Athens

Winding through the narrow streets of stone the Acropolis, that perfect wonder of the ancient world, appears suddenly on high, at the top of a steep rocky mountain. Even at this distance it takes one's breath away. According to my guidebook, purchased at a corner news stand:

No wonder the violet-crowned had been envied by gods and men ever since Poseidon and Athena disputed the patronage of the newly found city. The God of the Sea struck the rock of the Acropolis with his trident, and water as well as a fiery steed sprang forth. Yet the Olympian gods sitting in judgement awarded the coveted prize to the Goddess of Wisdom for her olive tree, symbol of peace and prosperity.

The approach appears to be working for them.

The people of Greece live their daily lives in the shadow of these ancient gods, past and present melding, not seamlessly but beautifully, like parallel universes existing side by side but on different planes. In places, the fabric of time has worn sheer enough to see through to, and perhaps even touch another, ancient reality. Motorcycles whip by medieval mosques and chic young things in skinny jeans and stilletto-heeled boots saunter past Byzantine churches while chattering into blackberries. Here are classical landmarks known to every student of art history: the Roman Agora, the Temple of Hephaestus, the Arch of Hadrian and, of note because it is now my favorite monument name ever, The Bath House of the Winds. Gazing up to that mountain and its gleaming marble temples silhouetted against a darkening sky, it is easy to imagine oneself at the mercy of tempestuous gods.

Regrettably, we only had a day and a half in Athens, and a serious exploration of such incredible sites requires more. After an exhausting and very cramped flight in from Atlanta, we landed at Marco Polo Airport around 11:30 am, picked up a cab at the taxi stand and made our way directly to the Acropolis Museum Boutique Hotel; chic and charming, with easy access to the plaka and Acropolis. After freshening up just a bit, we hit the ground running, without direction or plan. We wandered through the winding streets of the old town, encountering the remains of a Roman library, Hellenic ruins and Christian basilicas. We wound our way dreamily past bustling shops, markets, and tavernas. And all the time climbing, climbing, long and twining, under what proved to be a very hot, hard, Mediterranean sun.

When finally we reached the Acropolis, poor Turk, who's been battling arthritis in his legs and whose feet, ankles and knees were badly swollen from the long flight, sat down on the steps of the Propylaea and announced he could go no further. He found a spot to rest while I mounted the stairs, walked through a brief passageway and looked upward to see, looming quite suddenly it seemed, the mighty Parthenon.



Situated on the highest platform of the Acropolis, majestic in its proportions, it is so much larger than I had ever imagined to be, and tremendously impressive. The ground we stand on appears to be all natural marble, veined pink and grey and ivory. It is beautiful, slippery, shiny and smooth.



I decided, standing before the Erechthion with its famous Porch of the Caryatids, that if I ever decide to denounce my atheism and worship a deity (or three) Athena, she of Olympian wisdom, would be my goddess of first choice. Built on the site of an earlier temple of Athena between 406 and 393 CE, the Erechthion is dedicated to both Athena and Poseidon, the God of the Sea, to whom I am also perfectly willing to pay tribute, should the occasion arise. But I fell in love with the the Caryatids way back in high school; those lovely, graceful figures of young women in flowing drapery and elaborate head dress supporting that immense stone structure has always appealed to me as an image of feminine strength and beauty. Without the goddess, there is no temple. Without support, the roof collapses. Without women, the world comes tumbling down.

I went back, grabbed the Turk and begged him to come up and meet the temple gods. He did, and pronounced them good.










The sun was setting as we wound our way back down the hill. We stopped at a tiny, picturesque taverna, with tables set on either side of a narrow street. When we told him we wanted to sit outside, the owner ~ there is always an owner, manager or family member enticing you in, bidding you welcome ~ beckoned us to one of these tables, saying, "Here is outside ~ in the middle of the road! Watch out for cars!" We laughed. And realized, as a small vehicle inched past our knees minutes later, that he was only half joking.




Rested, we wandered down into the Plaka, where the narrow lanes have preserved their local color and the tavernas, shops, nightclubs and bars are alive with the musical chatter of locals and tourists of every nationality in nearly equal numbers. The shopping is indeed marvelous, with fabrics, clothing, leather goods and jewelry literally spilling out onto the street. It has all the liveliness of a modern bazaar.


One of the elements in this city of parallel realities that struck me as most surprising was the quality of the grafitti. Much of it was startling and beautifully rendered. My first thought was that some of it belonged in a gallery, but this was quickly replaced by another ~ that it was perfect just as it was; an art that lives, breathes in the streets, an intrinsic part of an exciting community.







Later that evening, at an attractive winebar called Brettos we met the garrulous sommelier/owner who regaled us with tales of his many travels in search of the perfect wines for all occasions. Looking over the menu I told him that I had never tasted absynthe. He insisted on pouring me a glass.

"This is not Greek, it is French, but your first must be the very best," he said with a conspiratorial wink.

Turk looked on warily. "Isn't that stuff supposed to make you hallucinate?" he asked, sounding for all the world like a man not anxious to have his wife hallucinating in public.

"I believe that is the point," I said cheerfully, watching the clear emerald liquid turn cloudy as the ice dissolved in the tapered glass. I took a long, slow, anticipatory sip.

It was delightful; refreshing, licorice-y, a bit like Pernod. I can't truthfully say I saw any little green fairies that evening. But I did get a fabulous night's sleep.

oh, for the love of blogger

My blog has been driving me crazy of late. It's been in need of an extreme makeover for ages, but since I lack the necessary skills to make it work (thank you, Tim Gunn) nothing ever came of it. Still, I wanted to upload some new pics and finally just couldn't stand to put them in the old space. Thus, I have been screwing around with this thing for practically the entire day. And now it's 2:00 am.

Can you say obsessive, boys and girls? Yes, of course you can. And can you spell Xanax too? Hint ~ it starts and stops with the same letter! I know, it's so cool. Now go write mama a nice prescription. Before she starts this whole thing over again. From scratch.

She'll do it too. You know she will. She is in a dark place, apparently. A dark blogger place.

But ~ yay (!) I think. A new look at last; not exactly how I wanted it (or tried for hours to get it...ok, sorry...letting it go) but there it is. The picture is an acrylic I did ages ago when I was thinking of trying to develop some quick and cute character paintings to sell on eBay. But I never do anything quick, or cute, or to the point of usefulness, so I never developed the theme. Or sold anything on eBay. How nice that here at last I find a purpose for my little lotus flowers. And props to my friend Robbie for the sub-heading ~ it's actually printed on a martini glass she gave me for Christmas one year. And here I thought I was the only yoga babe with issues. So much for original neurosis.

I'm off to bed. I wonder if this thing will still be here in the morning.

And I so totally forget what I wanted to post in the first place.

going postal

I did it. Yesterday, I voted. And because I still don't trust my vote to electronic machines manufactured by companies owned by avowed party loyalists who have, in their less-guarded past, vowed to "deliver" states to the Republicans, have been known to mysteriously switch votes cast for Democrats and are still hackable within 3 minutes by a fifth grader with a laptop and incentive, I voted via absentee ballot. If this is the modern equivalent of chiseling my choices on a stone and throwing it though the window of election headquarters, so be it. I'm crazy that way.

On local measures, I voted for women's choice and against voiding gay rights. I voted for mass transit and against animal cruelty; for slow-growth candidates and against T. Boone Pickens' ability to buy personal legislation. I would have voted against Arnold Schwarzenegger again but he doesn't seem to be running for anything. Or running anything, for that matter. Is he still in charge around here? Somebody find him and ask.

Most of all, I voted for change. I voted against fear and for hope. I voted for the liberal ideals of the founding fathers as embodied in the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States of America. I voted for a return to fact-based science and compassionate and rational governance. I voted for an end to Bush's War and the corporate hijacking of the ship of state; for a rebirth of global leadership and the respect of nations. I voted for the Republic and for the People.

I feel fabulous.

at sixes and sevens

Still not here but no longer there, I can't quite bring myself to settle back into my mundane suburban existence. All twitchy disorientation, I have one foot in Costco and one in the Aegean as I pay bills, sort papers and delete emails (only 131 to go!) I have yet to fully unpack, and my traveling cosmetic bag still hangs on a hook on the bathroom door, as if anticipating a move on to fresh accommodation in the morning. There is laundry and grocery shopping still to be done, as well as closets and photographs to organize. Lots and lots of photographs.

I took exactly 1147 pictures on my trip, which awed even Turk, who had begun to complain that he could no longer recognize me without a camera in front of my face. And yet as it turns out, I did not take quite enough.

Downloading the contents of my tiny Canon Elph, I realize that not once did I capture that deep, diamond-studded blue of the Mediterranean Sea, so clear at the shoreline that I could have counted grains of sand from the air. Nor did I immortalize the glorious reds of the bougainvillea that adorned the whitewashed brilliance of Mykonos, or the peach-drenched burst of a Santorini sunset. Although we spent hours exploring it, the Athenian Acropolis was beyond my ability to embrace digitally, as was the incredible Palace at Knossos. The photographs pale in comparison to the real thing, as may be expected, and the true glories of the monuments there will forever be a thing of memory for me.

But the single most exceptional memory I will always have of Greece is the genuine expansiveness and humanity of her people. In all of our travels, Turk and I have never encountered such gracious, fun-loving and open-hearted people. From taxi drivers to waiters, gas station attendants and bank clerks; housewives, teenagers and old men alike; nearly every single human being we encountered exuded welcome and warmth. Particularly on the islands, everyone we stopped on the street to ask for directions or otherwise inquire was eager and willing to help a foreign stranger; if that person didn't speak English, as was sometimes the case, they'd take us by the hand and lead us to someone who could. Who would in turn go and find a map, draw us a picture and, if we were clearly very, very dense, as was sometimes the case, would hop on their vespas and show us the way. Then, with a smile and a wave and a puff of a tsigharo, be gone. Not once did anyone treat us with anything less than respect, patience and good humor, no matter how obtuse or annoying we must have been. Truly, it was an amazing thing for a couple of old cynics to behold, for this one certainly, and a lesson in an elevated state of being. I owe the people of Greece a debt of gratitude for this alone ~ an education on the ways of an enlightened humanity.

Efharisto.

Now I'm off to the bank. I gather there've been some sort of financial shenanigans going on. I wonder how my Wachovia stock is doing. Catch you later. Yiassou...

yiassou, babies!

It was a fabulous trip; a wonderful journey, an experience of a lifetime.

And as with those oft-dreaded dinner parties of yore; the ones after which guests payed for their feast by viewing their hosts' interminably narrated vacation film (god, I miss those parties. Hey ~ it's me in front of the Temple of Athena! Now, from over this side!) I fully intend to bore everyone to tears with tales of it before long. It's what I do.

We got in late Tuesday night following a grueling 17 hour flight with the good people of Delta Airlines (motto: happily breaking kneecaps since 1975!) and spent yesterday in some sort of peanut-induced coma. Rather than unpacking, and before uploading my 537 pictures of the Parthenon taken from 87 different angles and in varying lights (At sunset! At dawn! At 5 minutes after dawn! In widescreen! Slightly bigger than widescreen! A movie!) I hit the net to make a quick survey of my fave blogs to ensure that everyone was well and whole and not under indictment or fleeing the country or anything. Most of them were not, I'm surprised and perhaps even a little disappointed to say.

Honestly people, I expect more from you. Don't make me go back to Europe for my entertainments. Or do.

Anyway, after spending 3 weeks mercifully campaign-free ~ CNN was available at only a few of the hotels in which we stayed, and American newspapers a hit-and- miss affair ~ I was leery of once again entering the fray. When last we saw our heroine, Sarah I-can't-name-a-newspaper-because-I-read-all-of-them Palin, the right-wing press was swooning over Caribou Barbie and her obvious feminist credentials (look~ she's a girl!) and I wondered how well that image had played out with the American people.

Seems I needn't have worried. Way to go, my fellow Americans! And when I found this at Girly Shoes, my best source for such pithy links and always the best damn ANTM and Project Runway recaps ever, I laughed so hard I was almost glad to be home. Almost.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to pick up 3 weeks worth of junk mail, which means I have to go rent a truck. In the meantime, if you haven't seen it, enjoy.

For my part, if this woman gets in you can find me and the Turk nursing our wounds with a bottle of ouzo, a bowl of olives and a pack of Sante's on the beautiful isle of Crete.

Sante'.

have bags, will travel

pearls before swine

When I was a kid growing up in New York I loved to lay on my back in the thick, fragrant grasses of our freshly mown lawn, where I would contemplate the clouds and listen to the buzz of various insects as they swooped in, inspected me for signs of dinner or danger, and flew on. Whenever a plane would break my lazy reverie, gliding regally across those bright summer skies I would watch it intently until it disappeared, wondering where it was coming from, where it was going, and wishing with all my young heart that I was on it.

My husband, who knows me best, knew me well enough even on our first date to woo me in a red leather booth in a dark downtown bistro, plying me with rare steak, a heady Cabernet and amusing anecdotes about eating lizard sandwiches with an elderly ex-pat in Mexico, and dreams of drinking kava while cruising the Nile aboard a tramp steamer bound for Africa. I'd never heard such tales or drunk such wine, and as I listened to this charming, erudite man I sensed that perhaps I had finally met my match. He had me at "tramp steamer."

Of course, after dating awhile I found out that he hated red wine, didn't care much for steak, and wasn't all that keen on that particular restaurant. Men. But the stories were true, as was his heart, and over the years we have been lucky enough to satisfy much of our mutual wanderlust.

Lately, however, family and health concerns have been keeping us close to home, and we haven't been able to stray very far afield for the past few years. So I'm thrilled to be able to say that, at long last and after a number of false starts we're happily planning a trip to Greece: Athens, Mykonos, Naxos, Santorini and Rhodes. I don't know where else. Crete, we think. Delphi, if there's time. Turk likes to travel 'by the seat of his pants.' I like to make reservations. But all I know is that I can hardly wait. I'm ready, I'm not ready; there's so much to do and so little time. But I'm so excited, I'm up at 6:00 am ~ I know! And I'm not even just getting home in a cab! I'm giddy as schoolgirl. Because I've never stopped staring up at every passing plane, willing myself on it. Soon, I will be.

So as they say in Greece... well, I've no idea what they say in Greece, frankly. I bought a Grecco/Anglo dictionary and it looks like a 3500-word combination of Egyptian hieroglyphs and Esperanto. Suffice it to say, it's all Greek to me. Suffice it to say, we are going to get very, very lost. Very, very quickly.

So let's just call it ciao.

Ciao for now!

Grab your burkas, babies; it's gonna be a bumpy ride.

I haven't written anything on the nomination of Phyllis Schlaf..., I mean Sarah Palin as John what-else-do-I-have-to-do-to-prove-to-you-how-incompetent-yet-desperate-I-am-to-be-president McCain's running playmate because I've been busy, for one thing. And because, let's face it, what can I possibly say that isn't tragically obvious, besides having already been said so much more eloquently by just about everyone else? The next very possible leader of the once free world is a:

global warming /science denying
Alaskan secessionist.
A
gun happy
ex-beauty queen who
wants creationism taught in the schools,
Christianity in the constitution and, of course
the end of a woman's sovereign right to her own body.

Naturally, to the religious right, this constitutes feminism.

Sarah Palin.

Are you fucking kidding me? What did we ever do to you?

If I were being a good blogger I would post links for all those talking points but I am not; I am a very bad blogger on my way out the door, so I'll just post this link to the clever Miz Shoes and leave you with the wit and wisdom of the inestimable Jon Stewart, without whom I would not be able to get through another news day without my poor little lady-brain exploding.

Enjoy.

who would you vote for

...if you didn't know who you were voting for? Here's a little blind taste test, asking questions regarding the policies and positions of the two candidates to determine where you stand in relation to them. It's quick and painless and quite fun in the end.

I was happy with my result. I am nothing if not consistent.





And then, to congratulate yourself on choosing the correct candidate, Barack Obama, go here and create one of these.


Ain't politics a kick?
Happy Logoneering!

spin a lazy web

Adrift in the summer doldrums, I have settled into a state of untroubled somnambulant reverie. All around me is hot. Dry. Spidery. The prettiest thing is my yard is this winsome crystal hammock, lit by the sun in the late hours of the afternoon. I should knock it down but I haven't the heart.

For today I am a Benevolent Garden Goddess ~ or garden gnome, as you may prefer. Weave me a web of spun glass, my tiny friend, and win my favor forever.

Or perhaps just for now. You know what they say about summer romance. And I, Benevolent Goddess of Sunday, have been known to turn careless or wrathful on Monday. Sleep well in your pretty silver hammock, and enjoy the sun today. Sooner or later, it's gonna rain.

sawdust or bust

My memory is not what it used to be.

"I remember this artist from last year," I said to Robbie, gesturing at a small canvas depicting an abstracted lifeguard station covered in mellow tones of ochre and ivory. She looked at me.

"We weren't here last year," she said, giving me a sidelong glance. "We never made it."

"No, I'm quite sure," I said, summoning the remains of an enfeebled mind. "Don't you remember ~ there was a Japanese wedding party in a red Cadillac convertible? That weird singer guy with those long, bizarre lyrics?...We were talking to that lawyer. We had margaritas on the patio at Las Brisas...?"

"Nope. That was 2 years ago."

"Was not."

"Was too. You're confused. Have a beer."

And so I did.

As anyone who knows me knows too well, Laguna Beach is one of my favorite places in Cali to dally, and the annual Sawdust Festival is just another excuse to head down the coast to hang with the locals and the tourists; with established artists and hopeless wannabees alike. Wannabees like meez. It's fun and funky, in a very arts and crafts kind of way ~ tiny booths transformed into indoor/outdoor gardens, boatyards, farmyards and twinkling elven cottages right out of children's picture books. In one glittering treehouse aerie devoted entirely to the depiction of faeries and all their other-worldly needs, a disembodied voice floating down from somewhere high above sang out cheerily, "Let me know if you need any help!" Followed immediately by the sound of a functioning breast pump.

So Sawdust.








Technically, one is supposed to ask if one can take pictures of the artwork on display, and this is only correct. But I am shy by nature and loathe to do so, and therefore have no good pictures to offer. I did, however, unapologetically snag the two above by artist Anne-Liv Scott, just because I really liked them. And because she was conveniently nowhere to be seen. The 3-dimensional elements on the canvas are not captured here, but they were quite arresting. I would have happily bought the one on top. Or the bottom. I'm easy that way.


And it's a good thing I'm broke, or my house would be full of these gorgeously wrought things, made entirely of found silver utensils, which I adored when I first saw them last...I mean, a couple of years ago, and would still be collecting today if I could. I love this crab. It's so...me.

As it was, all I could do was gaze.


Across the street at the more elite Festival of the Arts, which is a juried show and the more exclusive for it, things were so much more refined that I was compelled to switch from beer to wine, and it was Robbie's turn to wish that she too had more money. The pieces over on this side of the highway were diverse and beautifully executed, and here photographs were expressly verboten. I was happy to see one of my old favorites though, Sandra Jones Campbell, featured above the tents, and snapped a safely legitimate pic.


I don't think she'd mind.

In the end, there was so much to assimilate that we went into sensory overload, and after several hours left without seeing every artist in the show; a veritable first for both of us. But the ocean, peartinis and a bartender named Chad awaited somewhere down the road, singing their siren song. It's too bad about the pictures. But at least I have my collection of artists' business cards, which are an inspiration in themselves. And of course, I'll always have my memories. Such as they are.

do NOT Friendster me, dude

It's hilarious.



I have been in this blog too long.

Skank Powah!

Real life is so lame.

ode to my little brother (the occasionally annual card)

it seems like I've known you forever
I know that I've known you so long
I never thought we'd ever be this old
or I'd be putting it down in a song

I'm sorry for all the moments
I tried to ditch you in open fields
and make you play with my Barbies
and leave you stranded atop ferris wheels

And I forgive you trying to kill me
by hotwiring my bedroom door
I wasn't the sweetest of sisters
I probably deserved it and more

but they said it never would happen
I told you it just couldn't be
but your childhood prayers have been answered
you're finally older than me.

Happy Birthday, Bro-lio!!

I couldn't have asked for a better brother

lots of love and hugs,
xxxoooo
your (suddenly) younger sister, and Turk

man down!

There I was, standing in the kitchen, drying a glass and getting a productive start on my day by doing some preliminary staring into space, when a sudden boom jolted me into consciousness. The boom was followed by another hard jolt ~ the house rocked, the floor rolled, walls and lamps swayed, and anything breakable rattled. Californians tend to get pretty jaded about the occasional hiccups of the earth's surface, taking bets on the number seismologists would later declare, but I'd be lying if I didn't say it was the first time in a long time I experienced a little thrill of fear during an earthquake. I actually found myself standing under a doorway, although for the life of me I couldn't remember why. Turns out it was a 5.4 magnitude, which is a moderate size tumbler, the epicenter of which was located not far from here, in Chino Hills.

Fortunately, I've heard of no injuries or serious damage. Here at the house, although tchotchkes leapt off shelves and medicine cabinets popped open of their own volition, there've been no casualties. Except for one, of great sentimental value.

My groundbreaking but much under appreciated sculpture, Pink Floyd Boy, suffered a near-fatal injury. I made him in college in a ceramics class, where I briefly fantasized about a career as a young (well, relatively) Beatrice Wood, and he holds a special place in my heart. With patience and a little gorilla glue, I believe he can be saved. Another bullet dodged. It's gonna be a great day.

martha stewart doesn't live here anymore

It was not my sort of place at all.

It was a balmy evening in May in 2002 when we pulled into the tiny hamlet of Mariposa, California (population 1,380) located just outside our ultimate destination, Yosemite National Park. Weary from pounding the road and short with each other, we drove around in search of a room, a drink and a meal, very much in that order. Averse to chain motels but unwilling to share a bathroom in the name of historical authenticity, we settled on a festively pink and white Victorian-looking inn, which beckoned with the promise of whimsy, historical relevance and, most importantly, en suite baths. Unfortunately, the rooms themselves were located not in the main house but in a contemporary annex just off the front porch. By annex, I mean a low motel-like structure, and by contemporary, I mean circa 1969.

Funky motel, and I do mean that in a bad way, just off 152, I huffed, writing in full-blown princess mode in my travel journal late that night. The Burgundy Room ~ all shag carpeting and veneer, reeks of old smoke and disinfectant. I don't know how I'll ever get to sleep....

At which point I promptly fell asleep, as evidenced by the pen mark weaving it's way drunkenly to the bottom of, and eventually off, the page. So much for my delicate sensibilities.

The next morning, over fresh fruit, homemade chocolate cake and coffee served by the owner's husband, we met the lady of the house herself. Tall and elegant, she was glamorously, but tastefully, made-up at 8:00 in the morning. Turk swears she was well over 80, although I thought perhaps 70-ish. She carried herself with the confidence of a woman still certain of her beauty, as she had every reason to be. We were joined by her friend of many years, an ex-showgirl who had been one of the original Rockettes, and whose late husband had been, at various points in his career, a stand-in for Vincent Price, a theatrical agent and a Las Vegas entertainer. Apparently, the two women and their husbands had had some rollicking good times together before all four retired to this quiet little town, and I marvelled and envied both their joyfully youthful style and the depth and longevity of their mutual bond.

At some point, this delightfully fascinating woman invited us into her living quarters/parlor in the original building. I have never seen anything quite like it before or since. She, or someone, had painted everything in sight ~ wooden cabinets, plastic lawn furniture ~ you name it, it was covered with paint and scenes of birds, flowers, landscapes ~ whatever had taken the painter's fancy. A huge scarf with enormous open squares was draped over a grand piano like a great yellow web spun by a demented spider. Our hostess had crocheted it herself, just as she had the rag rugs made from her husband's old shirts that were scattered all over the floor. Victorian tchotchkes perched on every available surface, adding to the sense of exuberant chaos.

But my absolutely favorite thing about the room was the mural. Her sister had painted it, she told me, and it took up two entire, rather large, walls. It was a free-flowing, non-sequential series of scenes and family portraits depicting the couple's colorful history together. Smiling, disembodied heads floated next to bucolic landscapes, which might be situated above a detailed rendering of a beloved dog or house or bird. They added to it, she said laughing, as the mood took them. It was mad. It was eccentric. It was wonderful.

I knew I wanted to be more like this lovely woman; to adopt some of her spiritual independence. This, I thought, is how women ought to be allowed to age; confident, vibrant, full of zest. This, I realized, is how I wanted to create my home ~ full of art that has meaning, created in pleasure and meant to bring joy to those who live and spend time there. Who cares what an interior decorator might think? Or your neighbors? Or the mental health practitioners, who will no doubt soon be knocking on your door? This is for you, your family, your friends. Home is where the heart is, after all. And mine is a wild and eccentric thing.

When we got back to the house I surveyed my tasteful but empty walls, covered in the pale blue floral chosen by a previous owner. I dragged out the small set of oils I'd purchased years ago and never used. I painted Red Tulips and hung it in my kitchen, where it still hangs today. I like it. It looks the way I meant it to look, always a happy surprise ~ bright and colorful, yet tinged with melancholy; short-lived beauty casting deep shadows into the last long rays of the sun. I know. I may not be crazy yet, but I'm working on it.

Best motel ever.

'toons to the rescue!

Pearls Before Swine


I am so far from achieving my 10-pound-loss-before-posting goal that I am now officially amending it to a 12-pound-loss-before-posting rule.

Also, I am officially breaking it.

Just for a quickie I promise, and just because I really cannot shut up for too long a period of time before all my unresolved issues start building up in my brain tissue, sending subtle messages to my hypothalamus to start making more fat cells, which the hippcampus then transmits to the abdomen, which then hits the blubber ball out of the park. I'm pretty sure that's how it works.

And speaking of science that anyone can just make up however they feel like, the Bush Administration on Friday rejected its own handpicked experts' conclusion that global warming poses a threat to the public welfare, effectively delaying action to reduce greenhouse gas emissions until Barack Obama takes office in January. This actually represents an improvement in the administrations previous methodology, which consisted (I kid you not) of simply refusing to open the EPA's emails until they revised their reccomendations according to White House demands.

Speaking anonymously and off the record, one senior official said only, "La La La La La La! I can't hear you!" while holding his hands over his ears and shutting his eyes really tightly.

Fortunately, there is something we the people can do, and it is something that takes little or no effort, involves absolutely no sacrifice on our part and could even result in the winning of fabulous prizes, which is the nationally preferred method of serving our country.

Choose your Science Idol!

On issues from air quality to global warming, government science
is being censored, manipulated, and distorted on an
unprecedented scale. To draw attention to this problem and have
a little fun, the Union of Concerned Scientists is hosting
Science Idol: the Scientific Integrity Editorial Cartoon
Contest.

In April and May, they received hundreds of entries. In June,
UCS worked with four highly accomplished, award-winning
cartoonists and cartoon editors to narrow down the field to 12
talented finalists.

Now, all of us have the chance to vote for the 2007 Science
Idol--and win a 2008 Defending Science calendar featuring the
best 12 cartoons.

C'mon, go ahead and vote. Support your favorite cartoonist. It'll make their day, I promise. And it might even make yours.


http://ucsaction.org/campaign/science_idol_2008_vote?rk=NpcxFhFqc2W2W

what the yogi saw

So there I was, breathing deeply into my forward bend.

It had been 3 long weeks since I'd last attended my yoga class ~ 3 weeks of living the good life, the high life, the straight-to-my-thigh life. In addition to the splurges associated with our fun-loving guest, I celebrated my birthday this weekend by trying to eat and drink my way into the Guinness Book of World Records.

One day, lunch at the local grill with a girlfriend (mojitos, ahi salad, bread and ...mojitos!) was followed by some casual shopping, which led to a few hilarious rounds at the bar of a deconsecrated church (peartinis, bruschetta and blasphemy) where we made our pious young bartender so nervous with our irreverent joking that he apologized to whatever gods there be several times on our behalf. This was eventually followed by a light repast (pizza and beer) out on the patio with the neglected Turk ~ you know, just so he wouldn't feel left out.

The next night found me enjoying a nice mushroom risotto, goat cheese salad and a superb lamb prepared in a plumy red wine sauce at Napa Rose, where Turk had made reservations for a wonderfully romantic dinner, enhanced by a very-berry pinot noir. Sunday was all about pasta, vino and a celebratory cheesecake. All told, it was all less birthday than carnival, really. If I did a calorie count of the past several days (weeks) I'd have to do the right thing and and shoot myself. Instead I took the coward's way out and headed for a gym.

I was thus enjoying the feeling of being once again inwardly focused, surprised by how readily my body was responding in spite of so much pleasurable but blatant abuse. It was a joy to let go in a positive, healing manner. Yielding to the soothing rhythm of the Tibetan gong chiming softly in the background, I sank yet deeper into my pose. Grasping my ankles, I sent a long, slow breath into the back of my legs and pulled my forehead to my knees. With a small, satisfied smile on my lips, I opened my eyes.

And that's when I saw it. Looming behind me was a massive mound of stretched-to-capacity black micro-fiber. My startled face appeared directly below.

"OMFG!" thought I, because I really do think almost exclusively in text messaging now (tex mex, if you will) although I have never actually sent a text message nor do I ever anticipate so doing. But I think in it. Because it is so much easier to swear in it.

"Is that thing mine?"

I shook my own tiny hiney. And watched in dismay as the monolith in the mirror shifted in kind. Zen and reflective glass don't lie; that monster was mine.

Knocked the chi right outta me.

Waiting for me when I got home was a card from my best mate since high school telling me, among other things, that she had just signed up to run a half-marathon. By contrast, I was anticipating yet another party on Sunday, this time to be held in honor of one of Turk's golf buddies at a place well known for the excellence of it's brunches; my only goal had been to scale the shrimp tower and take a heady dip in the champagne fountain.

I have really got to get my act together.

And since no one should be made to suffer my sins but me (there is nothing more dreary than someone else's diet and exercise routines, however noble) I will be taking my sorry self offline to do so. See you in 10 pounds.

I'm still going to that party, though. This could take a while.

not-so-deep thoughts

Yesterday I had that rare gem of a thing ~ a whole day to myself in which to do absolutely nothing. No deeds to do, no promises to keep. And nothing is exactly what I did. Well, I did do some painting but it didn't go very well and amounted to little, so I'm pretty sure that counts as nothing. It generally does.

Turk and I had been playing host to an old friend from Boston for the past several days, and it has flown by in a haze of good food, decent wines and better beers.

We ambled through family photographs online, indulging liberally in memories and laughter. We took in a movie; Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of Crystal Meth, I believe it was. We gave it three thumbs meh (pro forma, light on plot).

Turk grilled up a mess o' pork ribs, which he burnt beyond recognition. Our friend took us to lunch. We all went to the beach and ate watching the sun go down. One day we hit the local sports pub and debated the relative merits of the White Sox v Cubs with a Long Beach couple who had recently returned from Chicago. We went to the mall; Alex shopped for a birthday present for his wife, while I scored an adorable top at the Guess store for $21.99, marked down from the original $80. It was even my size, which is good because I would probably have bought it anyway. I generally do. And just when I thought life couldn't get any better, it did.

My friend debugged my computer. He took on the dread Demon of Darkness that is Vista, and 3 hours later emerged from the guest room bloodied but victorious, triumphantly holding a printed piece of paper aloft like the head of a slain enemy. The beast has been bested. And I can print again.

What can I say? Life is good. Life is very good.

I grow weary

...of complaining about my computer. But I haven't had a printer for some months now, and it's making me crazy. The last thing I printed out was a plane ticket to New York back in January. After that, it's all a sadly image-less, undocumented blur.

It appears that sometime during one of the last of my multiple System Recovery operations, Vista decided that it would not work and play well with others, including the previously problem-free Epson printer. No one I contacted at HP or Epson tech support has any idea what to do about it and, in fact, ever since my warranty expired in April HP tech support has stopped taking my calls. I suspect that Trevor may have filed a stalking suit against me. Frankly, I don't blame him. (Oh, Trevor ~ how could you leave me after all we've been through? That fateful system recovery was all you, Trevor! I did it for you! Trev? TREVOR....??)

So, where was I? Oh, yeah ~ in any case, nothing I nor anyone else can think of has solved the issue. I get the same error message;



Yes. Thank you. No kidding. Especially for the terrifying exclamation point. I'll have you know that the printer works splendidly off line; it's just that after several uninstall/installs something went awry and it can't interface with the operating system anymore. I thought it might be the driver when I saw this on the MS website:

Windows Vista may stop responding when you install software that adds legacy network drivers

but a check of the system swears that everything is working as god and Bill Gates intended. I'm worn out and bleary-eyed from trying to find patches. I've downloaded all Microsoft's Vista updates and searched for fixes, but Vista won't allow me to make some downloads; I get an astonishing 'You are not authorized access...' message and refusal to comply.

I am, I assure you, duly authorized, deputized and canonized as Chief Administrator and Lord High Mayor of this little berg and have so instructed the computer; as far as access goes, if not me, then who? If not now, when? I don't need a system recovery, I need a system overthrow.

If anyone knows of a cure for what ails me and my HAL (outside of a new printer or a shotgun) I'd be grateful if you'd let me know. In the meantime, I'm off to clean the house in anticipation of visitors. If I can get the vacuum cleaner to interface with the dust cloth, that is, never an easy task on the best of days. As if housekeeping weren't torture enough, my MP3 player just broke. No pictures. No music. No Trevor. Cleaning.

I go to my doom. Pray for me.