just friends

Had the urge to roast some walnuts this afternoon. I love the fragrance of warming nut oils. Thought for a moment, "Hey, I'm enjoying a little culinary moment here! Maybe I haven't broken up completely with the Holidays. Perhaps we could meet for coffee and just be friends."

But I'm not sleeping with them again, goddammit.

on death and decorating

I was sitting in the reading room (use your imagination, we own a 1920 Victorian bungalow that doesn't have a music room, butler pantry or servants' quarters either) and noticed that, at some point, someone had closed the door on a baby gecko. There in the bottom few inches of the door jam was splayed the cartoon-flat, brown reptilian remains. Not a lizard-shaped paint chip as I had assumed in an earlier, nearsighted observation.

We're not going to go all CSI here and determine the culprit or cause of death, though one would have to be full-out moron not to have a pretty good idea how Mr. Lizard crossed-over. After the initial (brief) "poor critter," I quickly segued into "damn, that's cool." (It's abundantly clear why I am never going to be a crazy pet lady.) Anyway, I was thinking how fabulous it would be to have "fossil" remains scattered throughout the drywall of our house. Little bits of evidence of history. An architectural-archeological blend, if you will.

I'm in house-remodeling mode. I love this part. Where there is no idea too off-center, expensive or impractical to be mused upon. I also love secret compartments and ways to display my tools that combine storage and decoration.

We went for a walk this morning. No shit. I actually left the house and allowed the sun to shine upon my happy hermit head. Stopped by a new store in our neighborhood called Tansu. I hate window shopping and I'm not crazy about the trendy, antique-stuffed, overpriced shops that have sprung up all over our part of the Heights. But some of the products they advertised in their postcard mailer looked interesting. Besides, we were out walking and it distracted me from the notion that I might be exercising.

I wandered upstairs, took one look at a bedroom set they had on display and fell hopelessly in love. As I have confessed before, I make no decision quickly. I have been "researching" (not "window shopping," dammit) headboards and dressers for...well, forever. I rarely find something that makes me look twice and there it was. Oh, hell, here's what I'm talking about (ignore the basket with the greenery—I'm never going to be the crazy plant lady either):

A blend of Arts & Crafts and Japanese furniture styles. Now, I've never been drawn to Asian design as strongly as I have to Arts & Crafts and more modern forms but these pieces have won me over. Solid cherry and black walnut crafted in Vermont at a place called Copeland Furniture. Never mind that it costs a pretty penny, look at the colors and clean lines. Covet the subtle curves and beautiful drawer pulls. Drool over the joinery and solid craftsmanship.

And I think the fossil and tool motif will work beautifully with it.

video games or alarm clocks?

milan in the morning

"...people don't respect the morning. An alarm clock violently wakes them up, shatters their sleep like the blow of an ax, and they immediately surrender themselves to deadly haste. Can you tell me what kind of day can follow a beginning of such violence? What happens to people whose alarm clock daily gives them a small electric shock? Each day they become more used to violence and less used to pleasure."

Milan Kundera, Farewell Waltz

And this written in 1973, just slightly after Atari appeared on the market but well before video games became a part of the cultural consciousness. And well before video games began to replace other outdoor kid activities like playing that oh-so-wholesome (if-you've-been-living-in-a- cultural-blackhole) game of "Cowboys and Indians." Before our society's violence became intrinsically linked to increasingly graphic TV shows and video games.

As I drifted awake this morning (for the third time, saintsbepraised), I wondered about alarm clocks and their contribution to world violence. Oh, certainly there was violence before snooze buttons and Pong, but how much have these devices really contributed? Or do they just feed the destructive need inherent in human beings?

I don't know. It's early and I haven't had my second cup of coffee. All I know is that my state of mind sans alarm clock is much more attuned to pleasure than violence. So I'm going to have my coffee and read the Sunday comics rather than rant about the roots of violence in our culture. Ahh.

junk food vs. fast food

What with mad cow disease, avian flu and the historic swine flu, the non-meat-eaters in our country must be delirious with vegetarian vindication. The vegans have probably gloated themselves into spontaneous combustion (oh, I meant bloated...all those raw vegetables make you so gassy). So what are we, the shameless carnivores, supposed to do? Begin sheepishly sifting through the organic tofu (that's right, though it seems redundant) and bulgur wheat patties at our local Whole Foods store?

Probably. But for those of us who hear the words: T-Bone, Ribeye, and even New York Strip Steak accompanied by a faint but persistent angelic choir in our heads, there must be another option. If we, as a culture, can master the chemical prestidigitation involved in making a Hostess Twinkie, than we can figure out how to raise, butcher and prepare an animal without turning the fucker into a petrie dish of deadly disease.

And speaking of Twinkies, it is amazing how much shit is written about them little snack cakes. On first googling, I found more upbeat, urban myth-destroying links with a pro-Hostess-spin than anything about the nutritional abomination that they are. Of course, it goes without saying that I love them. There is no verifiable reason, except for connecting their sweet, chemical sponginess with all things primal...like a warm bottle, a dry bottom and a well-worn blankie.

There are even Twinkie Recipes (from Hostess, of course) complete with a stunning cross-cultural, cross-genre recipe for Twinkie Sushi...don't think about it, just do it. The other recipe photos look way too much like regurgitation for me to recommend them.

Then, there's the Twinkie Project. Purportedly executed right here in Houston at Rice University. The harsh tests of Twinkie endurance were spellbinding but the haiku was disappointing. Still, you've got to love two young men, attending one of the most prestigious universities in the south, spending that much time concocting, conducting and documenting their experiments on the cellophane-wrapped nutritional equivalent of etymology's bastard child, "crapulence."

What I want to know is why can't you order Twinkies in the drive-through at fast food places? Wouldn't that be perfect? Slick up your digestive tract with more foods that use the word "extruded" somewhere in their formulae. Until this moment, I never fully comprehended the difference between junk food and fast food and now I get it. However, the day a Twinkie shows up on Mickey D's backlit microphoned menu will be the day that the two will, once again, become one.

thanksretreating

Well, my firstborn left yesterday for his next adventure. I will miss him greatly...but it makes me smile to know that he is happily roadtripping across the country. Once again Barbara worked her magic and managed to get all of David's possessions into his vehicle. It's like watching all those clowns climb back into the Volkswagen Beetle. You're positive that all that stuff won't all fit, but she jigsaw-puzzles it together with room to spare.

He got to Phoenix early this afternoon, arriving two days before Thanksgiving for his little brother. Wednesday is "Special Person" day at 8-year old Gavin's school and he wanted his big brother David to come with him and be his "special person." It is so sweet I can't stand it.

I'm feeling a little sheepish about Thanksgiving. After all, it has been a 20+ year tradition for us to put out a huge spread and have family and friends join us. But I'm completely uninterested in doing any of it. After all these years, all I want to do is sleep late and have a turkey sandwich. The sheepish part is getting use to the 180° reversal of attitude. How could something be eagerly anticipated year after year and then, suddenly, be of no interest at all? It's like I've broken up with the Holidays.

feeling better, sort of

After making many of straight friends, family and acquaintances feel uncomfortable last week over my reaction to the whole Proposition 2 debacle, I am somewhat happy to report that my outrage and heartbreak have begun to heal over. Other people's glossed-over, laissez-faire response to our "predicament" doesn't make me want to light into them with the grocery list of ways these kind of laws and documents can fuck up our lives. I am just conscious of how much that kind of anger can debilitate me after the initial rush.

Anyway, onward and upward. Or something.

I was walking around downtown during lunch late last week. The weather is finally beautiful in this overheated city. Yet we are still a decidely indoor people. As I walked past Miró sculpture in front of the Chase building, I saw a group of smokers clustered together on their little concrete island of exile. It ocurred to me that the need to smoke every 2 or 3 hours forces them to go outside more than the rest of us. The smokers probably get more fresh air than the non-smokers.

The holidays are coming and I'm feeling unusually bland about them. For an atheist, I sure do love those Christian-glazed holidays. But this year, I find myself relieved that our kids will be visiting their stepmother and we won't have to dredge up the energy to celebrate until Christmastime.

Okay, I'm starting to depress myself here, so I'm going to bed. Like my mother always said, if you can't think of anything nice to blog about...

only halfway home, it seems

It occurred to me the this past week that I've lived in Houston for exactly half of my life: 23-1/2 years. That's amazing since I came here from New York under protest. But I never expected to fall in love with Texas nor with a Texas woman. But I did. Raised my family here, went to college here, enjoyed a career here and bought a wonderful old, needy house here.

I'm not sure why some people are content to move from place to place while others are inclined to settle down immediately. Oh, there are theories but sometimes it feels like it's coded on your DNA...it's such a primal pull to nest or wander. I'm not quick to make major decisions—particularly about where I hang my hat. I circle, I sniff, I investigate, I weigh options. It's maddening to the people around me, I'm sure. But once I've decided, I'm pretty much immoveable.

So I applied for adoption. Gave up my New York residency literally and figuratively and became a Texan. I love this place in all it's contradictory, arrogant splendor. My roots have grown deep and this is home.

Last night, for the first time in over 20 years, I began to think of leaving. Leaving my big city and my beloved house. Leaving the tang and twang of a culture that taught me to wear cowboy boots and eat spicy food. Leaving a city of full of fascinating people and dear friends. Proposition 2 passed yesterday by a heartbreaking 76%:

Marriage in this state shall consist only of the union of one man and one woman. [already a law]
This state or a political subdivision of this state may not create or recognize any legal status identical or similar to marriage. [my italics]

Oh, shit, people. Fear and Bigotry. It's not political anymore, it's personal. You have said in one loud ignorant voice that my relationship of 19 years deserves no respect and no protection. That all feeble protections I've eked out of the system (domestic partner coverage, hospital privileges, last wills, etc.) over the last few years are up for grabs. Back into that legal limbo freefall without a landing pad.

Where will we go? Will anyplace ever feel this much like home again?

homonyms of the week

I am a whore for homonyms (almost as apeshit about alliteration):

• rheumy/roomy
• neigh/nay
• whirred/word

namely this

Nomenclature. What you call it. It's a weighty responsibility (and opportunity) that, frankly, most people do not value enough
HoMedics
What knucklebrain missed this one? Here's the deal. You don't dismiss a product name solely because of a possible adolescent interpretation. Adolescents can mutate any name into something disgusting, sexual or negative. It's their job and, by god, they are good at it. However, you don't have to be intuned to your Beavis or Butthead persona to understand why "HoMedics" is a bad idea.
They took two fairly benign concepts: Home and Medic. They noticed, cleverly, that the last two letters of one were the first two letters of the other. And they never looked back. Then, they put a little symbol under the "o" and superscripted it, just in case anyone out there missed the point. Anyway you slice it, Ho Medics sounds like sex worker EMTs. If you emphasize the home part instead, you get Home Dic(k)s. Which conjures up no healthier an image.
Liars
Speaking of whoring dicks, this just in from our favorite almost-hip, not-quite-cool, musically-challenged Captain Kirk...
William Shatner has been pimping a local law firm aptly named "Smith & Hassler" How, how, how, does he deliver this shit without a hint of irony? He's not that good of an actor. I desperately want to add another partner or two. Smith, Hassler & Irritant. Or Smith, Hassler & Sold-My-Soul-to-Satan, Ltd. (Not board certified in anything but lucrative misdirection.)
Nice Republican Apellation
My friends have a new nephew named Cannon. I didn't know if I should publicize this...but it is too good to pass up (I'll leave out the last names, okay?). The baby's older brother and sister are named Hunter and Savannah. Hunter, Savannah, and Cannon. And Savannah was almost named Remington. How can you top that? Send them to Big Game Nursery School?
In my Father's House, I mean, Neighborhood
While perusing new home ads (because I love what builders come up with for new streets and developments) I came across this beauty: "Kingdom Come Manor." Kingdom Come—no shit. What do you think? Think we're looking at a big welcome sign for non-Christians? Clearly, Apu this is not the place for you. Mohammed get thee to Allah Estates. Esther, we're building a nice, very nice development across town called Hebrew Homes. I don't know. Kingdom Come. Just sounds like it's asking for it. I would give up my left tit to name the streets on the wrong side of the tracks. And there will be a 7 Deadly Sins Avenue. And a 666 Beelzebub Blvd.

my hail marys, our fathers

Sometimes I come to this blogging experience like a penitent Catholic.
"Readers, forgive me, it's been 11 days since my last submission..."

Here are the random thoughts (you're always on my mind) I've been collecting in the interim.
All grown up
Went and had my annual PapMammopalooza yesterday. Feel like such an adult. Haven't been feeling particularly fit lately. Okay, I feel like shit being dragged around in a generic trash bag. Anyway, I only thought I felt bad as I was directed towards pre-stirrups-humiliation-weigh-in. Knew I'd put on a couple of pounds, but was unprepared for the...enormity (floabw) of the metamorphosis. Almost awe-inspiring in that "I got all that done in just six months? Damn!"
Been doing a fair amount of brain teaser/word puzzles lately. Subconscious fear of Alzheimers is my guess. It's like cerebral calesthenics—I actually get kind of a good brain rush...hard to explain. Anyway, it occurred to me that if my physical energy and my mental energy were switched out, I'd be a mildly retarded professional athlete.
My son
My son is moving from Houston to California. Or Oregon...I'm not completely sure. I hate the thought of being an even vaguely clingy mom. Hate it. But, shit, I love that boy and here are some of the reasons why.

• He was recently in Seattle and called me to tell me about this bumpersticker he thought I'd appreciate: We're making enemies faster than we can kill them. This from a previously apolitical creature who is guarded (and rightly so) about the tendency for people to turn over their mental steering wheel to whichever leader, preacher or whackjob happens to have a spare set of keys.
  

• Popular culture and music are appealing to me, but not always on my radar screen. I don't have to personally track down what's happening because I can just call my son. Like the other day I asked him, "what the hell is that tuft of hair called that guys grow just below their lower lip?" And he says, "It's a soul patch, mom." And I am completely happy.

• Our tastes in books, music and movies have enough overlap that his suggestions are almost always on target. He recently suggested we watch Me, You and Everyone We Know. And all I can say is ))<>((

Lordy, lordy
When the moons of religion and irony align, I say HALLELUJAH. Do not miss this article about a baptizing, proselytzing, electrifying Waco preacher.

vigils: power or futility?

Mecom Fountain, 6:30 p.m., tonight October 26, 2005

There are nationwide vigils tonight mourning the 2,000th life lost in Iraq (2000 U.S. military lives, of course. There've been estimates that the Iraqis have lost anywhere between 10,000 and 37,000 lives in this war) and whenever I mention this, I always hear the question what is the point of having a protest at all?
Well, it's not like the vigils are going to change national policy overnight. And it is always tempting to reduce such activities as impotent stands by a bunch of hippie fanatics. But most modern social and political change, regarded as historically successful or beneficial, has woven into it's beginnings protests such as these.
This is, after all, the week of Rosa Park's death. At the very least, we should not be giving up our seat to an injustice, just because the majority don't agree or are too afraid to speak up. As opposed to hiding behind internet donations or grumbling in private conversations, the act of standing up in public (or remaining seated, whatever makes the statement) is a powerful symbol. Often as unsettling to those that demonstrate as it is to those that drive by.
2752 lives were lost on 9/11. What happens when we match that number with U.S. military deaths in Iraq? Because everyone knows that is what this is really about. A war to avenge the loss of American life in the 9/11 WTC attack. Whether the attackers and Iraqi leaders were directly connected or not (not). Whether there were weapons of mass destruction or not (not). Whether Bush told the truth or not (you fill it in). So what will we have proven? We can kill our own (and others) with as little justification as al-Qaeda?
This war has always been a huge mistake. We have proven nothing and have earned the widespread disgust and disapproval of most of the civilized world. Tens of thousands of lives have been brutally, and meaninglessly lost. "W" is for wrong.
P.S. The rally was small (less than the 150 signed up, I would estimate) but earnest. Most people just drove by. Many honked and gave us the peace sign. A few flipped us off or swore at us. Altogether a gratifying exercise of freedom of expression by all.

random thoughts that cheer me up

virago \vuh-RAH-go; vuh-RAY-go\, noun:
1. A woman of extraordinary stature, strength, and courage.
2. A woman regarded as loud, scolding, ill-tempered, quarrelsome, or overbearing.
[what a surprise, this second definition]

"In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king."
Erasmus said it first, but Tom Waits said it best.

"If I were King of the Forest,
Not queen, not duke, not prince.
My regal robes of the forest,
would be satin, not cotton, not chintz."
The Cowardly Lion

surled wearies

There are probably eight Houstonians not watching the Astros/White Sox game right now.
I am only technically not one of them...because I'm not in front of the television but Barbara is calling plays and scores to me while I do something, anything, but watch the game. It's not that I don't like baseball, it's that the pleasure I experience is not worth the stress I receive while watching.
Anyway, I'm in one of those creative and conversational troughs. To use a topical metaphor, my mental catcher keeps signaling suggestions to me and I keep shaking her off. Nothing seems all that interesting. So I'll stop here until something fabulous pops into my head or I get knocked over by a line drive.
P.S. Went to bed early. Slept like a Cardinals fan.

proposition too stupid

MoveOn.org sent an email to it's members asking if we wanted to endorse or oppose Texas' Proposition 2 on the November ballot. Prop 2 bans same-sex marriage and goes further to define marriage in such a way as to potentially nullify any domestic partnership benefits and prevent any form of civil union. This is a no-brainer but I guess they ask so as to accurately represent their members. No surprise, I oppose the measure. I sent the following (or a cleaner, abridged version of it) to MoveOn:
In ten days, my partner and I will celebrate our 19th anniversary. We met, raised two children, bought a house and have worked here in Houston during these 19 years. It is beyond ridiculous that ours and other same-sex relationships be regarded as less than "real" marriages—it is a national disgrace and, to put it eloquently, just plain fucking stupid.
Most of the people I have worked with (in oil & gas corporations, no less) over the years–Texans across the political spectrum–have had little or no problem with my orientation or our relationship. I mean, they didn't really care one way or the other...which is the true measure of success. The real issue is that if we were granted the legal right to marry today, it would hardly cause a ripple among the general public. The majority would be completely unaffected.
This is just a diversionary tactic and I am sick of being used by homophobic conservatives as a political hot potato. Give us the same rights and get on to other pressing matters.
I am so goddamn tired of this foolishness.

birthday postscript

Since we were petsitting for friends out in East Jesus on my birthday, Barbara found a steakhouse–my annual carnivorous request–to take me to in (far) East Jesus called Hoffbrau Steakhouse. We headed over there after tending the dogs. When we arrived at the address, the sign was there but the restaurant was not. Turns out the owners changed the name to "Texas Country Cookin'." Now, any business sporting an apostrophe where the g used to live is immediately suspect. Then again, Texans do know their beef. Besides we were already out there, so in we went.
What a fully-rounded cultural experience: from the wan looking 16-year old hostess named Tiffany, to the dusty, taxidermied critters in the front showcase (available for sale, of course), to the spotty-looking longhorn cattle head on the wall, to the waitstaff all sporting shirts that looked like the state flag with armholes—all screaming local charm. But nothing, and I mean nothing, was more apropos than the unexpected entertainment.
Sitting at one of those electric organs that have all the musical instruments mystically crammed onto the motherboard and available at the flick of a switch, was the lead and only singer for Rockin' Rod's Oldies Revue. Yessirree Bob, there he was, a sixty-year old man in a gimme cap singing Temptations hits with a such a twang that I imagine that's what it would look like if they taxidermied Motown. Rockin' Rod. Again with the apostrophic assault.
I felt morally obligated to order Surf & Turf. The waitress brought us our soft drinks in two quart-sized plastic glasses. The straw a vertical pole in the chunky ice floe of diet coke. The food was mediocre but the experience was sublime. I think Barbara wants to make sure you know that she expected this to be a good steakhouse. She gets full credit and I am the one who insisted we stay. What a great time.

they say it's your birthday

So yesterday I celebrated my 47th birthday. And like every year since we've been together, Barbara treated me like royalty. Well that's an understatement.
It sounds so sentimental (and I am perversely allergic to all things sentimental—especially on the heels of my diatribe against "cutesiness") but it's the the naked truth that the woman treats me like it's my birthday everyday. Why is it so hard to talk about having found this unbelievable relationship? Because misery is so much more interesting? Or am I just afraid of making someone else feel badly...like I'm bragging? Or because I don't want anyone to think I'm sappy? Jesuschrist, that's so stupid.
It will be 19 years this month that we've been together. I've snagged the brass ring. I think we are more than the clichéd soulmates. She is the loveliest human being I've ever known and facing the world together side-by-side is the most unexpected and wonderful experience of my life. We each have strengths and weaknesses oddly complementary to the other's weaknesses and strengths. But I can't say exactly why this extraordinary relationship works. Yes, we communicate and, yes, we treat each other with care...but some of this feels like luck. Just two roads crossing at the right place. I don't believe there's a cosmic "cruise director" out there. No Fates moving the chess pieces at the perfectly timed moment. I just feel lucky. And happy. So happy birthday to lucky me.

cutesiness

Thanks to my dear friend Joe, I am happy to share this bit of holiday consumer tackiness: the christmas sweaters are in and on sale.
Holy Jesus of the Kitsch Creche, you can actually put your hands in reindeer head pockets. As a crusader against all things "kute" I may sound a little harsh about the "Christmas Kitties" sweater and the like. But I find that kind of cuteness in adults to be as appealing as drooling.
And these sweaters are actually more classy than some I've seen. If you want to see some real beauties, go near a mall or flea market in November and be visually pummelled with Christmas Regalia Apparel Purchases. And we all know what that spells. And while we're on the subject of Christmas "Kitties," they are kittens not kitties, underpants not panties, and most of all: tits not titties. We are not three years old.
Happy Holidays.

a secret and some sleep

No More Secrets
I realize that none of you have been sitting on the edge of your cyberseat waiting to find out about the big SECRET...but I'm going to pretend you were anyway. (Besides, most of you already know, even if you didn't know you knew.) We've been preparing for my parents' 50th wedding anniversary surprise party. There. Now you know for sure. I couldn't take the chance that they'd stumble across my blog site and spoil the surprise, hence the big hush-hush.

So. A huge success. Both Rafael and Dolores were very surprised and, after the initial shock of seeing that many people giving them a standing ovation, seemed delighted. There were 80+ family and friends in attendance and everything went smoothly (a tribute to my anal-retentive list-making personality, so I'm told).

Barbara and I scanned and cleaned family photos for months so we could present Mom and Dad with a Flash presentation of their lives together, complete with The Penguins singing Earth Angel in the background. It was a total success. We also had six photographs of them enlarged to poster-size and mounted. These were hung up on the balcony above the head table and added so much to the ambience (thank you, LF, you rock).

All the siblings worked together. Gena made copious arrangements for food and housing, not to mention running interference on the day of so that Dad wouldn't show up at his usual hangout—the clubhouse where we were furiously setting up; Michael made and provided 60+ bottles of wine with our parents' portrait on the labels; Elysa created beautiful centerpieces; Elena and Mark took care of setup and lighting. Then we all worked together to take care of a thousand other details. Michael, Elena, and our cousin Sean snapped photos (which I'd love to post as soon as I get them). Gena's friends pitched in like they were family (and like it or not, kids, you are now). Thr surprise arrival of Marisa and Lindsay (a surprise to Elysa and I) provided by our cousin Maureen completed the event.

I love my parents and they deserved to be honored for making their relationship work for 50 years and everything that entails. I don't love them because they are Ward and June Cleaver. I love them because they are not. Because their life triumphs are all the more significant in light of their feet of clay and, just as importantly, my feet of clay. There is always tension when grown families reunite. Particularly when we all live a thousand miles away from each other. But not one thing during this weekend felt like a step backwards. It was all either great or encouraging. I am so proud of my parents, my brother and sisters and all of our children.

The Aftermath
That was last weekend. A cool front finally broke the oppressive heat spell yesterday. Last night was the first air-conditioner-free night in over 5 months and holymarymotherofgod did I sleep well. I slept like every hour of sleep was a gulp of cool water after walking for miles in the heat. (So maybe I woke up a little bloated.) Not setting an alarm was a delightful indulgence.

Now, what? I'm having a little post-event blues (as always) and trying to tame the project-induced chaos in my house. This is not my strong suit but there's more sweet than bitter in my weariness and tapping into some new creative (albeit downscaled) project will help. It's my methadone.

Work continues to put a smile on my face. I am learning all sorts of stuff. It may surprise my friends and family how many hours I spend at work completely silent—just tackling the animation at hand, headphones on, mouse just a-clickin'. My co-workers are delightful, quirky geeks. I am so at home I can't stand it! I miss my old friends at other jobs (and you know who you are) and wish I could transport them all to where I am. I've begun signing off voicemail messages or emails as "reporting live from downtown Houston..." and I know that is completely stupid but I can't control myself.

Okay, that's all for now. Thanks for not giving up on this blog. It's a source of incredible happiness to me to know that you're still reading and responding.

tom waits on the day after

Heard an interview with Tom Waits on American Routes. It was particularly sweet to stumble upon this taped interview because, well, I am a huge fan of Waits (I hate saying I'm a huge fan because the modifier seems to slip around the sentence a bit), and after the pressure of the past few days it cheered me right up.

They played a particularly fabulous piece from Real Gone called Day After Tomorrow. I tried to put the whole song in a two-column table but Blogger.com evidently doesn't like that, so I'm just including part of the song (I added italics to lyrics I particularly liked because it's my blog, dammit):

I close my eyes
Every night
And I dream that I can hold you
They fill us full of lies
Everyone buys
About what it means to be a soldier
I still don't know how I'm supposed to feel
About all the blood that's been spilled
Look out on the street
Get me back home
On the day after tomorrow

You can't deny
The other side
Don't want to die
Any more than we do
What I'm trying to say,
Is don't they pray
To the same God that we do?
Tell me, how does God choose?
Whose prayers does he refuse?
Who turns the wheel?
And who throws the dice
On the day after tomorrow?

Mmmmmmm...
I'm not fighting
For justice
I am not fighting
For freedom
I am fighting
For my life
And another day
In the world here
I just do what I've been told
You're just the gravel on the road
And the one's that are lucky
One's come home
On the day after tomorrow

hunker down

Since you asked:
hunker down

Nobody seems to know exactly what its origin is, though it has been suggested it’s linked to the Old Norse huka, to squat; that would make it a close cousin of old Dutch huiken and modern German hocken, meaning to squat or crouch, which makes sense. That’s certainly what’s meant by the word in American English, in phrases like hunker down or on your hunkers.

The Oxford English Dictionary has a fine description of how to hunker: “squat, with the haunches, knees, and ankles acutely bent, so as to bring the hams near the heels, and throw the whole weight upon the fore part of the feet”. The advantage of this position is that you’re not only crouched close to the ground, so presenting a small target for whatever the universe chooses to throw at you, but you’re also ready to move at a moment’s notice.

Hunker down has good onomatopoeia. Overtones of the word "chunk," which is a verb in the south, meaning to throw something like a hunk of debris.