Stop clubbing the (fill in the blank)!

Just because I like this protest poster from the 70’s doesn’t mean I really care!

I am beginning to think it all comes down to the fact I don’t care enough about stuff. Never have. It’s been all about my own survival (albeit sometimes adventurous) and trying to maintain a certain level of comfort, without much wave-making other than scowls of disapproval and despairing, but mostly private, disappointment in the outcomes of several issues I thought I cared about. I don’t carry signs or march in marches. I’m not angry enough to do that but, conversely, not much makes my heart soar enough to get me out of the house either. I suppose I could make a blank sign; that sounds pretty easy. But why should I make and carry a sign with nothing on it to protest that I don’t care enough to carry a sign?

I kind of admire all of those misguided souls at Glen Beck’s gathering in DC last week. At least they are out and about (and getting their smirking, righteous mugs on television). It’s not that I don’t like crowds because, sometimes, group adrenaline can catch me just as off guard as the next person.

Coming from an era where Sarah Vaughan was my end-all of singers and the Beatles were an affront to my sensibility as to just what good singing is, I was never able to jump on anybody’s bandwagon in show biz, swooning with ridiculous passion for an ephemeral what? Screaming fans at concerts, drowning out the performer(s) you paid good money to see, are anathema to me. I got over that way early. I think it was a Beach Boys concert at the Cow Palace in San Francisco—my first mistake in concert going and almost my last, although peer pressure put my butt in useless seats at a couple of very large venues after that

This is not an old fart thing. At least I don’t think it is. I was never much of a show-off in the streets (or concert seats) even when I was a young flatulant (did I just make up a word?). In the future, if you see me out in a crowd holding up a sign for or against something (hopefully, important to the future of mankind), expect to hear from me shortly thereafter regarding fund raising for my cause, but it’ll have to be damn serious stuff! If the sign is blank you’ll know I’ve gone too far with my neutral mediocrity.

Three Days of Grouch

I started getting grouchy at about 4:15 on Sunday afternoon when my otherwise uneventful trip home from JFK was sabotaged by the closing of a crucial off-ramp that is the easiest access to where I live. Well, to modify that a little, I wasn’t annoyed so much by the closing as I was about the lack of notification of its closing until well past the opportunity to avoid it by taking an earlier exit.

Then other stuff happened, not necessarily in this order:

The knowledge that I am a victim of a typographical error made in 1993 that designated the building where I live as a three unit as opposed to the two unit it really is, which screws up changing the name on the recipient of the gas bill (yeah, really).

Some judge utilizes his power to sabotage stem cell research, the most promising medical break-through since penicillin. Again, I’m not so annoyed at the sabotage as by the fact “some” judge has the power to do this out-of-the blue, without having to explain him or herself. Of course the same thing happened in California with Proposition 8, but at least I personally agreed with that outcome.

The “news” of some half-vast movie star being discharged from rehab gets equal time on Katie Couric with simultaneous bombings in 13 different Iraq cities after U.S. troops have withdrawn. Then her program further irritated me by covering the fact that Erin (Mrs. Tiger) Woods has spoken out about their divorce. This stuff belongs on Entertainment Tonight or TMV(?) or any of those other extremely nauseating half hours of gossip and innuendo.

I dropped four tomatoes on my kitchen floor, smashing their off-the-vine-fresh skins, rendering them inedible.

The spectacle of various politicians, both sides, making hay over the mosque-near-ground-zero controversy. I wish there was some way to subtract votes from candidates who utilize this method of attention-getting.

Thinking I was exceptionally good at responding correctly to a lot of Jeopardy answers, before realizing it’s a rerun and therefore a lot of my knowledge was cribbed because of a previous viewing.

This morning, after toasting my bagel; going into the fridge only to find a recent houseguest had essentially finished a container of cream cheese and returned it to the shelf with, perhaps, a quarter-teaspoon left.

All this stuff, along with general irritations like the NY Mets, Glen Beck, Facebook and my burgeoning waistline have made the last three days a pain in my burgeoning ass.

Writing all that down yesterday made me feel better. It’s like getting a pedicure; that is, a little minor cleansing of the soul. However, when I tried to cut/paste from Microsoft Word to here my computer malfunctioned and I couldn’t make it happen. More grouchy grist for this particular mill. Not being up to retyping directly I slapped my computer monitor in its uppity reflective face and ditched the project until this morning. Maybe the next three days will be better.

Is that guacamole on your wall?

My first apartment in New York (the “real” one after dwelling in an interim basement for way too long) had a refrigerator that was an avocado color. And I painted the hood over the stove to match. One wall of the living room was exposed brick, which was really popular at the time, and I “exposed” the look of one kitchen wall by covering it with rough hewn crating wood. Yeah, that thin, flimsy stuff that fruit boxes are made out of. I have no clue where I came up with that idea; probably stolen from some other artsy-fartsy New York newbie. I painted my bedroom ceiling with an intricate scroll-like border that took forever to do. I was a youngish adult of the 70’s and proud of it. My tastes were admittedly transient and influenced by what (I thought) was groovy and cool at that time. Not kewl. Cool.

I had occasion recently to chat with Dorian, my own personal tech-geek who assists me with my computer hassles, and he told me he was working on a project for Pantone, the paint company, and he thought I might be interested in an article on their website regarding the rise and fall of color palettes in home décor over the last 40 years. Even though it is obviously a come-on to buy their paint it is still an interesting read.

http://www.pantone.com/pages/pantone/Pantone.aspx?pg=19758&ca=4

I must confess to a moment of LOL when I read about the 1970’s decade wherein “the dreaded ‘A’ word of both fashion and interior designers--avocado--had the American consumer in a full nelson, especially in the kitchen.” The dreaded “A” word! Oh, my goodness, I was the laughing stock of the design cognoscenti of that era! How did that happen and why didn’t I know it?

Nonetheless, although my tastes have now turned toward the “new,” darkly-muted colors and I have utilized them in both my stone-washed tank tops and in the stone-washed accented walls of my home. However, not to be totally steamrolled by fashion, I still painted two facing walls of the small alcove off my living room in, yes, avocado!

I really like both the color and the fruit (or is it a vegetable?) and I see no reason to compromise either my taste for its color or my taste for its smooth, seductive flavor. In a sandwich, in a salad, on an omelet or raw, with a scoop of blue cheese dressing, it's nectar for the gods. I also really like a good guacamole dip with crisp tortilla chips. So there, Mr. and Ms. Pantone! He who LOL’s first…etc.

If I was on Facebook (2)...with exclamation points

1. While conscientiously struggling through Judge Vaughn R. Walker’s ruling on California’s Proposition 8, the following partial sentence struck me as the most relevant and succinct statement of logical thought I’ve seen in many a moon: “The Constitution cannot control private biases, but neither can it tolerate them…” You GO, Judge!

2. Elena Kagan: Welcome to the Supreme Court!

3. Charles Rangel: You’re 80 and have served 20 terms! You’re ethics have rightfully been called into question! Please retire!

4. Although using a cliché is certainly not absent from my own jabbering, I am really tired of reading the words “slippery slope” in every goddamn Op Ed piece, if not in practically every story in the newspaper regardless of topic. It now tops my list of pet peeves, along with “That said…” at the beginning of a second paragraph and “It goes without saying;” immediately followed by saying it. I’ve given up on people who say, or write, “I can’t wait…,” when, of course, they can!

5. I’m thinking of moving to Metropolis, Illinois just so I can walk by this statue every day!

Running With Knives

Yesterday I heard a truck being driven slowly past the house with a very distinctive “ping” of a bell. Thinking ice cream I looked out and it was a green truck with “Bob’s Grinding Service” emblazoned on its side. I rushed downstairs to grind him to a halt and ran back upstairs to get two old knives that I’ve had forever. They are the ones that were so dull they were reduced to being the tool of choice for cutting up cardboard boxes. But they are still favorites because they’re throw-back old and I like the cut of their jib. Bob sharpened them while I waited and now they are capable of slicing a tomato (home grown) with razorblade precision. Actually, the best thing about the transaction was the old-world feel with a service being offered door-to-door. I think the last time this happened was at least seven or eight years ago when I heard (but did not buy) from an open-backed truck with the driver yelling “Straaaawberrieeeeeeeees!” Probably illegally, right? Anyway, I do think the knives are now in better shape than before but it was the process of getting them sharpened that was cool.

After writing the above I Googled the airwaves for possible references/information and, of course, there were 157 hits about getting your knives sharpened (in my neighborhood) in general and Bob’s mobile service in particular. At least I’m in the top 200. BTW; when I overpaid Bob (I choose to think he was Bob and I overpaid because I was so pleased with the service) and he handed them back to me he said, "Great old knives." I agree. Now where's that strawberry guy?

Idle Feets

This is not an original idea. A couple/three years ago I was lounging around the beach on Anna Maria Island in Florida (off the coast of Bradenton) and the proprietor/owner of my rented shack came by to see how I was doing. One of his big toes was nicely shiny with nail polish. I admired the décor and he explained that particular toe was misshapen and ugly and he hated it so he had his local pedicurist give it a coat of polish every once in a while. That is the page I have stolen from his personal book. Now, of course, questions arise. Too eccentric? Too feminine? Too gross? Not a good choice of color? Yes, yes, yes and, well, it matches my eyes.