped there for dinner on the way back and discovered a whole "Jersey Shore" like culture. And I mean the actual Jersey Shore, not the brain dead "reality" show. It was a lot of fun. There are ferries, long bridges, and even a RI accent. Which is sort of Boston-like but not quite.
The major city, Providence, has its own charm as well. Canals in the center of town. All kinds of history. And just a little south, in tony Newport, the first synagogue in America. And the mansions.
Finally, there's a little patch of land in the southeast part of the state called Sakonnet Point which, if you can get there at quiet times, is as pretty a place as you'll find in New England.
So, I'm not going to go on a Chamber of Commerce campaign. But I just wanted to point out the quandary, for me, that is Rhode Island. Because, let's face it, a state this small really is over represented in Congress. Politically, it's a solid blue, old-school Democrat state. Which is another way of saying that it's hurting economically. As a native of Connecticut next door, I want to take it in like a lost bird and nurture it back to health. Not that CT is in great shakes financially. But it is healthier.
Such a merger, or conquest, if you prefer, is part of my plan to redraw the map so that we have 50 states, but realigned. Here's how it breaks down.
1: Let's face it...little CT and even littler RI have no right to exist politically. I personally love thumbing my nose at Rick Perry and TX and that my 2 senators probably carry more weight than the 2 from TX. Especially since one of them is Ted Cruz, a one man right wing grandstanding show. So what to do? Answer...merge them. A new state of Rhodecticut.
2: And we do the same for VT and NH. Again, during colonial times, it probably made sense. But now? I realize this is like a chemical experiment mixing a powerful acid with a powerful alkaline. But I still think it'll work. VT is on another planet anyway. Maybe we'll do them a favor. Welcome to Vermompshire.
3: And while we're at it, why does Delaware exist? It's a corporate haven. I realize that. But any other reason? No. We combine it with little Maryland and come up with Delaland. Or Maryware if you prefer.
4, 5, 6: States with directions? Don't need 'em. We now have Carolina, Virginia (taking over WV, which is a basket case anyway) and Dakota.
I realize that leaves us with 44 states. We need to get back to 50. How to do that? Easy. Break up the big boys (or girls).
1 and 2: California no longer exists. Again, a state that's hurting economically, with one of every 10 Americans, shouldn't have to shoulder this big a load. California is now broken into thirds. The northern, containing 97% of former hippies, "Hippieland". The middle, containing our most productive agricultural land, "Aliena", and the southern, containing LA and the afterthought of San Diego, the cliched but still effective, "LaLaLand."
3: We break up Texas. To begin with, Austin would be in favor of such a move. But it's just too big a state. The western part, native to so many great musicians, including one of my most beloved musicians, would be "Orbisonia". The east, "Barbequeland."
4: Florida? A joke already. So we spare continued embarrassment and break the state up along I-4. North of it, "Skynyrdania". South of it, "North Havana." (I hope my old Jewish relatives in Boca are OK with this).
5: As a native New Yorker, it's really about time we let New York City be the so-called 51st state it's always aspired to be. It thinks of itself as the center of the universe anyway. Why not push it in that direction? I realize this separates Nassau and Suffolk counties from the rest of the state. But hey, they can now join Rhodecticut and we can create a terrific beach tourism industry.
6: We also make Puerto Rico a state once and for all.
End result: 50 states, and more parity.
Thanks as always for reading.
Then again, there's something uniquely beautiful about RI. To begin with, the beaches are the nicest north of the Jersey Shore. Plus, there are some cool names like Misquamicut. We stopped there for dinner on the way back and discovered a whole "Jersey Shore" like culture. And I mean the actual Jersey Shore, not the brain dead "reality" show. It was a lot of fun. There are ferries, long bridges, and even a RI accent. Which is sort of Boston-like but not quite.
The major city, Providence, has its own charm as well. Canals in the center of town. All kinds of history. And just a little south, in tony Newport, the first synagogue in America. And the mansions.
Finally, there's a little patch of land in the southeast part of the state called Sakonnet Point which, if you can get there at quiet times, is as pretty a place as you'll find in New England.
So, I'm not going to go on a Chamber of Commerce campaign. But I just wanted to point out the quandary, for me, that is Rhode Island. Because, let's face it, a state this small really is over represented in Congress. Politically, it's a solid blue, old-school Democrat state. Which is another way of saying that it's hurting economically. As a native of Connecticut next door, I want to take it in like a lost bird and nurture it back to health. Not that CT is in great shakes financially. But it is healthier.
Such a merger, or conquest, if you prefer, is part of my plan to redraw the map so that we have 50 states, but realigned. Here's how it breaks down.
1: Let's face it...little CT and even littler RI have no right to exist politically. I personally love thumbing my nose at Rick Perry and TX and that my 2 senators probably carry more weight than the 2 from TX. Especially since one of them is Ted Cruz, a one man right wing grandstanding show. So what to do? Answer...merge them. A new state of Rhodecticut.
2: And we do the same for VT and NH. Again, during colonial times, it probably made sense. But now? I realize this is like a chemical experiment mixing a powerful acid with a powerful alkaline. But I still think it'll work. VT is on another planet anyway. Maybe we'll do them a favor. Welcome to Vermompshire.
3: And while we're at it, why does Delaware exist? It's a corporate haven. I realize that. But any other reason? No. We combine it with little Maryland and come up with Delaland. Or Maryware if you prefer.
4, 5, 6: States with directions? Don't need 'em. We now have Carolina, Virginia (taking over WV, which is a basket case anyway) and Dakota.
I realize that leaves us with 44 states. We need to get back to 50. How to do that? Easy. Break up the big boys (or girls).
1 and 2: California no longer exists. Again, a state that's hurting economically, with one of every 10 Americans, shouldn't have to shoulder this big a load. California is now broken into thirds. The northern, containing 97% of former hippies, "Hippieland". The middle, containing our most productive agricultural land, "Aliena", and the southern, containing LA and the afterthought of San Diego, the cliched but still effective, "LaLaLand."
3: We break up Texas. To begin with, Austin would be in favor of such a move. But it's just too big a state. The western part, native to so many great musicians, including one of my most beloved musicians, would be "Orbisonia". The east, "Barbequeland."
4: Florida? A joke already. So we spare continued embarrassment and break the state up along I-4. North of it, "Skynyrdania". South of it, "North Havana." (I hope my old Jewish relatives in Boca are OK with this).
5: As a native New Yorker, it's really about time we let New York City be the so-called 51st state it's always aspired to be. It thinks of itself as the center of the universe anyway. Why not push it in that direction? I realize this separates Nassau and Suffolk counties from the rest of the state. But hey, they can now join Rhodecticut and we can create a terrific beach tourism industry.
6: We also make Puerto Rico a state once and for all.
End result: 50 states, and more parity.
Thanks as always for reading.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Did I say that?
Well, I was tempted to look at all my previous blogs. All 54 of them. Because I wanted to say some things but I wasn't sure if I already said them.
I go through this a lot lately. I'm 57 and realize that every single thing I'm about to say may be a rerun. Hell, even what I just wrote may be a repeat. Sorry about that.
My girlfriend just smiles at me now. She puts up with it. Most of the people in my life don't say a word. This begs the question, "How do you know you're repeating yourself if no one points it out?" (And why do we say "beg" the question? What's the connection between asking and begging?)
But I digress...Anyway, I get these echoes...As I'm telling the story, something sounds familiar. I say to my girlfriend, "Did I say this once before?" She'll smile and say, "No, dear, you said it SEVEN times before. But I still love the story."
And then there's the whole subset of TV. Virtually every interaction I have these days seems to remind me of a scene from a sitcom, generally from 1964-1983, with the occasional 50's clip from I Love Lucy or The Honeymooners thrown in. Or to show I'm not a total dinosaur, the 90's. Some friend will be talking fast and I'm tempted, every time, to say "Hey, do you remember the classic 'Slow Down' scene from Taxi? Where Iggy is taking the written driving test?" And I'll start describing the scene, only to see this glaze over my friend's eyes. Taxi, M.A.S.H., Cheers, Mary Tyler Moore, All in the Family, Seinfeld, Frasier...not a day goes by when I don't run classic scenes from these shows in my head. My most common thought, 'God, did I already say this'?
I'm tempted to take a vow of silence for the rest of my life. But then, I realize that my memory used to be excellent. Above average, I dare say. I used to remember faces, names, important points that people tell me. The only thing I remember these days is trivia. I can remember baseball rosters, lyrics, and pretty much anything geographical. I can tell you every interstate highway in America and it's terminals. In short, I remember everything that no one else is the least bit interested in. But names and familiar faces? Unlikely.
I've developed something I call the "Jeff" theory. Which states that any familiar male face I see is probably named Jeff. My brother is named Jeff. Many of my friends over the years too. When I was living in Nashville, seems half the songwriters I met were Jeffs. If not Jeff, then Mike. But what's great about the Jeff assumption is that if I slur the name "Jeff", it can sound like any name beginning with a J or a soft G. That covers at least 1/3 of the male American population.
Women, however, are more difficult. I get especially frustrated with the following combinations: Katherine/Kathleen, Melissa/Melinda/Melanie, Janet/Janette/Janis/Jan/Jane/Joan/Jean/June. Do women do this intentionally to confuse men? Hell, it's hard enough remembering what I told to whom.
Maybe what I need to do is to take notes. Get myself a tablet of some kind. After each interaction, just log in what I wrote, when I said it, and who I said it to. That way, before I'm about to speak, I can just bring up the person and all the conversations I've had.
Certainly, other people must have the same problem. My girlfriend almost never repeats herself. On the very rare occasions that she does, I get an incredible rush of self-satisfaction. Aha! I REMEMBER this. If I'm really focused, then I can even remember WHEN she said it. Which I'll point out, of course.
Well, that's all I have to say.
Did I mention that I repeat myself?
Thanks for reading.
I go through this a lot lately. I'm 57 and realize that every single thing I'm about to say may be a rerun. Hell, even what I just wrote may be a repeat. Sorry about that.
My girlfriend just smiles at me now. She puts up with it. Most of the people in my life don't say a word. This begs the question, "How do you know you're repeating yourself if no one points it out?" (And why do we say "beg" the question? What's the connection between asking and begging?)
But I digress...Anyway, I get these echoes...As I'm telling the story, something sounds familiar. I say to my girlfriend, "Did I say this once before?" She'll smile and say, "No, dear, you said it SEVEN times before. But I still love the story."
And then there's the whole subset of TV. Virtually every interaction I have these days seems to remind me of a scene from a sitcom, generally from 1964-1983, with the occasional 50's clip from I Love Lucy or The Honeymooners thrown in. Or to show I'm not a total dinosaur, the 90's. Some friend will be talking fast and I'm tempted, every time, to say "Hey, do you remember the classic 'Slow Down' scene from Taxi? Where Iggy is taking the written driving test?" And I'll start describing the scene, only to see this glaze over my friend's eyes. Taxi, M.A.S.H., Cheers, Mary Tyler Moore, All in the Family, Seinfeld, Frasier...not a day goes by when I don't run classic scenes from these shows in my head. My most common thought, 'God, did I already say this'?
I'm tempted to take a vow of silence for the rest of my life. But then, I realize that my memory used to be excellent. Above average, I dare say. I used to remember faces, names, important points that people tell me. The only thing I remember these days is trivia. I can remember baseball rosters, lyrics, and pretty much anything geographical. I can tell you every interstate highway in America and it's terminals. In short, I remember everything that no one else is the least bit interested in. But names and familiar faces? Unlikely.
I've developed something I call the "Jeff" theory. Which states that any familiar male face I see is probably named Jeff. My brother is named Jeff. Many of my friends over the years too. When I was living in Nashville, seems half the songwriters I met were Jeffs. If not Jeff, then Mike. But what's great about the Jeff assumption is that if I slur the name "Jeff", it can sound like any name beginning with a J or a soft G. That covers at least 1/3 of the male American population.
Women, however, are more difficult. I get especially frustrated with the following combinations: Katherine/Kathleen, Melissa/Melinda/Melanie, Janet/Janette/Janis/Jan/Jane/Joan/Jean/June. Do women do this intentionally to confuse men? Hell, it's hard enough remembering what I told to whom.
Maybe what I need to do is to take notes. Get myself a tablet of some kind. After each interaction, just log in what I wrote, when I said it, and who I said it to. That way, before I'm about to speak, I can just bring up the person and all the conversations I've had.
Certainly, other people must have the same problem. My girlfriend almost never repeats herself. On the very rare occasions that she does, I get an incredible rush of self-satisfaction. Aha! I REMEMBER this. If I'm really focused, then I can even remember WHEN she said it. Which I'll point out, of course.
Well, that's all I have to say.
Did I mention that I repeat myself?
Thanks for reading.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Hemingway and the summer of 2013
OK, so I'm embarrassed to say this, but until today, I never read anything
by Ernest Hemingway. My girlfriend has been saying nice things about him for
months now, and he sounded like my kind of author. So I asked her that if I was
to start somewhere, where should it be? She recommended "The Sun Also
Rises".
Thus, I begin. And the lines just jump off the page. The book, written in 1926, could have been written in 2013, other than a few phrases typical of the times. (You don't hear "swell" or "sore" much anymore). But the characters, their motives, the perspective...it could really be 2013. I think Hemingway may be the first rock and roll author.
A few weeks ago, I wrote about Hunter Thompson and what a dynamite writer he is. Now I know why...it's Hemingway tweaked for the rock and roll era. I'm also listening, Books on Tape, to "The Corrections", by Jonathan Franzen. It's Hemingway again, this time with a touch of Toni Morrison. Rock and blues, with a little jazz thrown in, if you will.
I don't know why I haven't read Hemingway before. Probably because he's enormously popular and therefore someone I haven't investigated, until now.
I've always been very suspicious about superstars, or super-anything, be it Hemingway, Star Wars (yep, only saw the first one, and that was belatedly), even Apple stuff. It's some kind of variation of a line by Groucho Marx, "Whoever commenced it; I'm against it."
The whole idea of reading has got me reflecting on this summer. As of spring, I was looking at 3 sources of income to tide me over for the summer. All three fell through. Right around that time, "V" (sorry, darling, I can't use 'girlfriend who chooses to remain anonymous' or 'my girlfriend' anymore.) and I did our thing at the Book Barn and got enough summer reading to last us into 2015. All these books...when will I ever have the time to read them? Not to worry...as the jobs fell through, and the dollars dwindled away, I discovered that I had all the time I needed to catch up on my reading. No income, other than unemployment, but at least I'll be well-read.
So I got busy, searched for jobs high and low, and got myself a part time job at Home Depot. (Having blogged before about my home repair chops, this was pretty ironic). As it turned out, this wasn't a problem, as they trained me to be a head cashier, even offering me more money than if I was hired as a regular cashier. Turns out you don't have to be Bob Vila to do this job well.
The whole Home Depot gig has been weighing on my conscience, because it's a temp job, unbeknownst to them, as it was only until school began. It was less than 2 weeks into the job that I discovered, via my school email, that I've received an assistantship, to the tune of about 2000 dollars. I was fretting over how to give notice, what I would say, etc. The folks there are really quite nice and professional and treated me very well. My manager was fine with me quitting. This is retail, after all. This stuff happens all the time.
I'm more likely to shop there now (although I still don't know what 99% of the inventory is for. But at least now I know where to find the products that I'm clueless about). So I'll put in a plug for them...if you need home stuff, go there.
So what seems to have happened is that while I was trying to get a better financial package at SCSU, and being stonewalled by faceless bureaucrats, what was really happening was that a package actually was in the works, unknown to me. And this gift didn't reveal itself until after I worked a retail job, at $10.25/hour.
I think the God of my understanding is a drama queen/king (I don't have a gender). He/she seems to do things for me at the last minute. In fact, early last summer, as I was fretting again about how to make ends meet, I got a call out of the blue from a recruiting agency, resulting in a consulting gig that netted me some decent income. This agency didn't even have my recent address. It was, again, a last minute thing. And it happened shortly after I made the decision to structure my day in the hope that staying focused would result in some decent income.
I haven't sorted out the lessons yet, but one of them certainly is a classic. If I take action, an action is taken for me.
I don't know the rest yet, but I'm not going to sort it all out just yet. I want to curl up with Hemingway.
"V" also told me about this guy named Shakespeare. Maybe I'll check him out next.
Thus, I begin. And the lines just jump off the page. The book, written in 1926, could have been written in 2013, other than a few phrases typical of the times. (You don't hear "swell" or "sore" much anymore). But the characters, their motives, the perspective...it could really be 2013. I think Hemingway may be the first rock and roll author.
A few weeks ago, I wrote about Hunter Thompson and what a dynamite writer he is. Now I know why...it's Hemingway tweaked for the rock and roll era. I'm also listening, Books on Tape, to "The Corrections", by Jonathan Franzen. It's Hemingway again, this time with a touch of Toni Morrison. Rock and blues, with a little jazz thrown in, if you will.
I don't know why I haven't read Hemingway before. Probably because he's enormously popular and therefore someone I haven't investigated, until now.
I've always been very suspicious about superstars, or super-anything, be it Hemingway, Star Wars (yep, only saw the first one, and that was belatedly), even Apple stuff. It's some kind of variation of a line by Groucho Marx, "Whoever commenced it; I'm against it."
The whole idea of reading has got me reflecting on this summer. As of spring, I was looking at 3 sources of income to tide me over for the summer. All three fell through. Right around that time, "V" (sorry, darling, I can't use 'girlfriend who chooses to remain anonymous' or 'my girlfriend' anymore.) and I did our thing at the Book Barn and got enough summer reading to last us into 2015. All these books...when will I ever have the time to read them? Not to worry...as the jobs fell through, and the dollars dwindled away, I discovered that I had all the time I needed to catch up on my reading. No income, other than unemployment, but at least I'll be well-read.
So I got busy, searched for jobs high and low, and got myself a part time job at Home Depot. (Having blogged before about my home repair chops, this was pretty ironic). As it turned out, this wasn't a problem, as they trained me to be a head cashier, even offering me more money than if I was hired as a regular cashier. Turns out you don't have to be Bob Vila to do this job well.
The whole Home Depot gig has been weighing on my conscience, because it's a temp job, unbeknownst to them, as it was only until school began. It was less than 2 weeks into the job that I discovered, via my school email, that I've received an assistantship, to the tune of about 2000 dollars. I was fretting over how to give notice, what I would say, etc. The folks there are really quite nice and professional and treated me very well. My manager was fine with me quitting. This is retail, after all. This stuff happens all the time.
I'm more likely to shop there now (although I still don't know what 99% of the inventory is for. But at least now I know where to find the products that I'm clueless about). So I'll put in a plug for them...if you need home stuff, go there.
So what seems to have happened is that while I was trying to get a better financial package at SCSU, and being stonewalled by faceless bureaucrats, what was really happening was that a package actually was in the works, unknown to me. And this gift didn't reveal itself until after I worked a retail job, at $10.25/hour.
I think the God of my understanding is a drama queen/king (I don't have a gender). He/she seems to do things for me at the last minute. In fact, early last summer, as I was fretting again about how to make ends meet, I got a call out of the blue from a recruiting agency, resulting in a consulting gig that netted me some decent income. This agency didn't even have my recent address. It was, again, a last minute thing. And it happened shortly after I made the decision to structure my day in the hope that staying focused would result in some decent income.
I haven't sorted out the lessons yet, but one of them certainly is a classic. If I take action, an action is taken for me.
I don't know the rest yet, but I'm not going to sort it all out just yet. I want to curl up with Hemingway.
"V" also told me about this guy named Shakespeare. Maybe I'll check him out next.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Zimmerman, etc.
I often rail about people commenting on things without knowing the facts.
I don't know the facts of the Zimmerman trial. I wasn't there. I followed it from afar, but even then, not as closely as many people I know.
Therefore, I would like to give the jury the benefit of the doubt. They heard all the testimony.
On the other hand, this IS Florida.
But I'm trying to avoid that as a mitigating circumstance.
But in trying to understand the events, here's where I just don't get it:
1: Zimmerman sees a young black man walking around his neighborhood. He's black, ergo, he's suspicious. I think we can all safely say that if the kid was white, nothing would have happened. But let's forget about that for a moment...GZ calls the cops. The cops say, "we'll take care of it. Don't follow him." GZ does so anyway. I realize that probably has no legal bearing on the events, but in "things I don't get", this is the first, chronologically. Actually, I DO get it. He's a vigilante and wants to be a hero.
2: TM runs away, calling his girlfriend that he's being chased, scared to death. So, naturally, he hides in a shadow waiting to ambush GZ??? Really? Does that make sense? This is "TIDG" #2.
3: GZ tries to hunt down the suspicious character. He's armed, but it's not at the ready. TIDG #3.
4: TM ambushes GZ, pummeling him within an inch of his life. While GZ is being beaten to a pulp (according to testimony), he finds his gun and shoots TM. How is this possible? Where on his person was the gun kept so that he could be beaten to a pulp while at the same time having the wherewithal to find his gun? TIDG #4.
So, because FL has this "stand your ground" law, GZ can legally kill another human being because he's allegedly being threatened to the death.
I'm trying not to obsess over it. And in truth, I'm not. But, like the president, I also have a son who "could be Trayvon Martin." Somehow, my son has avoided all the profiling, suspicion, and all else that comes with being a young black male. I don't know how he's avoided it but that's what he told me just a few days ago. And it's consistent with all our previous conversations. He happens to be very likeable and social, so that helps. But when you're walking in a store, you're being watched. You are black. Therefore, you're a potential thief or thug.
We've talked about race ever since he could string a few words together. His mom, of course, knows it first hand and to her major credit, has been terrific in this regard. I know it's bragging, but it happens to be true...My son is amazingly confident and relaxed in his own skin.
I can't imagine saying anything new about race in America. Most conservatives think racism doesn't exist. I've had conversations with some of my conservative friends in which I ask them to try to imagine being guilty until proven innocent. 24/7. Every day. They still don't get it.
On the other end, many liberals see racism in things I don't see. They're very quick to accuse some people of racism and general idiocy.
I don't get the word "racist" as a noun. Adjective, yes. Noun, no. I have yet to meet anyone in America who's entirely free of racism, myself included. It's always been a matter of degree. I do know that demonizing those who have racism doesn't help things. I also know that ignoring it is just as bad, maybe worse. I suppose the best Rx is to have people of different viewpoints sit down and talk about it in a spirit of understanding and compassion. But I think we've become too polarized to do that.
Both the conservative and liberal viewpoints seem lazy to me. Both sides seem to not want to take the time to imagine what life is like on the other side of the fence. This takes work. I'm no Gandhi, and God knows I've been guilty of the same lack of patience and compassion. But I do feel with every fiber in my body that the only way to get this country working is to slow down and to develop compassion and empathy. Being guilty of racism doesn't make you a monster. It does mean that any time racism (or other "isms") get in the way, we're missing an opportunity to know someone and to appreciate them.
To do otherwise seems disrespectful. Therefore, I think it behooves all of us to look in the mirror without judgment, without the liberal police telling us how dumb we are. But to look honestly at ourselves and see that it's in our best interests to eradicate racism, etc. from our hearts. Little by little, day by day.
If GZ had seen a kid without color, I think he'd have acted differently. As for TM, we'll never know.
I don't know the facts of the Zimmerman trial. I wasn't there. I followed it from afar, but even then, not as closely as many people I know.
Therefore, I would like to give the jury the benefit of the doubt. They heard all the testimony.
On the other hand, this IS Florida.
But I'm trying to avoid that as a mitigating circumstance.
But in trying to understand the events, here's where I just don't get it:
1: Zimmerman sees a young black man walking around his neighborhood. He's black, ergo, he's suspicious. I think we can all safely say that if the kid was white, nothing would have happened. But let's forget about that for a moment...GZ calls the cops. The cops say, "we'll take care of it. Don't follow him." GZ does so anyway. I realize that probably has no legal bearing on the events, but in "things I don't get", this is the first, chronologically. Actually, I DO get it. He's a vigilante and wants to be a hero.
2: TM runs away, calling his girlfriend that he's being chased, scared to death. So, naturally, he hides in a shadow waiting to ambush GZ??? Really? Does that make sense? This is "TIDG" #2.
3: GZ tries to hunt down the suspicious character. He's armed, but it's not at the ready. TIDG #3.
4: TM ambushes GZ, pummeling him within an inch of his life. While GZ is being beaten to a pulp (according to testimony), he finds his gun and shoots TM. How is this possible? Where on his person was the gun kept so that he could be beaten to a pulp while at the same time having the wherewithal to find his gun? TIDG #4.
So, because FL has this "stand your ground" law, GZ can legally kill another human being because he's allegedly being threatened to the death.
I'm trying not to obsess over it. And in truth, I'm not. But, like the president, I also have a son who "could be Trayvon Martin." Somehow, my son has avoided all the profiling, suspicion, and all else that comes with being a young black male. I don't know how he's avoided it but that's what he told me just a few days ago. And it's consistent with all our previous conversations. He happens to be very likeable and social, so that helps. But when you're walking in a store, you're being watched. You are black. Therefore, you're a potential thief or thug.
We've talked about race ever since he could string a few words together. His mom, of course, knows it first hand and to her major credit, has been terrific in this regard. I know it's bragging, but it happens to be true...My son is amazingly confident and relaxed in his own skin.
I can't imagine saying anything new about race in America. Most conservatives think racism doesn't exist. I've had conversations with some of my conservative friends in which I ask them to try to imagine being guilty until proven innocent. 24/7. Every day. They still don't get it.
On the other end, many liberals see racism in things I don't see. They're very quick to accuse some people of racism and general idiocy.
I don't get the word "racist" as a noun. Adjective, yes. Noun, no. I have yet to meet anyone in America who's entirely free of racism, myself included. It's always been a matter of degree. I do know that demonizing those who have racism doesn't help things. I also know that ignoring it is just as bad, maybe worse. I suppose the best Rx is to have people of different viewpoints sit down and talk about it in a spirit of understanding and compassion. But I think we've become too polarized to do that.
Both the conservative and liberal viewpoints seem lazy to me. Both sides seem to not want to take the time to imagine what life is like on the other side of the fence. This takes work. I'm no Gandhi, and God knows I've been guilty of the same lack of patience and compassion. But I do feel with every fiber in my body that the only way to get this country working is to slow down and to develop compassion and empathy. Being guilty of racism doesn't make you a monster. It does mean that any time racism (or other "isms") get in the way, we're missing an opportunity to know someone and to appreciate them.
To do otherwise seems disrespectful. Therefore, I think it behooves all of us to look in the mirror without judgment, without the liberal police telling us how dumb we are. But to look honestly at ourselves and see that it's in our best interests to eradicate racism, etc. from our hearts. Little by little, day by day.
If GZ had seen a kid without color, I think he'd have acted differently. As for TM, we'll never know.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Mucho macho estupido
Macho comes in all forms. So does stupidity. One can be macho, for example, by lifting something heavy that your sweetie just cannot lift. I love to do that and get googly eyes in return, as I subtly flex my muscles. If I don't bend my knees before doing this, I'll probably throw my back out. Fortunately, I've internalized the right way to do this.
If only I could internalize the shut off valve that says, "Um, dude, you can't paint a bathroom."
I've always had this thing about home repair. The thing...is that I suck at most of it. Or so I thought. My girlfriend has had a peculiar, distorted sense about this, saying that I'm better than I think I am.
She mentioned in April that a bedroom and bathroom needed painting, and would I like to do them and make a little extra money? I responded by saying, "Did anyone ever tell you how pretty you look in that light?" (which was actually true). 2nd time, I think I complimented her on her wardrobe. Can't remember the 3rd time, it might have been her eyes. (And yes, the compliments are true. Although I was still sucking up, hoping to change the subject.)
This did work...for a little while. Eventually, she said, "Thank you for the compliments, darling, but why won't you answer the question?"
Brain: "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger."
Mouth: "Oh, you mean the painting? That? Sure...no problem."
Now, in truth, I have painted before. And did a decent job of it. In fact, I remember in 1994 painting my new apartment, which I was moving to after my divorce. My son was 6 and he wanted to help. So we worked together and it was a wonderful (ahem) "bonding" experience. He wasn't bad for 6. And I wasn't bad for 38. But it wasn't as challenging as what my girlfriend needed.
First, the bathroom itself.
Gentlemen...have you ever looked closely at a woman's bathroom? Do you have any idea how many small things are in there that are in harm's way? Scrubbers, loofas, makeup, candles, flower things, toiletries, and God knows what all else that women cherish and that men are completely clueless about? Yeah, yeah, all I need to do is cover it with a drop cloth. Not only that, the paint is latex, which washes right off. I know that.
But my mind doesn't work that way. I set an insanely, wildly unrealistic, high bar that I can paint around everything. Don't need to move stuff. Hell, I don't even want to tape the trim and border areas because I somehow think I can paint around all that too. At least I ignored that and DID tape the trim areas that she didn't want me to paint.
I'm completely wrong, of course, about plowing my way through a paint job. There's no way I can do any of this. But I did move all the knick-knacks, tchotchkes, and other specimens of alien civilization that inhabit a woman's boudoir. I wish I had a camera to snap it all, because I had absolutely no idea how to put it back.
My girlfriend, in fact, is appreciative that I'm doing this and that I'm saving her money. (On our first date, she referred, 3 times no less, to how she loves "getting 12 cents out of every dime"). The Yankee mindset.
Still, I'm stressed. I must do this job perfectly. It's a testosterone test. One false move and I'm back to being the all thumbs slacker my first 2 wives made me out to be.
I also have an annoying habit of asking questions that I know the answer to if I just work it out in my mind. It pisses off my girlfriend at times. It's pissed off a lot of people, actually. I don't know why I do it. I'm thinking that maybe she'll think I'm being conscientious when all I'm doing is procrastinating and being a pain in the ass.
But I've got resources. To begin with, I've got great music in the background. If anyone is into old school R&B with very limited commercial interruption, check this:
http://aolradio.slacker.com/?aolid=782
Bobby Bland, Ray, Wilson, Aretha, Stevie, Motown, Memphis, Philly, soul/psychedelia. All here. I'm feeling better already.
My job gets off to a bad start as I spill a copious amount of paint. Fortunately, it all spills on to the drop cloth. I figure, I'll use the spilled paint for my brush. It works. I get a rhythm. I get a Zen thing happening, moving in a rhythm. I'm seeing a completed room, with 2 coats. Cleaning up. Fans on to air the room out. And my girlfriend walking in and just beaming at her newly painted bathroom. My Mets are on TV late PM...game in San Francisco. I'm hoping I can be done in time to catch it.
Then I realized that the white paint that's covering the green paint ain't going on so good.
1 coat...almost nothing.
2 coats. Major bleeding.
3 coats. Minor bleeding.
4 coats. Finally, the old green is now white.
To have to need 4 coats is not a good thing. It means that something is wrong. In this case, I forgot to add water to the paint, which my girlfriend explicitly told me to do. I did stir it, except it needed to be shaken. Since my name is not 007, I forgot that it needed to be shaken, not stirred.
During the 4th coat, I got sloppy. Tired, losing focus, I switched from R&B to hard rock. None of it was working. I rushed things.
Job is finished. Little bits of white latex on the green trim. No problem, I think. I'll just take a damp cloth and wash it away. The new white paint DID wash away. Unfortunately, so did the old green paint, exposing the wood, which I could swear was laughing at me.
And little glops of white paint here and there. First thought: "Hell, it doesn't bother me. Why would it bother my girlfriend?" 2nd thought, 2 seconds later; "Dream on. Of COURSE it'll bother her. It's her bathroom. I just f^&ked up my first big home repair assignment. She'll say, 'I can't be in a relationship with a man who can't paint a bathroom'".
I swear (and this is true), she noticed every single mistake the second she looked at the bathroom. But she was, as always, exceedingly gracious.
We did work it out. I got paid fairly, but I've got damage control work to do, on my dime. Which I'm fine with.
I did somewhat redeem myself with "Mucho macho estupido" redux.
We're having a heat wave. It's 95 degrees, humid as a sauna, and no rain in sight. What better time to mow a lawn? My girlfriend never said, "Honey, can you mow the lawn?" No. What she did say was "Honey, please don't overdo it. It's brutally hot. I know you'll take breaks and stay hydrated, right?" By the way, the mower has 2 bad wheels in the back, which means pushing it requires not only the elbow grease of 2 strong arms but "chest grease" as well. Literally pushing the mower with my chest. (Wheels are on order as I write this)
I should digress briefly and mention that the last time I mowed the lawn, there was very little gas in the tank but, miraculously, it lasted throughout the entire job. Having grown up Jewish and being aware of miracles, I named the experience "Lawnukkah".
I wasn't as lucky this time. I anticipated perhaps a 2 hour job. It lasted 4.5 hours, including breaks. This time, the little critters that inhabit the area, rabbits, bugs, squirrels, etc. all looked at me like I was insane. I heard one rabbit say to the other, "Doesn't he realize how hot it is? Hell, it's too hot for sex, even for me."
I ignored the rabbits. And my body. I could just hear the little melanomas being launched throughout my body. (Yes, I did apply lotion. At least I thought of that).
But, unlike my painting issues, I CAN mow a lawn. As can any monkey, or other animal. When I first start mowing, the lines, if taking from an aerial view, look like a Picasso painting. But I do eventually get the lines straight.
So I finished...and I must say the lawn looked pretty good. This time, my girlfriend came home with a special Pad Thai lunch for me.
I thought it was fair compensation. Because, to paraphrase a lyric from a song I wrote, all I need is free food. And a cold shower. Followed by a hot shower. And back rub stuff.
And a lobotomy...
If only I could internalize the shut off valve that says, "Um, dude, you can't paint a bathroom."
I've always had this thing about home repair. The thing...is that I suck at most of it. Or so I thought. My girlfriend has had a peculiar, distorted sense about this, saying that I'm better than I think I am.
She mentioned in April that a bedroom and bathroom needed painting, and would I like to do them and make a little extra money? I responded by saying, "Did anyone ever tell you how pretty you look in that light?" (which was actually true). 2nd time, I think I complimented her on her wardrobe. Can't remember the 3rd time, it might have been her eyes. (And yes, the compliments are true. Although I was still sucking up, hoping to change the subject.)
This did work...for a little while. Eventually, she said, "Thank you for the compliments, darling, but why won't you answer the question?"
Brain: "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger."
Mouth: "Oh, you mean the painting? That? Sure...no problem."
Now, in truth, I have painted before. And did a decent job of it. In fact, I remember in 1994 painting my new apartment, which I was moving to after my divorce. My son was 6 and he wanted to help. So we worked together and it was a wonderful (ahem) "bonding" experience. He wasn't bad for 6. And I wasn't bad for 38. But it wasn't as challenging as what my girlfriend needed.
First, the bathroom itself.
Gentlemen...have you ever looked closely at a woman's bathroom? Do you have any idea how many small things are in there that are in harm's way? Scrubbers, loofas, makeup, candles, flower things, toiletries, and God knows what all else that women cherish and that men are completely clueless about? Yeah, yeah, all I need to do is cover it with a drop cloth. Not only that, the paint is latex, which washes right off. I know that.
But my mind doesn't work that way. I set an insanely, wildly unrealistic, high bar that I can paint around everything. Don't need to move stuff. Hell, I don't even want to tape the trim and border areas because I somehow think I can paint around all that too. At least I ignored that and DID tape the trim areas that she didn't want me to paint.
I'm completely wrong, of course, about plowing my way through a paint job. There's no way I can do any of this. But I did move all the knick-knacks, tchotchkes, and other specimens of alien civilization that inhabit a woman's boudoir. I wish I had a camera to snap it all, because I had absolutely no idea how to put it back.
My girlfriend, in fact, is appreciative that I'm doing this and that I'm saving her money. (On our first date, she referred, 3 times no less, to how she loves "getting 12 cents out of every dime"). The Yankee mindset.
Still, I'm stressed. I must do this job perfectly. It's a testosterone test. One false move and I'm back to being the all thumbs slacker my first 2 wives made me out to be.
I also have an annoying habit of asking questions that I know the answer to if I just work it out in my mind. It pisses off my girlfriend at times. It's pissed off a lot of people, actually. I don't know why I do it. I'm thinking that maybe she'll think I'm being conscientious when all I'm doing is procrastinating and being a pain in the ass.
But I've got resources. To begin with, I've got great music in the background. If anyone is into old school R&B with very limited commercial interruption, check this:
http://aolradio.slacker.com/?aolid=782
Bobby Bland, Ray, Wilson, Aretha, Stevie, Motown, Memphis, Philly, soul/psychedelia. All here. I'm feeling better already.
My job gets off to a bad start as I spill a copious amount of paint. Fortunately, it all spills on to the drop cloth. I figure, I'll use the spilled paint for my brush. It works. I get a rhythm. I get a Zen thing happening, moving in a rhythm. I'm seeing a completed room, with 2 coats. Cleaning up. Fans on to air the room out. And my girlfriend walking in and just beaming at her newly painted bathroom. My Mets are on TV late PM...game in San Francisco. I'm hoping I can be done in time to catch it.
Then I realized that the white paint that's covering the green paint ain't going on so good.
1 coat...almost nothing.
2 coats. Major bleeding.
3 coats. Minor bleeding.
4 coats. Finally, the old green is now white.
To have to need 4 coats is not a good thing. It means that something is wrong. In this case, I forgot to add water to the paint, which my girlfriend explicitly told me to do. I did stir it, except it needed to be shaken. Since my name is not 007, I forgot that it needed to be shaken, not stirred.
During the 4th coat, I got sloppy. Tired, losing focus, I switched from R&B to hard rock. None of it was working. I rushed things.
Job is finished. Little bits of white latex on the green trim. No problem, I think. I'll just take a damp cloth and wash it away. The new white paint DID wash away. Unfortunately, so did the old green paint, exposing the wood, which I could swear was laughing at me.
And little glops of white paint here and there. First thought: "Hell, it doesn't bother me. Why would it bother my girlfriend?" 2nd thought, 2 seconds later; "Dream on. Of COURSE it'll bother her. It's her bathroom. I just f^&ked up my first big home repair assignment. She'll say, 'I can't be in a relationship with a man who can't paint a bathroom'".
I swear (and this is true), she noticed every single mistake the second she looked at the bathroom. But she was, as always, exceedingly gracious.
We did work it out. I got paid fairly, but I've got damage control work to do, on my dime. Which I'm fine with.
I did somewhat redeem myself with "Mucho macho estupido" redux.
We're having a heat wave. It's 95 degrees, humid as a sauna, and no rain in sight. What better time to mow a lawn? My girlfriend never said, "Honey, can you mow the lawn?" No. What she did say was "Honey, please don't overdo it. It's brutally hot. I know you'll take breaks and stay hydrated, right?" By the way, the mower has 2 bad wheels in the back, which means pushing it requires not only the elbow grease of 2 strong arms but "chest grease" as well. Literally pushing the mower with my chest. (Wheels are on order as I write this)
I should digress briefly and mention that the last time I mowed the lawn, there was very little gas in the tank but, miraculously, it lasted throughout the entire job. Having grown up Jewish and being aware of miracles, I named the experience "Lawnukkah".
I wasn't as lucky this time. I anticipated perhaps a 2 hour job. It lasted 4.5 hours, including breaks. This time, the little critters that inhabit the area, rabbits, bugs, squirrels, etc. all looked at me like I was insane. I heard one rabbit say to the other, "Doesn't he realize how hot it is? Hell, it's too hot for sex, even for me."
I ignored the rabbits. And my body. I could just hear the little melanomas being launched throughout my body. (Yes, I did apply lotion. At least I thought of that).
But, unlike my painting issues, I CAN mow a lawn. As can any monkey, or other animal. When I first start mowing, the lines, if taking from an aerial view, look like a Picasso painting. But I do eventually get the lines straight.
So I finished...and I must say the lawn looked pretty good. This time, my girlfriend came home with a special Pad Thai lunch for me.
I thought it was fair compensation. Because, to paraphrase a lyric from a song I wrote, all I need is free food. And a cold shower. Followed by a hot shower. And back rub stuff.
And a lobotomy...
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