That, right there, is what you call a “teachable moment.”
In one of my flippant, wine-accompanied, philosophical moments, the other night, I found myself saying, “Well, if it’s possible, it’s necessary.”
It just fell out. You know, I was standing around, my mouth was open, and then, Boom. There it was, a whole sentence, a sentiment of ontological bent, floating around the room.
Now, I usually say things for two reasons: Either I like the way it sounds (which is a sort of philosophy in and of itself), or I’m not aware of what I’m saying (which is more often the case).
Of course, far be it from me to retract a statement. Unless it’s slander or the like. No, I’d much rather pretend I meant I knew what I was saying and argue you down. It’s part-hobby, part-the-way-I-am. It’s also how I learn.
Because if I pace myself, and you know as well as I do that Argument is a finely-drawn art, I can find my way out by digging my way further in. In other words, I find some half-baked flaw in my own self-designed debate and make a remark a la “Didn’t I say that?”
To which the response is, No, I don’t think you said that.
And then, I’m pretty sure I did, why I was say anything else? That doesn’t make any sense.
If the wine has been forgiving, so will the other person, and before you can ask for the rest of the bottle, the whole point has been forgotten, or has been turned into a “teachable moment.” (more…)
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Nothing but the blood: GamVa.
So, keeping with my character sketches, how about I talk a little about the “partly-fictionalized” portion of my family tree?
There are quite a few branches there to be sure, of mismatched friends and who-not I’ve come to claim as family, but it starts further down, at the root, and trust me, it is one hell of a strong one.
Her name is GamVa.
Short for Grandma Virginia. Who isn’t actually my grandmother.
She’s not even really related to me. Not even a little bit. But that doesn’t make her any less “blood” in my eyes. She’s been as indelible a mark in my life as Blackburn molasses are to a sugar biscuit.
And as real as a thorn. (more…)
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Nothing but the blood: Tigi
Kirby thinks I ought to pen a few character sketches for you.
He and I were talking the other day and he said it’d be nice to explain who some of these people are that I keep writing about. He said it’d increase reader-interest if I described in some detail the repeated members of my sweet, dogged family I refer to so often in my memoir-esque blog.
I think that’s a great idea.
For several reasons: first, it’ll certainly help those precious few of you who read this thing with any regularity to have some reference points, and secondly, it’ll be a good wake-up call for me to reflect on those people who have influenced me so much in my life. Those that I take after, both in blood and beatitude.
It’s a good exercise for any of us, I think. Besides, lately, I’ve been so encumbered with work and worry that I’ve been straddling that god-awful fence of Depression, again.
So, as a remedy, I’m taking Kirby’s advice, to remember those who have made me, Me, for better or for worse.
And I’m going to start with the person I most remember as the center of my thrown-together, partly-fictionalized family. (I’ll explain what I mean by “partly-fictionalized” eventually…so, don’t you worry about it).
That person would be Tigi. (more…)
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It’s no Gashlycrumb Tinies, but the point is I wasn’t going for that, anyway.
I’ve been having the most interesting, intriguing, and ridiculous dreams lately. Last night, and I was medicine-free, mind you, I dreamed that I was a poet, of sorts, and that I was neighbors to a house.
Well, I should say, House. Because this House was alive, a real, bona-fide living House.
In addition to that, this House lived in an envelope.
That’s right. An envelope.
(It is a buyer’s market, right?)
At any rate, I’d been out of work for some time, and as a favor, the House had hired me to paint a new coat for its exterior.
Except, instead of paint, the House had asked specifically for poetry. (more…)
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Phenergan’s Wake
I’ve had an ill-behaving stomach, as of late.
Which has kept me up at nights, uneasy and nauseous. I couldn’t eat much of anything yesterday; I had to practically force myself to eat the leftover cheese sticks, a bowl of soup, and half a chocolate bar (with hazelnuts).
So, I did.
But, I couldn’t bear to go another night with fitful sleep; so last night, to combat this, I took a Phenergan. It’s a pill prescribed for upset stomachs, etc. We fear I might have IBS. (That’s quite a conversation-starter, there, is it not?)
It took a couple of hours, but it did the trick: it settled my stomach enough and made me drowsy enough to fall asleep and stay that way through most of the night. Though I fell asleep on the couch and as is the usual piper’s fee for that, I woke up with aching hips.
I also fell asleep with the heating pad on, which, the warning tag clearly indicates, is a no-no.
And the dream I had? Well…it was perfectly Joyce-ian, ironically comic and lengthy. As most of my dreams tend to be. I was, it seems, in my own version of Finnegans Wake, one that I am rightfully going to call, Phenergan’s Wake.
I swear that pun came to me just now.
(And I don’t care if you don’t believe me).
Here’s the dream, in two parts. (more…)
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Pointing, by the way, is not polite.
I’ve become a little too close to the janitor, at the college.
And it’s not that I mind, not one bit; it’s how we’ve become close that I find amusing and uncomfortable.
It involves Miller Light.
Sort of.
Before I go any further, I want you to be plainly aware that this is not about an academic caste system.
And I have a previous story to prove it.
Though I rarely tell this story from my Disney Days, prior to having the high-class job of character entertainment and the allure of being an Attractions Host at Disney Studios, I will come clean and tell you that the first job I was offered, through the Walt Disney College Program, or the CP, was that of Custodian.
I well remember the interview.
“Hi, my name is Kris, and I like people. If I’m hired to work at Disney, I want to be around people.”
“Ok, Kris. That’s easy enough, then. Your job will be Janitorial Host.” (more…)
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Five foods that made me who I am.
I’m still stuck on the potato log.
Meaning, since confessing to you about my lust and love for the said potato log, yesterday afternoon, I’ve not been able to think about anything else except food.
And so, at the risk of offending some of you, I feel I’ve no choice to move myself past this obsessive food-thinking other than to write about it. So, I’m going to spend the next few moments with you, making one confession after another about a few dishes, recipes, snacks, and various other, sundry foods that I not only grew up with, but that, I feel, have defined who I am, today, in large part.
I hope you like me by the time I’m done. (more…)
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So, you know…I really like a potato log.
Is there anything, even remotely, more wonderful than a gas-station-deep-fried potato log?
I don’t think so. No.
I. Don’t. Think. So.
I am, personally, mad-dog in love with the potato log. I look upon its tasty goodness as a drowning man would a life raft. (I wrote that and then had this visual of being a drowning man and seeing a life raft and then, in that life raft I saw, like, hundreds of potato logs and my heart started beating really fast and I almost had to take half a Xanax).
So, you know…I really like a potato log. It has taken a place of supreme necessity in my life, the potato log.
It has become—a reward.
For what, you ask? Why, for driving to work each morning.
Still confused? (more…)
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I’d never seen a hook rug before, mind you.
Here’s something you don’t know about me: I used to be a wiz at the art of hook rugging, or if I am to be true to its own terminology—rug hooking.
As is usually the case in big families, I was most often the victim of sibling babysitting. It’s nothing short of a hate crime, trust me. Especially when you’re the youngest…and by a wide margin.
I was subjected to any number of embarrassing punishments (hook rugging only one among them) which, by sheer force of being such a young age, they each ran the risk of imprinting. And now, in this present day, rug hooking has become one of my secret hobbies and guilty pleasures well into my 30s.
My first experience with a hook rug involved an afternoon in which Dodie was commanded to drop her plans (which I’m sure involved nothing but twirling a broom in the front yard; she was eager to be on the flag team. Her cheerleader friends were dumbfounded: why would she want to leave Varsity Pep for the Band? There are some questions with answers meant to elude us, I suppose, to help us build character. That’s what my Papa Leon always said, anyway. Of course, he had polio).
Whatever the reason, I quickly found myself forced into completing a hook rug, in the loose shape of an owl. The rug itself with all its accoutrement was kept in an old collapsible bank box and hidden on the top of a shelf in the second hall closet.
I’d never seen a hook rug before, mind you. (more…)
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I guess Boston has everything.
The other evening, Amanda and I were enjoying a small visit with some dear friends. We were sitting around their hip-looking, modern-esque living room (its style is one I envy: its openness and clean lines), and we were sharing a good bottle of Riesling, a bucket of something called Chivda, and a plate of chocolate and peanut butter squares, made by yours truly.
Amanda was recounting her recent trip to Boston, in which she was finally able to satisfy a small bit of her boundless love for ethnic foods: Cuban, German, Haitian, Indian, to name several.
I guess Boston has everything.
And as you might expect, the conversation stayed focused on the topic of food. That’s what happens when you’re with cultured people, eating cultured things such as Chivda sounds—for the record, I used Reduced Fat Jif, the crunchy kind—until there came the smallest lull, allowing Amanda to confess her exciting dietary adventures.
She’d been a tad antsy, eager to share.
So she did.
“I finally got to eat Ethiopian.” (more…)