DAHLIAS OF THE STORM

(reprinted by request)

It's New Year's Day. I SHOULD have recovered by now from a traumatic scene that takes place during every November's first big storm.

Typically I'll be lounging on the sofa, peacefully watching a favorite Marx Brothers movie. I'm eating Frito Scoopers with tahini, and thinking how it's almost time to put the three-cheese ravioli on the table. The windows are lashed by icy rain or some variation of huge record-breaking dumpings of snow driven by gale-force winds. I think how cosy it is inside, all warm and comfy.

But as I stare hypnotized at the sleet flowers on the window, very slowly I realize that the storm is sure to bring about the season's first hard freeze. And at these words, the hairs on the back of my neck slowly rise. Surely I didn't forget, once again, TO DIG UP THE DAHLIA ROOTS AND BRING THEM SAFELY IN?

Five minutes later a puny figure can be seen in the garden, through the blizzard, frantically digging. She is alone, since she tried to persuade the family dogs to come out with her, but they were too smart. She spades furiously, trying to separate the dahlia roots from clumps of ice forming around them.

Swags of snow cover this figure and turn her into a shoveling snowwoman, or perhaps there's no snow but only sleety rain under a thunderously swollen black sky torn by zigzags of lightning, striking close. No matter; she digs on, cursing. She has to.

Finally the roots are chipped and gouged out, and rushed to the house in a bucket as the snowwoman trips over ice chunks and loudly screams "Shit!" It's painful to recall that only a week before, on a honey-scented fantastically warm afternoon, she sentimentally admired a late rose.

Six months pass. Spring comes. I put it off, but the day comes, as it always will, when I have to go to the basement and open the bags of dahlia roots I'd sealed shut on that storm-driven night in November.  I look at them hard. They look dead as nails: dried, shriveled, unpromising. They haven't made it, and it's all my fault. While I was indulging my craze for Marx Brothers movies and Frito Scoopers, the fragile dahlia orphans were perishing in the storm.

But then I take another look. In the cold, dark basement air, it almost seems as though there's a tiny red ember on one of the roots. When I keep looking, very close, I gradually see that each root has one or two minute red fronds. 

They are sturdy, alive, and seeking the light. And that is all it takes.

 WINTER QUARANTINE COMING UP,  MY BUNNIES. WHAT SHOULD WE DO?

Seven months of ice and snow, except for unnatural places like California. Our North country December has no people in slingshot bikinis. Oh Jeeze. What can we do to fill the time and stay chirpy as our butts slowly numb? The quarantine was bad enough in GOOD weather. Some were driven by solitude and boredom to eat grass like crazy kings in the Old Testament. Some were throwing bags of Domino Sugar over themselves.

Growing our hair out is better than pulling it out! Stop cutting your lavish locks. Let them whip!

By spring, women would discover for sure if they have the soul of a Victorian bride or Mata Hari.

Some men will have refined and gentle beards like Chinese sages.

Others will be old sea captains with the ship's cat nestling in their human fur.

Watch out for the guy with hypnotic glittery eyes who doesn't wash much. He's turned into a mad monk, like Rasputin.

In April under the cherry blossoms we can gather, and Ooh and Aah and compare, and see what we've become.

So, starting in November, with the first snow: let it flow.💓

WATCHER/STALKER

(Most of my posts are light-hearted. Not this one.)

Years ago a new couple moved to our neighborhood. Let's call them Brady and Betty, not their real names. Betty was a devout, well-liked member of a local conservative church. She had a brother who struggled with addiction. She came from a close family, and they had done everything they could to help their brother. But they knew they were losing him.

Brady exploited their grief. He used it as an excuse to form a sort of wildcat, no-rules Watch Group. Betty would galvanize church members to take part. Betty's motives were innocent. Her only fault was that she trusted her husband.

Since the peaceful, woodsy neighborhood had always been crime-free and drug-free, we longtime residents weren't sure what they would find to watch. We were naively #MidwestNice.  Also,  watch groups were in their honeymoon period. It hadn't occurred to anyone yet that they were only as healthy as their individual members.

Brady was a frustrated bully who'd never had a chance to abuse a bit of power and get away with it. He began having the time of his life. He swaggered around the neighborhood, securing the perimeters. He showed strange interest in following the young. He, a male stranger, offered his personal protection to little teenagers. He followed women who were biking or jogging. He frequently took pictures of them with his camera phone. Did anyone call the cops? Nope. In those days you were supposed to ignore a sleaze. He frequently said he was "keeping an eye on things." He sure was. He was spotted cropping up on people's lawns in the middle of the night, peering through bathroom and bedroom windows. The churchy ladies were aware of this, but decided that Brady was just a little over-zealous.

The police had a Confidential Tipster (anonymous) phone line. Brady encouraged his buddies and his wife's  friends to "report" neighbors who seemed eccentric, or different, or whom they just had never liked. He himself reported women he'd pursued, unknown to his wife, who rejected him. He was unaware that the police do not like being treated like fools. And they don't forgive.

Some of the more troubled people in the area copied him. A teenage pothead harassed married women. His mother was told, and refused to believe her darling baby boy could ever have done anything naughty. "Good luck provin' it," she sneered, ambling away. She never forgave his victims for daring to speak up.

A person who was infatuated with a policewoman fluffed up the #NonCase as an excuse to stay in touch. 

A very ancient, very demented church member, who went to Mass every day, would stand on the sidewalk after this holy hour and shriek obscenities at her "enemies." 

Praised by church ladies,  hopped up on delusions of power, Mister Felonious Creep went a little crazy. He bragged that he'd used a radio scanner to invade privacy, hacked email accounts, forged messages,  installed tracking devices in cars. He was spotted a hundred miles from the city, driving up and down a dead end road, having followed a resident who was visiting relatives. (The baffled resident took pictures of him, and has saved them.) Nasty gossip swirled around him. His acquaintances said that Brady was an expert Peeping Tom who captured, and shared, intimate images of couples in the neighborhood: old, young, gay, straight, but  always without their knowledge or permission. Allegedly the dude had been all but hanging off rain gutters with a video camera dangling from his butt. This, like several other things he did,  is a felony.

 This was the last straw. Even the conservative church ladies were shocked. Finally, residents discussed taking legal action. Unsurprisingly, within a week, Brady and his wife moved away. He may have been a nut, but he was smart enough to stay gone.

Later, Brady was further exposed by something he could never have predicted: the rise of the internet. Suddenly, anyone who could read could look up personal histories, and many did. It turned out that the people Brady had targeted had never been in trouble in their lives.  Neither had their friends or relatives.  Not then, not now, not ever.

Brady, however, and some of his followers, had very interesting histories. And they became more spicy the deeper you searched. 

A FACEBOOK "FRIEND" HAS BEEN MOCKING ME...

for posting hearts and doting messages on baby elephant links.
Well, I can't help it. I never saw a baby elephant I didn't
like. They are sweet darlings. I also like when the whole
village turns out and with saintlike cooperation and heroic
labor pull the little things out of some dire situation
they've gotten themselves into. Meanwhile, "Friend" has been
posting tiresome pictures of a Bentley her grandmother owned
about a million years ago. Big whoop. I'm SO impressed. It's
a dang car, it goes from A to B. I COULD remind her of her
Gogol ("The carriages of the past will take you nowhere")
but I'm far too much of a lady.

"HE'S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU"

LET'S SAY THAT ON A GORGEOUS FLOWERY LATE SUMMER DAY
you're browsing in the bookstore, and sneering at a
vintage bestselling self-help book:
HE'S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU. Corny and shallow,
right? Except you read some of it, and embarrassing
to say, it makes a lot of sense about
things that happened long ago with a certain kid
during student days. At the time, you didn't under-
stand. But now, the ceiling gently parts and reveals
a huge blue firmament bulging with suns and moons and
an angel with a trumpet, tooting:
"HE JUST WASN'T THAT INTO YOU."

Some puzzling events of decades back unfold in
golden light. It wasn't because you should have been
more glamorous, smarter, more mysterious,
had longer legs, hilarious repartee. You were good
the way you were. The lad just wasn't that into you.

Some of the young have such stubborn faith in their
own powers of enchantment. The object of desire
could come shimmying up to such a girl
singing Dylan's "It Ain't Me, Babe" every time they
meet, and she would STILL not believe it.
Believe it, babe. He's not serious.

"What? Not smitten senseless over me?" Yes. Not you.

Student days. It happens.

Now, time to amble out to the flower stalls and put
together an enormous bouquet, then hunt down
the best cappuccino.

SPOILED AMERICAN WOMAN

TODAY I LEARNED I"M A SPOILED AMERICAN WOMAN. I'd always
thought vaguely that I'm a socialist, sort of, although
others said no real socialist would be so fussy about
coffee. But I admitted a bourgeoise weakness for the old
vintage Coach handbags. These are the cool kind where
you can see the mark the bull made on his hide when he
scratched against a shagbark oak.

Today I was trolling eBay, because sometimes bored rich
ladies sell their barely used castoff handbags for a
good price. I spotted a wine red Coach beauty with a
lovely patina. I studied the pictures, nose to screen,
and suddenly screamed aloud in horror.

"NO SLIP POCKET IN BACK?? Just what the HELL am I
supposed to do, lift a damn flap every time I want to
put my sunglasses away? What...the...F**K!"

So, it's definite. Not a socialist. Instead, a Spoiled
American Woman. I'm really embarrassed by this,
but what can I say? I like slip pockets.

(signed) ABASHED

DEFANGING THE VAMPIRE BULLY

"Never allow yourself to be bullied into silence. Never allow
yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life.
Define yourself."
HARVEY FIERSTEIN, writer

"A bully is a big a.hole with a little bit of man attached."
Mickey Rourke, actor

"I was the kid who used to get shoved into lockers by school bullies.
Because of that, I have never felt like a star in my life."
WINONA RYDER, actor

"I paid a worker at New York's zoo to open it just for me and Robin."
(Mike Tyson's then-wife.) "When we got to the gorilla cage, there
was a big silverback gorilla there just bullying the other gorillas.
They were so powerful, but their eyes were like an innocent infant.
I offered the attendant $10,000 to open the cage door and let me
smash the silverback right in the snotbox. He declined."
MIKE TYSON, boxer

"He seemed to delight in his ability to frighten me...a bully is an
emotionally retarded vampire. He is not entitled to your blood."
MARLENA DE BLASI, writer

"Stalking is bullying. One of the hardest jobs a cop will ever face
is getting it through the head of a real sleazebag that he can't
dog, follow, threaten, defame, or otherwise torment a woman he
wants, who won't have anything to do with him. Quite often he's
married to somebody else, or got a girlfriend. He'll lie to them
about what he's doing, lie to his own mom.
It's not rocket science, ladies. Is he following somebody around?
Trying to access her email, Facebook account? Maybe spreading
nasty stories? And she's made it clear she despises his guts?
The guy is a liar and a creep. He thinks we don't know about him?
We know. And we don't forget."
A POLICEWOMAN

"All bullying should be met by steel."
GYPSY SAYING

"When I was six years old, I went and complained to my Mom
because I was being punched around by kids. She gave me some
of the best advice I've ever had. She said, 'If someone is pushing
you around, find a way to drop something very heavy on his head.'
To this day, I find a way. Worked then, works now."
JOHNNY DEPP, actor

"I won't be wronged. I won't be insulted. I won't be laid-a-hand-on.
I don't do these things to other people, and I require the same
from them."
JOHN WAYNE, actor.

John Wayne always said that this last quote, from his movie
THE SHOOTIST, expressed his own ideas of human dignity and strength,
and the way people should treat each other. I think he was right.

WHEN A RAT DEVOURS YOUR CHOCOLATE MOUSSE...

This story comes from student daze, and maybe you'd have to be
an old hippy to understand how it could even happen. It comes
from a time when you were considered shallow and bourgeois to
care about money AT ALL. And of course you would share any
food or money you had, because our culture heroes like Jim
Morrison told us we should.

My roommate Anne had a buddy whose name was Richard Rouda.
They were graduate students in the Political Science
department. Richard would sometimes tease me for writing
poetry, and tell me that sooner or later I would
have to take a Planet Earth job. I was employed, typing
themes for other students. It was very poorly paid. Richard
didn't have a job, but potheads were not expected to work.

"He's so lazy he wouldn't move his bony butt off the sofa if
the house was on fire," Anne said. But she spoke tolerantly.
We were always supposed to be tolerant.

One Saturday afternoon Rouda dropped in looking for Anne. She
was gone, but when he saw I was making a dessert, he stayed. I
didn't venture to mention that whipping cream and good
chocolate and angel food cake were expensive.

That chocolate mousse was magnificent. Since he was sitting
right there slobbering like a dog, I offered a serving. He ate
the luscious mound, rolling it around his tongue critically.
Then he served himself a big hunk more. And after that, as I
watched in shock, he began devouring the serving dish. At that
point I was brave enough to put the rest of it in the
refrigerator.

"I'm...just...not...sure about this stuff," he said
frowningly, gobbling away. "I think it needs more..or maybe...
No," he concluded with a discriminating air,
scraping the rest of his mousse and putting it in his big fat
mouth,"I don't think anything could help. It's too rich, and
I really didn't enjoy it that much."

This was a surprise, since most of the batch was in his
belly. But I was very shy and very polite, and said nothing.
He began to put his jacket on,then looked slightly embarrassed
and asked for a loan.

"I'm really sorry, I was going to ask Anne. But she's not
here. Just whatever you have will be fine. No problem."

Obviously it was no problem for HIM. It was for me, since I
had so little money. But this was the era when you were supposed
to be generous, not grudge helping others, not be obsessed with
"possessions" like your hard-earned money. And he was Anne's
friend. So, with many a painful private twinge, I handed over
most of the few bills I had.

Immediately he became quite brisk. He secured the money in
his wallet, pushed the wallet deep down in his jacket pocket
and zipped the pocket. He said his goodbyes,
and started to walk down the stairs. Then he turned and looked
up and added, as if in passing:

"My grandmother just put a thousand in my bank account,
but I didn't want to break into it right away. I really like
the idea of it being intact." He looked at me after this
idiot statement as if expecting congratulations
on his prudent hoarding of his money. Then he scampered
light-heartedly down the stairs and out the door.

Do I need to add that a thousand bucks in those days had the
spending power of at least five thousand today? That's five
large, compadres.

So that is the instant when a hard shock taught me two
lessons.

First, I learned the way some rich people think. Not all
of them. But some.

Second, I learned that the friend of a friend can be a
terrible jerk. In fact, there is probably a continuous line
of good friends alternating with assholes all the way from
Jesus Christ to Hitler.

These are lessons worth knowing.

As for Richard Rouda, who does a person like this grow up
to be? Since he devoured weed as a rat gorges cheese, he's
probably long since smoked himself into a wee shriveled
little roach of a humunculus. I should probably, out of
compassion, forgive him.

And will I?

Not bloody likely.

Some you win, and some you learn.

GENERAL CURSE AGAINST ONE WHO HAS TRIED TO HARM YOU, a poem with commentary

It seems that what's needed in the fight for justice against your
enemies is a handy basic curse that doesn't require any exotic
additions like rare deathly mushrooms in a boiling pot,
frog's eyelid, bird of paradise plume, unicorn poop, and the like.
Just say this poem good and loud when you feel like it. If
convenient, stand in the dark and under the moon. Maybe you
could face the direction of your enemy's tainted dwelling, if you
know it. Repeat the poem as needed. It will cure what ails you.

Oh: if you happen to be a more spiritual type who has ambitions
to forgive, go right ahead. But keep in mind this tried and true
Italian proverb:
"Forgive. But remember the bastard's name."

GENERAL CURSE

Fish will eat you
and your yellow coyote eyes
bubble to oyster jelly,
your rank vermicelli hair
bolt straight up in terror
on your death, death, deathbed
(sinner don't wait
until it's too late)

and still no one will forgive you,
you may have as many eyes
as hairs on your head
and fail to track the spell:
what went around will come around,
its foot will make no sound.
No use to hide in seams
where even a mole could not go.
Darkness doesn't fall, it rises,
milk you put to your lips
boils red in your belly overnight.
Back and front you'll suffer
in an ape suit of hives,
you're a silver skeleton walking,
your marrow and bone shine.

Why I Didn't Take The Cathoholic Writing Course

It was around 2000. A friend told me that ambitious writers were always enriching their grapevine of contacts with the lush manure of workshops, readings, schmoozing in coffee shops, writing fawning reviews and above all, joining a writing class. I'd never taken one.

"It's time to stop picking daisies. You need formal credentials," Friend told me sternly. She recommended someone that we'll call Maxwell. She said he was a good creative writing teacher who could give me gobs of great advice.

As a prerequisite before signing up for Maxwell's course, I gave him a short story that I'd labored over. It was about a very troubled kid who'd been a child soldier in his home country. In America, he's often beaten by a priest in his parochial school. At the end of the story the tormented boy vandalizes a church.

My story had already been published, and well-published. But I hoped to improve it.

Maxwell had a pitying but implacable look when he handed back the story. He looked like a hanging judge about to stretch your neck with a really big haul on the rope, but more in sorrow than in anger. I should have paid attention to his expression. After all, it was right in front of my face. But instead I waited like a goofy puppy, eager to be praised. Maxwell said (and I remember the exact words):

"As a practicing Catholic, I find the portrayal of the priest in your story deeply offensive." He folded his lips tightly together and frowned. This was the full extent of his critique.

To say I was surprised doesn't go far enough. I was astounded. Maybe the English word Gobsmacked is best, because it means both flabbergasted and speechless. I couldn't have been more shocked if he'd suddenly taped peacock feathers to his butt and started dancing the Texas two-step. I said nothing. But what I thought was this: "Writing a good story is hard enough without Pope John Paul and legions of the freakier saints peering over my shoulder."

The friend who'd recommended him threw up her hands: "That isn't like Maxwell at all! He's a real sensible guy normally. I bet that Cathoholic wife of his dictated what he should say."

I'd never heard the word Cathoholic, and was intrigued. Friend explained that it doesn't necessarily mean someone who drinks too much, and Mrs. Maxwell does not. The person doesn't even have to be a Catholic, "although they usually are," Friend claimed. It means an obsessive member of any religion. A Cathoholic is hopped up on arrogance, snakebitten out of her gourd with delicious delusions about her glorious spirituality. She thinks of herself as God's sensational darling, while those in other religions are his stunted stepchildren. Needless to say this has nothing actually to do with Jesus, Mary, Joseph, the saints or (God forbid) God. And a true member of this tribe thinks that Jesus was having a wimpy, pinko, Bernie Sanders kind of moment when he suggested things like Help one another, and Love your neighbor as yourself.

Soon after this incident, the international scandal broke about abusive priests being protected by bishops in the Catholic church for decades, if not centuries. I wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell had heard the news. Did it affect their worship schedule at all? Also, did they recollect the events in my story? Probably they did not.

Years passed. Mrs. Maxwell and I live in the same area. I sometimes walk my dogs down her block.To this day, when she sees me she looks surly and, I'm sorry to say, quite unchristian. Sometimes she'll even mutter and sputter to herself, like Donald Duck in a cartoon when he's especially pissed off. This fascinates me. This majestic lady wouldn't tolerate a speck of dust on her white slacks or sparkling car, but she's perfectly comfortable with raging, squawking, farting little Donald scampering around her brain. She even thinks that God wants him there. Her behavior is odd; her motivations are mysterious; but her performance as a whole is devilishly entertaining.

Poem for Annie's Curls

How strange these strands of silk, buckeye chestnut, mustang brown, not long enough to wrap your hand around, and each by itself insubstantial as dragonfly's flight to breast the wind, to guard against fire or ice, to add one dot to wisdom or peace or justice in the world-- yet each to its own, a coiling spring of joy. This single tendril a bolt of chromium steel with might to bind a strong father's heart for life. Written in dearest blood, his wish that his tiny Rapunzel will never know a tower, witch curse, careless climbing prince, that a loving dragon-father can keep her safe no matter how fierce the fanged shears of the world.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY TO ALL, DEAR ONES!

THE WICKED MARQUIS LIKED HIS CUPCAKES MOLTEN

I just learned from the delightful blog PaperandSalt that the Marquis de Sade, on top of everything else, was a chocolate fiend. He once threw a chocolate party so wild that he was put in prison. I'm surprised that he had the energy. After all, it's not as though he didn't have anything else going on. A true French aristocrat, he hardly allowed solitary confinement to slow him down. The rambunctious Marquis regally demanded of his long-suffering wife (who remained free, since she hadn't been invited to the party) that she bring him a better grade of chocolate "than the infamous rubbish you sent me last time." He also schooled her in the perfect cake, saying, "It ought to have the same taste as when you bite into a bar of chocolate. I wish it to be of a chocolate so dense that it is black, like the devil's arse is blackened by smoke."


Don't you suspect that, in the Marquis's childhood, little Donatien Alphonse was never satisfied with just ONE marshmallow in his cocoa??

FIGHTING THE NAZIS IN GORGEOUS CLOTHES!

I admire the old-time movie freedom fighters, especially Ingrid Bergman, who won World War II several times without ever breaking a sweat. In fact, as these scenes from CASABLANCA and NOTORIOUS show us, she saved civilization in diamond chandelier earrings,  romantic garden hats and a ruffly bolero.

 

We know that the Nazis will totally fail at world domination when Bergman symbolically rests her exquisitely manicured hand on the globe.

 

In NOTORIOUS, her fellow warrior is Cary Grant.

No reason you can't beat the Axis Powers in silk socks!

If you're Bogey, you can be sad, fight the Nazis, drink champagne and wear black tie all at the same time.

Well, maybe Sam won't ever play it again... but these thrillingly

invincible and glamorous combatants, plunging bravely through their hair-raising world-saving adventures,

will always make my heart glad. I stand, raise a glass and cheer.

 

KENNY SHOPSIN AND THE BROWN RICE VALENTINE

You'll rarely find a more interesting read than the memoir/cookbook/rant, EAT ME: THE FOOD AND PHILOSOPHY OF KENNY SHOPSIN. Shopsin is a tough, eccentric New York diner cook, one of the best in the city and certainly the most articulate. He says what's on his mind. Not every cookbook writer will tell you that in his youth he'd been in Freudian analysis, five days a week, for years. He sometimes uses language that would knock a buzzard off an outhouse. And you can tell that he's a strong family man. His adult children are the energetic crack crew who run the restaurant. This sometimes includes his son Danny, who is a talented artist and is also bipolar. Danny has a home with Shopsin, a job at the store and the protection of everyone in the family, whenever he wants them. You also know, reading between the lines, that Shopsin fears that Danny's mental struggles arise from his own. In Shopsin's young years he suffered intensely from what was then called manic depression.

The restaurant is Shopsin's kingdom, and he makes sure you know it. There are rules. For example, a party of more than four will not be seated. He doesn't want larger parties hogging space in his diner, and he also feels that conversation becomes inferior when the group is big. Don't try to sneak in extra friends a few minutes later. He'll throw you all out, and remember it forever. Shopsin remembers things the elephant has forgotten. Another rule is that he refuses to do substitutions in a listed dish. He figures that with 900 items on the menu, you should be able to find something you'd fancy. He will also sometimes take a dislike to new prospective diners and refuse to seat them, saying, "They're nothing but strangers."

But if you happen to be a very longtime friend, or if he likes your face, or if he just feels like it that day, he might suspend the rules for once. And although he never makes home deliveries, friends who become seriously ill will often find vessels of delicious hot food at their door.

The book is a headlong gallop of Shopsin's redhot opinions and fearless recipes, but there is a peaceful spot for your eyes on rest on, if you need one. This is the portrait of Shopsin's late wife, Eve, on page 100. She has a gentle, kind, dark-eyed face and rich, reddish-brown hair. Apparently she put up with her proudly impossible husband with patience and grace. Shopsin does not wear his heart on his sleeve, but you know that he has one. The book is dedicated to Eve, her name is huge type. And you sense his tenderness for her in his description of a meal they often shared when they were young and poor:

"Around that time Eve and I were in the habit of going to a restaurant on Bleecker Street," where they always ordered a dish called the Brown Rice Special. Kenny goes on, "It was hot rice and melted cheese drizzled with soy sauce and with a bunch of crunchy vegetables and walnuts strewn throughout. They served it on a cake stand: a big gooey mound of stuff all piled there on top of the pedestal."

The hungry young couple would sit on opposite sides of the Brown Rice Special and attack it with forks, stabbing and securing the luscious nuts and vegetables, digging in with such passion that every time, "we'd end up tipping the freaking cake stand over."

Shopsin's advice on how to eat this meal has to be told. It's not much of a stretch to see that he's also giving his opinion about how to savor your life.

"The rice is what I call 'mouth food'...to get a bite you stick your fork through the rice and cheese. You then take your fork and stab through a vegetable, and you score a little lettuce along with it. You now have a bite of every ingredient in your mouth at the same time, and when you chew, all those flavors and texures transform into something that didn't exist until that moment. If you pick at it and separate the ingredience like a persnickety ass, you are not going to have the same experience, and the experience you do have will be inferior."

Shopsin has not been a "persnickety ass" in the way he lived his life. He found relief from severe depression when he bought an old grocery store. He worked incredible hours to revive it, and this seems to have dovetailed with a manic phase which was useful for once. He and Eve developed the store into Shopsin's diner. He found that he could keep his demons at bay by working hard at tasks he loved, projects which made sense to him, every day. And that is what he still does.

And the Brown Rice Special? Shopsin perfected his own recipe as a tribute to Eve. Many a fine valentine is not made out of chocolate. You can figure out on your own how to make a good version of Kenny and Eve's Brown Rice Special, or you can buy Shopsin's book. And when you eat this food, keep in mind all the meals shared by struggling young lovers in their early days--including, no matter how many years ago it was, or how it turned out, your own.

THE ACE OF FACE, and The Other Cards They Were Dealt....

I've heard that if you told Tuscans or Romans that beauty was only skin deep, they'd be totally baffled. They would think you were babbling nonsense. Of course they believe in beauty of character (especially in their mammas), but as to the exterior, they think that skin deep is just right.They don't see a thing the matter with worshipping good looks.  It's sort of like in France, where they're only gradually beginning to understand the concept of sexual harrassment.

For the space of this post, I want us all to be a little Italian and to enjoy studying the faces of people who are known for looking fine. But in every case, the mind behind the beautiful face is interesting...and some of them deserve our admiration.  Let's begin with:

This is our own Gena Rowlands, who grew up in our state and went to our university...and who is a brilliant actress. See her in FACES, or in GLORIA, or even the recent HOPE FLOATS. She has a rare quality that she shares with Michael Caine: even in piece-of-crap movies, their talent and distinction shine. In Rowland's case, the piece-of-crap movie was often directed by her husband, John Cassavetes.  And whether the film was good, so-so or a real stinker,  she loyally showed up and shone. Friends told her she was damaging her career. She didn't care. Her main thought was for the man she loved to look good.

This is the passport photo of a young nobody named Hemingway, at the very beginning of everything.  His mother feared he was a bum who would never amount to anything. But when she looked at those eyes and that jaw, it seems to me she should have said to herself, "My son the black sheep is one determined SOB. He wants to be a writer.  He is going to do what he sets out to do. And if I have a brain in my head, he will set forth with my blessing."

This is Francoise Gilot, the only woman who ever told Pablo Picasso to go to hell. In the past, when Picasso mistreated his former lovers,  they were like meek animals who'd been gutted.He abandoned them, and they spent the rest of their lives wailing and shriveling away.  In Gilot's case, when he attempted to mistreat her, she  fought him toe to toe, then left with their children. Later she had a successful career as a painter, and a long, happy marriage with Jonas Salk. Picasso never forgave her, and he never stopped missing her. 

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Rudolph Valentino, in THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE film that made him famous. In the beginning  his character is a dissolute Argentinian playboy. Valentino's  career was made in the instant that "Julio" entered a lowlife saloon and danced a blazing tango. Valentino was a brilliant dancer, so he didn't have to fake it. Women swooned over the strength with which he threw around his little monkey-woman partner. Wow. Or even Wowwowwow! A stud, right? No. An idealist and a romantic. A few years later, in real life, he was breaking his heart over the one woman he couldn't keep: his wife, Natacha Rambova (real name: Winifred Hudnut). He died soon after.

The term Rock Star hadn't yet been invented in the 20's and 30's, but if a poet could qualify, Edna St. Vincent Millay would have been it. Critics raved over her books. She won the Pulitzer Prize.   She also translated ancient Latin and Greek for fun. A chilly intellectual, a bluestocking, right? Well, not completely. She wrote the famous poem about burning the candle at both ends, and that is what she did.  When she died, her sister went through her papers and found over a thousand love letters that men and women had written her...

Eric Schweig went through the most abusive childhood that anyone could, and survived. Slowly he found his way to the life that he was meant for.   At first he was given movie roles because of his handsome looks, but gradually, directors noticed what a good actor he was. And he kept getting better. His portrayal of Uncas in THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS is unforgettable, but my personal favorite is his lovelorn, conflicted, heartbreakingly closeted, and finally very brave Pike in BIG EDEN. And that kiss at the end? You'll cheer! Schweig is also a respected artist whose beautiful traditional Inuit carvings are displayed in museums. But he is happiest when he gives them to friends.

Carolina Otero, a gypsy adventuress (her own description) became a famous dancer, and the toast of La Belle Epoque in Paris. Otero was also famous for a notorious remark. A friend of hers once spoke with horror of the hideous ugliness of Otero's current lover. Otero gently responded, "My dear, a man of the baron's tremendous wealth can hardly be described as 'ugly.'" Even in old age, Otero's favorite activity was to have a huge Argentinian feast with friends, to empty two, three or four plates, and  then to dance the flamenco all night long, just for fun and because she loved it. Does she look like she knows how to have an adventure, or what??!!

I've added Jeremy Irons, because---well, just because. He's a fine actor (DAMAGE, THE FRENCH LIEUTENANT'S WOMAN, SWANN'S WAY) but I have a soft spot in my heart for him because, apparently, he's one of those innocent people with no filter. I once heard a radio interview in which the news guy raved about Irons' and Meryl Streep's performances in THE FRENCH LIEUTENANT'S WOMAN. "Yes," Irons answered in his distinctive voice, which is both plummy-plush and eager, "and we loved the roles so much, and we adored the director, and when the scenes were coming up for our characters to be lovers, Meryl and I decided to give it EVERYTHING WE'D GOT and to become real lovers for a day. And so we did. It was marvellous!"  There was a long, long silence in air time as the gobsmacked news guy absorbed this. Of course he knew Streep and Irons were married, but not to each other.  When he finally spoke again, it was about something else entirely and he kind of stuttered. You can't really blame him.

The Ace of Face, if anybody ever was. But also a loving, brave, warm-hearted woman who steadfastly supported friends with AIDS at a time when everybody else shunned them.   She gave generously to AIDS research, long before it was fashionable, and also twisted the arms of wealthy colleagues good and hard so they gave generously too.  You know her name. Enough said.

MORE DANCING ETRUSCANS!

This great-looking Etruscan guy and the ravishingly lovely Etruscan maiden lived in a very advanced society hundreds of years before Christ...and do you notice that they seem to have no race issues at all? Nada, none, zippo. And that they look really happy? There are many people alive in 2013 who would benefit if they spent more time studying ancient murals.

MAY YOUR TANGO MOVES BURN THROUGH BLUE MONDAY!

Sometimes world-famous tango dancer Pablo Veron likes to dance elegantly in international competitions.

And sometimes he likes to get down and go crazy cutting a rug with a friend.

Here's to all your moves, classy or crazy, and here's to friends whose hearts and minds tango with yours.

S-S-S-S-S-S-S-SMOKING!!!

Smoking is a terrible habit, unforgivably stupid. But.....!!!!! 

 

BLAST FROM THE PAST DESTROYS BLUE MONDAY!

Below is an image of a crazy Etruscan (2000 years before Christ) dancing his socks off in a frenzied boogie with all his flouncy red clothes flying. As you can see, this guy could rock a petticoat and not even break a sweat! If this doesn't cheer you up on Blue Monday, I don't know what will.