Once they had started boarding the flight, Nick allowed a nervous looking woman to go ahead of him, which he immediately regretted when he noticed her dragging a huge carry-on with wheels. As he followed her through the tunnel to the plane, he noticed her unsteady shuffle, as if perhaps she had been drinking before the flight. As he followed. She weaved a bit and, just as she was about to enter the plane, took an unexpected turn, tipping her carry-on over on its side. She apologized and righted her bad with his help. Yeah, she had been drinking alright.
He found that they were to be aisle-mates at the bulkhead as she stopped in front of him.
The flight attendant took one look in her bag and said, "That's too big, honey. We have a full flight and won't be able to stow that in the overheads. You'll have to check it in."
"I'm NOT going to check it in," she replied.
"Well, I don't we're going to have enough room."
A nice man took a bag out of the overhead and stowed it under his seat so she'd have more room.
"Excuse me, sir," she said, "but would you mind helping me with my bag? It's too heavy for me to lift."
Nick knew that she was talking to him. But he had already decided that he didn't want anything to do with her. She had already proven that she was going to be a pain in the ass to anyone who dealt with her. So why should he get involved. Besides, he thought, if you can't lift it, you shouldn't carry it on the plane. That's why they call them carry-ons.
Nick pretended he didn't hear her. Five times.
Someone finally helped her and she sat down.
Nick inventoried his flight-gear-not because he could do anything to change it if he had forgotten something, but because he needed the reassurance that he had remembered everything. He had worn his all-cotten longsleeved shirt and pants, for when the plane went down. Cotten, because it would burn before your skin, giving you a better chance for survival, long sleeves and pants for full body protection. Boots instead of shoes or sandals, because you never knew what you might step on or trip over in a falling airplane. His lucky hat, for luck. A long work of classic fiction because he knew the plane would never go down if hadn't yet finished the book he was reading.
The lady across the aisle swiped her credit card to access the television service. placed the headphones over her ears and began nervously working a crossword puzzle. Multitasking to take her mind off her fear.
Nick could sense her madness.
She sat alone in her row. Nick had one other rowmate, with a seat between them.
"I guess we really lucked out," she said, clutching her armrests. "I never get to sit alone. We'll probably crash."
Nick couldn't believe his ears. Why did she have to go and jinx the flight like that? Didn't she know about the "Flat Tire Principle?"
Nick thought back to when he first learned of the Flat Tire Principle as a young boy. He and his family were going to Disneyland. They had happily been playing the alphabet game, when his mother said, "This has really been a fun drive so far."
"Yeah," Nick said, "I sure hope we don't get a flat tire."
Just then, a small explosion took place right behind where Nick was sitting. The car swerved a little to the right of the road and several other drivers honked their horns in agitation. Nick could hear the flip-flopping of the rear tire.
"Now why did you have to go and say that?" Nick's Dad asked him. "You know that's how people get flat tires. You never even think of flat tires when you're driving, boy. Ain't you got sense?"
Nick locked his seatbelt and the plane began to approach the runway. As it picked up speed, the cabin shook and Nick thought about how primitive airflight was. As the engines whistled and the plane took off, he turned to the woman and said "You know, if we all die tonight, it's your fault."
Monday, June 12, 2006
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Dream # 4
I'm not sure how much I'll remember except that there was some kind of science fair going on in the school gym and several of my students were involved. But the science wasn't really science. It was more like the students had each perfected some sort of magic trick.
I found my self in my classroom, except it was angular and dreamlike, not at all practical for desks or students. Not many students were there. I eventually figured out that most of them were at the science fair.
My friend Bob appeared from out of nowhere, his beard trimmed down to the stubble, his waistline down to what it was probably 10 years ago (he's a big guy). He had a worried look on his face, like he had just witnessed something horrible. When he told me what was wrong, it didn't seem like a big deal to me.
The only reason I remember any of this is because Bob looked so deathly afraid of something.
I found my self in my classroom, except it was angular and dreamlike, not at all practical for desks or students. Not many students were there. I eventually figured out that most of them were at the science fair.
My friend Bob appeared from out of nowhere, his beard trimmed down to the stubble, his waistline down to what it was probably 10 years ago (he's a big guy). He had a worried look on his face, like he had just witnessed something horrible. When he told me what was wrong, it didn't seem like a big deal to me.
The only reason I remember any of this is because Bob looked so deathly afraid of something.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Dream #3 : The Diddies
We drive a van down Mission Inn Blvd past the Unitarian and Congregational Churches. From the directions of both the Public Library and Municipal Museum, a mob has taken over the streets. Billy C shouts, "It's the Diddies!"
Who and what the Diddies are is unclear, but they look like regular people. Among the faces of the Diddies I see former students. They are throwing rocks and sticks at passing cars, stopping as many as they can and pulling the passengers out and attacking them, though they don't seem to do anything more than robbing them and scaring them.
The other passengers in my car are horrified when the Diddies manage to stop our van. They pull us out. My briefcase hangs from a strap on my shoulder. A young, unshaven man with curly hair glasses rushes from behind me and attempts to take my bag. Instead, I grab the gym bag he carries and manage to pull it away from him.
The Diddies and their victims stop in silence and watch us. I walk over to the library fountain and threaten to drop his bag in it. He is frightened and tries to bargain with me to get me to promise not to drop it in the fountain.
After some discussion, I agree not to drop it in the fountain. Then, I turn to another nearby fountain and drop his bag in that instead.
Everyone is shocked at what I have done. I then give a speech which I cannot hear but must be on the level of the Sermon on the Mount, because almost everyone stops the violence.
I walk away, but am followed by four angry white men who are dressed like cholos. They intend to sneak up on me and attack me. I think they mean to kill me. Fortunately, I am very aware of them and swing my bag around to frighten them away. But they always come back.
I wake up.
Who and what the Diddies are is unclear, but they look like regular people. Among the faces of the Diddies I see former students. They are throwing rocks and sticks at passing cars, stopping as many as they can and pulling the passengers out and attacking them, though they don't seem to do anything more than robbing them and scaring them.
The other passengers in my car are horrified when the Diddies manage to stop our van. They pull us out. My briefcase hangs from a strap on my shoulder. A young, unshaven man with curly hair glasses rushes from behind me and attempts to take my bag. Instead, I grab the gym bag he carries and manage to pull it away from him.
The Diddies and their victims stop in silence and watch us. I walk over to the library fountain and threaten to drop his bag in it. He is frightened and tries to bargain with me to get me to promise not to drop it in the fountain.
After some discussion, I agree not to drop it in the fountain. Then, I turn to another nearby fountain and drop his bag in that instead.
Everyone is shocked at what I have done. I then give a speech which I cannot hear but must be on the level of the Sermon on the Mount, because almost everyone stops the violence.
I walk away, but am followed by four angry white men who are dressed like cholos. They intend to sneak up on me and attack me. I think they mean to kill me. Fortunately, I am very aware of them and swing my bag around to frighten them away. But they always come back.
I wake up.
Monday, May 29, 2006
There is no "I" in Canary
At tonight's open mike, the canaries reunited for a two-song set: "I Shall Be Released" and "Don't Think Twice." On the first, we each took a verse and harmonized on each chorus. Vocally, it sounded good. Instrumentally (Billy C and I on ukes, Blowhard C on guitar), I think we were a little more shaky. While it was mainly due to our rehearsal ethic, it was also due to the fact that we are playing the easy three-chord version when we need to learn the version I found on the internet that has more chord changes. Our instincts tell us that our fingers should be moving around more, but we don't know where exactly. I don't think anyone noticed this because the vocals sounded so good.
You may recall the last time we played "Don't Think Twice" with me on uke, Billy on ouvre, and Blowhard on vocals. I was going to play uke with Liam playing guitar this time, but the version he has taught himself throws in a few chords that my version didn't have and we didn't have time to rehearse it, so I just did a bodhrain thing on this hand drum Billy C had on hand. Funny thing is, again, my fingers have always told me that my version was missing some chords, but my brain didn't know what they were. I guess I don't have a jammin' instinct yet.
By the way, the reason I call him "Blowhard" Canary is in part because my nephew is a minor and I want to respect his anonymity and in part because, when the three of us attended that harmonica workshop, during one of the instances where we actually took out our harmonicas, he startled me with how well he could play the thing. So "Blowhard" is intended as a compliment.
The MC Jerry and another Folk Center employee broke out a couple of ukes and did a fine rendition of "Fisherman's Blues" with a cool little uke solo thrown in. That's the first song I did at open mike a couple of years ago when I was still pretty new at it. Jerry said he found the song on my blog, where I published my set list. Then he said that I should come down and we should play together some time.
I am always flattered when a real musician asks me to jam.
The Amazing Theo played tonight. The songs were a little more family friendly than in past appearances. Only two or three obscenities. Perhaps it was because some children were in the audience.
Speaking of which, this one young man brought his young daughter with him and she danced in front of the stage as he played an instrumental. When I say danced, I mean she twirled and jumped around, stopping occasionally when she felt self-conscious. It was pretty adorable.
UF played two songs: one about a dead goldfish and another about standardized testing. I hear him play his songs all of the time at school, but don't get to really hear them. They are both good songs. Of the nights I have heard him here, this was the best.
The variety of instruments tonight was quite high tonight: fiddles, mountain dulcimers, rain sticks, guys singing in french (I know that's not an instrument, but it was different), fiddles.
Actually, I couldn't tell if the little girl was playing a violin or fiddle. I could only tell that she was kind of new at this.
UF and I went to the local bar and drank non-alcoholic beverages and had a couple of appetizers before we left. We sat under a speaker that blared out reggae music. I took the opportunity to learn a reggae beat and he and I figured out the chords on the song being played. I think my white boy fingers finally got it.
The evening ended with UF and I standing on an all-but-deserted corner of Yale street at 11PM in front of this American Burger place, practicing my new reggae licks and discussing what a wonderful instrument the uke really is.
As we turned to go our separate ways, I could hear the strumming of his ukulele bouncing off the city streets as it slowly drifted away into the twilight.
You may recall the last time we played "Don't Think Twice" with me on uke, Billy on ouvre, and Blowhard on vocals. I was going to play uke with Liam playing guitar this time, but the version he has taught himself throws in a few chords that my version didn't have and we didn't have time to rehearse it, so I just did a bodhrain thing on this hand drum Billy C had on hand. Funny thing is, again, my fingers have always told me that my version was missing some chords, but my brain didn't know what they were. I guess I don't have a jammin' instinct yet.
By the way, the reason I call him "Blowhard" Canary is in part because my nephew is a minor and I want to respect his anonymity and in part because, when the three of us attended that harmonica workshop, during one of the instances where we actually took out our harmonicas, he startled me with how well he could play the thing. So "Blowhard" is intended as a compliment.
The MC Jerry and another Folk Center employee broke out a couple of ukes and did a fine rendition of "Fisherman's Blues" with a cool little uke solo thrown in. That's the first song I did at open mike a couple of years ago when I was still pretty new at it. Jerry said he found the song on my blog, where I published my set list. Then he said that I should come down and we should play together some time.
I am always flattered when a real musician asks me to jam.
The Amazing Theo played tonight. The songs were a little more family friendly than in past appearances. Only two or three obscenities. Perhaps it was because some children were in the audience.
Speaking of which, this one young man brought his young daughter with him and she danced in front of the stage as he played an instrumental. When I say danced, I mean she twirled and jumped around, stopping occasionally when she felt self-conscious. It was pretty adorable.
UF played two songs: one about a dead goldfish and another about standardized testing. I hear him play his songs all of the time at school, but don't get to really hear them. They are both good songs. Of the nights I have heard him here, this was the best.
The variety of instruments tonight was quite high tonight: fiddles, mountain dulcimers, rain sticks, guys singing in french (I know that's not an instrument, but it was different), fiddles.
Actually, I couldn't tell if the little girl was playing a violin or fiddle. I could only tell that she was kind of new at this.
UF and I went to the local bar and drank non-alcoholic beverages and had a couple of appetizers before we left. We sat under a speaker that blared out reggae music. I took the opportunity to learn a reggae beat and he and I figured out the chords on the song being played. I think my white boy fingers finally got it.
The evening ended with UF and I standing on an all-but-deserted corner of Yale street at 11PM in front of this American Burger place, practicing my new reggae licks and discussing what a wonderful instrument the uke really is.
As we turned to go our separate ways, I could hear the strumming of his ukulele bouncing off the city streets as it slowly drifted away into the twilight.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Alfred Hitchcock Was Right
It was a quiet, foggy morning in Moreno Valley, CA. My seniors had all checked out of school, leaving me with a free fourth period. Our paperwork for our updated benefits package was due at the District Office, so I left campus to turn mine in and beat the rush.
Upon my arrival at the DO, I parked at the far end of the crowded parking lot, got out of my car, and walked towards the office building. I had to walk under a tree between two hedgerows when, from out of nowhere, I heard this screeching sound and the angry flapping of wings. Tiny claws grabbed the back of my silky grey locks and scratched at the back of my head. I swept the air behind me and it went away, only to sweep down and attack again. The coward attacked from behind, so I had no idea what it was or why it was attacking me, at first. But, after the second attack, I realized that it was a bird of some sort and that it perceived me as a threat.
I turned around after getting away from that tree, and saw a starling
. At least I think it was a starling. I know Psittaciformes
, but not too much about starlings.
That starling sat atop someone's SUV glaring at me and scolding me for encroaching upon its territory.
According to an article I read once, starlings aren't even native to this continent. Some early, wealthy British colonist got it in his head that he should bring all of the birds mentioned in Shakespeare's poetry to populate the New World. I guess the starling was his greatest success in that they were very competitive and aggressively pushed other bird species out of their way. They are the white people of the bird world.
Anyway, I don't like guns or hunting. But those of you who do, feel free to avenge me.
Upon my arrival at the DO, I parked at the far end of the crowded parking lot, got out of my car, and walked towards the office building. I had to walk under a tree between two hedgerows when, from out of nowhere, I heard this screeching sound and the angry flapping of wings. Tiny claws grabbed the back of my silky grey locks and scratched at the back of my head. I swept the air behind me and it went away, only to sweep down and attack again. The coward attacked from behind, so I had no idea what it was or why it was attacking me, at first. But, after the second attack, I realized that it was a bird of some sort and that it perceived me as a threat.
I turned around after getting away from that tree, and saw a starling
. At least I think it was a starling. I know Psittaciformes
, but not too much about starlings.
That starling sat atop someone's SUV glaring at me and scolding me for encroaching upon its territory.
According to an article I read once, starlings aren't even native to this continent. Some early, wealthy British colonist got it in his head that he should bring all of the birds mentioned in Shakespeare's poetry to populate the New World. I guess the starling was his greatest success in that they were very competitive and aggressively pushed other bird species out of their way. They are the white people of the bird world.
Anyway, I don't like guns or hunting. But those of you who do, feel free to avenge me.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Dream #2
I've had a couple of more dreams. I have awaken from a couple that I thought I would never forget and shortly afterwards forgotten them. I had one that I might take to the conference, but would not share here.
I had one that I forgot that came back to me in fragments as I walked the Rub this evening.
I was in a large, white, unfurnished room. There were several men and women all around me, all in fisherman's gear, all practicing casting with their fly rods. There were hooks on the end and I was worried about getting hooked by one. I asked them to please either stop or be more careful. My tone was more angry than frightened, the way I would be if someone were smoking in a restaurant. They all refused.
I had one that I forgot that came back to me in fragments as I walked the Rub this evening.
I was in a large, white, unfurnished room. There were several men and women all around me, all in fisherman's gear, all practicing casting with their fly rods. There were hooks on the end and I was worried about getting hooked by one. I asked them to please either stop or be more careful. My tone was more angry than frightened, the way I would be if someone were smoking in a restaurant. They all refused.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
10 Sure-Fire Money-Making Booths I'd Like to See at a Street Fair
I stopped by the Orange Blossom Fair on my way home from my Saturday gig because,in part, a student of mine had some paintings hanging at one of the art booths. I didn't see him, but I saw his two paintings. One was a man standing under a moon and a cactus standing under the sun. The other was a thing with a tribal mask and a sideways Kabuki and/or Elvis face hovering over a city-scape, also sideways.
I don't know art.
I also thought I'd get myself a big floppy hat for summertime at this booth Do told me about.
I also thought that I'd check out the fair, since I've never gone.
So I walked around and found the hat place fairly quickly. $20 bucks and full head coverage for those hot, sunny days of summer. It ain't attractive, but it covers my head. Liked it so much I got one for Mom when we take her out in the sun, which doesn't happen often, but it happens.
Soon, I located the booth where Spicoli, my student, said he would be with his art. Before checking the art, I decided to get something to eat.
There was typical fair fare: funnel cakes, corn-on-the-cob, falafels, various types of phallic organ meats.
There was a beer garden of sorts with several micro-breweries on display. I don't drink anymore, but I checked it out for the food possibilities. As I entered, I witnessed one of the many reasons why beer at a public function is a bad idea. This drunken kid and his drunken girlfriend were arguing with this poor rent-a-cop about why they couldn't take their 3/4's full cups of beer with them out onto the main thoroughfare. There were signs going in and signs going out that mentioned that all beer had to stay within the boundaries, and everyone else seemed to understand that, but this guy kept asking the same belligerent questions: "Don't they sell beer in other booths? What's the big deal?"
The big deal is that assholes like this guy should be kept in as confined a space as possible so fewer people have to deal with him.
I stopped by a kabob stand after studying what was being served. I ordered a kabob and was surprised to see that I got just that-a kabob and nothing else. I had to ask for a fork and a napkin. No knives. No side-dishes. No water.
It was a delicious, chicken-flavored charcoal kabob. The problem with most street faire food is that it sounds like a good idea until you bite into it. I wish there were a natural law that said that, when you eat street faire food and find it less tasty, its calories or cholesterol don't count.
Anyway, my top ten ideas for street fair booths that would be sure to make money:
1. A ukulele clinic. I saw a guitar and drum clinic, but there were few people there learning about the guitar or drum because, on a hot, sunny day, they're to hefty to carry around at a large street fair. I think ukuleles would be a better draw. They are small, unthreatening, easy to carry and you could have a kid playing one in no time.
2. A napkin booth. Most Faire food is sloppy food. The kabob I had was smothered in barbecue sauce to accentuate the delightful charcoal flavor. The two napkins I had were gone before I had finished half the kabob. You could charge $5 bucks for a set of six napkins.
3. A food exchange for people who begin to eat their food from another booth and immediately regret buying it. They might be willing to trade theirs in for someone else's mistake.
4. A vomitorium booth for people who eat bad street food. You could use ostrich feathers. In fact you could raise ostriches just for this pupose. After every visit to the vomitorium booth, the guest would once again have an empty stomache ready for the next (hopefully) tastey morsel. Emu feathers for the little'uns.
5. An Ostrich Burger booth for next year if the vomitorium doesn't take off as well as expected.
6. A drunk dunk tank for dealing with obnoxious drunks who don't know how to behave in public. When a person gets drunk, the rent-a-cops could just handcuff them and take them to the drunk dunk tank. This would be the same as a regular drunk tank, except the drunk would be handcuffed and helpless to swim around in the tank. You could have someone recue them before they drowned, if you wanted to.
7. A shade booth.
8. An atheist booth to hand out literature about our isloation in the universe.
9. An agnostic booth.
Every booth with any religious affiliation would have to be placed between an atheist and an agnostic booth. Hey, why should they have it so easy?
10. A panpipe smashing booth. These guys were entertaining when they first start popping up at these faires. But, hey, I've had enough. Give it a rest.
I still like bagpipes, though.
I don't know art.
I also thought I'd get myself a big floppy hat for summertime at this booth Do told me about.
I also thought that I'd check out the fair, since I've never gone.
So I walked around and found the hat place fairly quickly. $20 bucks and full head coverage for those hot, sunny days of summer. It ain't attractive, but it covers my head. Liked it so much I got one for Mom when we take her out in the sun, which doesn't happen often, but it happens.
Soon, I located the booth where Spicoli, my student, said he would be with his art. Before checking the art, I decided to get something to eat.
There was typical fair fare: funnel cakes, corn-on-the-cob, falafels, various types of phallic organ meats.
There was a beer garden of sorts with several micro-breweries on display. I don't drink anymore, but I checked it out for the food possibilities. As I entered, I witnessed one of the many reasons why beer at a public function is a bad idea. This drunken kid and his drunken girlfriend were arguing with this poor rent-a-cop about why they couldn't take their 3/4's full cups of beer with them out onto the main thoroughfare. There were signs going in and signs going out that mentioned that all beer had to stay within the boundaries, and everyone else seemed to understand that, but this guy kept asking the same belligerent questions: "Don't they sell beer in other booths? What's the big deal?"
The big deal is that assholes like this guy should be kept in as confined a space as possible so fewer people have to deal with him.
I stopped by a kabob stand after studying what was being served. I ordered a kabob and was surprised to see that I got just that-a kabob and nothing else. I had to ask for a fork and a napkin. No knives. No side-dishes. No water.
It was a delicious, chicken-flavored charcoal kabob. The problem with most street faire food is that it sounds like a good idea until you bite into it. I wish there were a natural law that said that, when you eat street faire food and find it less tasty, its calories or cholesterol don't count.
Anyway, my top ten ideas for street fair booths that would be sure to make money:
1. A ukulele clinic. I saw a guitar and drum clinic, but there were few people there learning about the guitar or drum because, on a hot, sunny day, they're to hefty to carry around at a large street fair. I think ukuleles would be a better draw. They are small, unthreatening, easy to carry and you could have a kid playing one in no time.
2. A napkin booth. Most Faire food is sloppy food. The kabob I had was smothered in barbecue sauce to accentuate the delightful charcoal flavor. The two napkins I had were gone before I had finished half the kabob. You could charge $5 bucks for a set of six napkins.
3. A food exchange for people who begin to eat their food from another booth and immediately regret buying it. They might be willing to trade theirs in for someone else's mistake.
4. A vomitorium booth for people who eat bad street food. You could use ostrich feathers. In fact you could raise ostriches just for this pupose. After every visit to the vomitorium booth, the guest would once again have an empty stomache ready for the next (hopefully) tastey morsel. Emu feathers for the little'uns.
5. An Ostrich Burger booth for next year if the vomitorium doesn't take off as well as expected.
6. A drunk dunk tank for dealing with obnoxious drunks who don't know how to behave in public. When a person gets drunk, the rent-a-cops could just handcuff them and take them to the drunk dunk tank. This would be the same as a regular drunk tank, except the drunk would be handcuffed and helpless to swim around in the tank. You could have someone recue them before they drowned, if you wanted to.
7. A shade booth.
8. An atheist booth to hand out literature about our isloation in the universe.
9. An agnostic booth.
Every booth with any religious affiliation would have to be placed between an atheist and an agnostic booth. Hey, why should they have it so easy?
10. A panpipe smashing booth. These guys were entertaining when they first start popping up at these faires. But, hey, I've had enough. Give it a rest.
I still like bagpipes, though.
Dream #1
I am going to the Taos Writers' Conference again this summer. I just got letters from both workshop leaders. In these, they usually ask participants to complete specific writing assignments.
The leader for my poetry workshop has asked us to write down two sentences that represent authentic voices of people we know. So, if your a friend of mine and I ask you to repeat something you said and then try to write it down, you know why. Please continue to try to sound authentic.
The other assignment is to write down four dreams we have had. I have been having a little anxiety over this. Other than the dream about the angry bunnies, I can't think of one. Part of that is because I have been asked to. I think, because dreams are of such a personal nature, my subconscious is blocking them. The only thing that comes to mind are the usual flying, falling, swimming type dreams.
By the way, when I fly in my dreams, I am usually flapping my arms and am in an upright position and I need to make a walking motion to go forward. If I stop any of these, I begin to fall.
So, lately, I have had trouble remembering my dreams. If I do remember when I get up, I'm usually in such a hurry to get to school, that I don't take the time to write them down. When I find myself at school behind a desk with a pen and paper, I have already forgotten the dream.
I think also, because I have had trouble getting a full night's sleep lately, I'm just not alseep long enough for a dream to really get going and make an impact on me.
So, last night, I got to bed early and really got a good night's sleep.
Here's my dream before it dissipates into the light of day:
I am at a high school dance. It is outside in kind of a surreal twilight setting. In fact, it seems to be at the church I grew up in, an old, stately building-somber looking and dignified. Students from my school are all dressed up. They are all dancing. They all want to see me dance.
My sisters appears. We begin dancing. The dancers are not doing any contemporary dances. Instead, they are doing ballroom-type dances. In fact, it is a pretty quiet dance for a high school dance. Everyone is dancing on either the lawn or the parking lot, with the church in the background.
So my sister and I are dancing and doing pretty well. We dip towards the end of the dance. Then, as a joke, we continue dipping until we are on our asses. Then, I continue the dip even further, and we are on our backs.
We laugh. Then we start to get up-my sister first. But she can't get up. Every time she tries, she falls back over. She lifts her butt first and tries to steady her legs and just collapses. I notice that her legs are malformed at the knee, kind of long and skinny, and realize that she might never get up again.
Still sitting on the ground, I become very self-conscious of the fact that I too might have trouble getting up. I try very slowly and find my legs indeed are wobbly. After a couple of attempts, I do get shakily up. But it's clear that it isn't easy. In fact, everyone at the dance notices and is concerned. A car drives by and my sister, still having trouble standing, gets in and speeds off.
That's about where I woke up.
When I began this, I thought I'd try analyzing it. But I think I won't-at least not in writing. I believe that dreams are methods used by our brains to resolve issues that we can't resolve in reality. For example, if your boss is an ass, and he treats you like crap, but you need the job and can't really do anything about the problem, your brain tries to take care of it at night so, at least partially, your brain can feel like the problem has been dealt with. In reality, the problem might still exist, but the tension is relieved a little bit as far as your brain is concerned.
The leader for my poetry workshop has asked us to write down two sentences that represent authentic voices of people we know. So, if your a friend of mine and I ask you to repeat something you said and then try to write it down, you know why. Please continue to try to sound authentic.
The other assignment is to write down four dreams we have had. I have been having a little anxiety over this. Other than the dream about the angry bunnies, I can't think of one. Part of that is because I have been asked to. I think, because dreams are of such a personal nature, my subconscious is blocking them. The only thing that comes to mind are the usual flying, falling, swimming type dreams.
By the way, when I fly in my dreams, I am usually flapping my arms and am in an upright position and I need to make a walking motion to go forward. If I stop any of these, I begin to fall.
So, lately, I have had trouble remembering my dreams. If I do remember when I get up, I'm usually in such a hurry to get to school, that I don't take the time to write them down. When I find myself at school behind a desk with a pen and paper, I have already forgotten the dream.
I think also, because I have had trouble getting a full night's sleep lately, I'm just not alseep long enough for a dream to really get going and make an impact on me.
So, last night, I got to bed early and really got a good night's sleep.
Here's my dream before it dissipates into the light of day:
I am at a high school dance. It is outside in kind of a surreal twilight setting. In fact, it seems to be at the church I grew up in, an old, stately building-somber looking and dignified. Students from my school are all dressed up. They are all dancing. They all want to see me dance.
My sisters appears. We begin dancing. The dancers are not doing any contemporary dances. Instead, they are doing ballroom-type dances. In fact, it is a pretty quiet dance for a high school dance. Everyone is dancing on either the lawn or the parking lot, with the church in the background.
So my sister and I are dancing and doing pretty well. We dip towards the end of the dance. Then, as a joke, we continue dipping until we are on our asses. Then, I continue the dip even further, and we are on our backs.
We laugh. Then we start to get up-my sister first. But she can't get up. Every time she tries, she falls back over. She lifts her butt first and tries to steady her legs and just collapses. I notice that her legs are malformed at the knee, kind of long and skinny, and realize that she might never get up again.
Still sitting on the ground, I become very self-conscious of the fact that I too might have trouble getting up. I try very slowly and find my legs indeed are wobbly. After a couple of attempts, I do get shakily up. But it's clear that it isn't easy. In fact, everyone at the dance notices and is concerned. A car drives by and my sister, still having trouble standing, gets in and speeds off.
That's about where I woke up.
When I began this, I thought I'd try analyzing it. But I think I won't-at least not in writing. I believe that dreams are methods used by our brains to resolve issues that we can't resolve in reality. For example, if your boss is an ass, and he treats you like crap, but you need the job and can't really do anything about the problem, your brain tries to take care of it at night so, at least partially, your brain can feel like the problem has been dealt with. In reality, the problem might still exist, but the tension is relieved a little bit as far as your brain is concerned.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Bruce Springsteen's "The Pete Seeger Sessions"
Billy C, Princess Canary, and I recently took an expedition to the Folk Center to check out ukes and just hob-nob about the lovely town of Claremont a couple of weeks ago. While there, I bought the latest open mike DVD and some nifty wound soprano uke strings. I thought I would transfer my Nyl-guts to my Oscar Schmidt and put these new honeys on my Harmony.
After our visit, we went the eatery next door and got some fine grub. Then, we adventured over to the Rhino Records store across the street. Billy wanted me to test-drive the new Springsteen CD, "The Pete Seeger Sessions," which has the Boss and a band of musicians jamming to tunes associated with Pete Seeger, the folksinger/shaman of the USA. He had this one song in particular that he wanted me to hear.
The nice tattooed girl at the check-out counter gave me the preview CD and I sauntered over to the listening station, placed the CD in the player, and put on a headset. I got no sound, so I adjusted the nob. Still no sound. I adjusted the nob again. Nothing.
Billy C went over and got a young lady with multiple piercings to come help me. She pointed out that I had the wrong headset on. Someone had put the headsets for my machine on top of the neighboring machine and had put that machine's headset on my machine. So I un-switched them, made a couple of self-deprecating jokes, and put the new headset on.
I couldn't figure out why the Princess and Billy would laugh every time I made a comment about the CD as I was listening to it. Apparently I was doing that thing where you talk loudly when wearing a headset because you forget that you're the only one for whom the music is loud. So, apparently, I was shouting at them and I guess people were staring at me.
But, what the hey, this CD is worth shouting about. It has a snazzy informal, jazzy feel to it. Springsteen pulled a folk music thingy by not just singing the songs, but re-interpreting them, making them contemporary. Heck, he showed how timeless these songs are.
I remember singing songs like "Ol' Dan Tucker" in elementary school, having no idea what it was about. Springsteen takes these and other songs and gives them the feel of news-worthy immediacy they must have had when our folk-fathers first created them. You could imagine Dan Tucker sitting there, clapping his hands and stomping his feet, laughing at what someone had been written about him.
Each rendition is a gem, but the ones that stand out to me are the gospel tune "Mary Don't You Weep" and "The Eerie Canal." Also, the Seeger staple "We Shall Overcome." Every time I hear that song, I get misty-eyed.
After our visit, we went the eatery next door and got some fine grub. Then, we adventured over to the Rhino Records store across the street. Billy wanted me to test-drive the new Springsteen CD, "The Pete Seeger Sessions," which has the Boss and a band of musicians jamming to tunes associated with Pete Seeger, the folksinger/shaman of the USA. He had this one song in particular that he wanted me to hear.
The nice tattooed girl at the check-out counter gave me the preview CD and I sauntered over to the listening station, placed the CD in the player, and put on a headset. I got no sound, so I adjusted the nob. Still no sound. I adjusted the nob again. Nothing.
Billy C went over and got a young lady with multiple piercings to come help me. She pointed out that I had the wrong headset on. Someone had put the headsets for my machine on top of the neighboring machine and had put that machine's headset on my machine. So I un-switched them, made a couple of self-deprecating jokes, and put the new headset on.
I couldn't figure out why the Princess and Billy would laugh every time I made a comment about the CD as I was listening to it. Apparently I was doing that thing where you talk loudly when wearing a headset because you forget that you're the only one for whom the music is loud. So, apparently, I was shouting at them and I guess people were staring at me.
But, what the hey, this CD is worth shouting about. It has a snazzy informal, jazzy feel to it. Springsteen pulled a folk music thingy by not just singing the songs, but re-interpreting them, making them contemporary. Heck, he showed how timeless these songs are.
I remember singing songs like "Ol' Dan Tucker" in elementary school, having no idea what it was about. Springsteen takes these and other songs and gives them the feel of news-worthy immediacy they must have had when our folk-fathers first created them. You could imagine Dan Tucker sitting there, clapping his hands and stomping his feet, laughing at what someone had been written about him.
Each rendition is a gem, but the ones that stand out to me are the gospel tune "Mary Don't You Weep" and "The Eerie Canal." Also, the Seeger staple "We Shall Overcome." Every time I hear that song, I get misty-eyed.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
The Canaries Rehearse
After dinner tonight, we headed back to Mama C's assisted living apartment and rehearsed "I Shall Be Released" by Bro Bob. Blowhard (the nickname comes from his angelic abilities on the harmonica) C played his guitar, while Billy C played baritone uke and I played my fluke. We each took a verse and harmonized on the chorus, With Blowhard taking melody, Billy C taking tenor, and me singing baritone. Sounded sweet. There was a moment when it looked like we might start on another song, I think "Positively 4th Street," but I asked that we rehearse "I Shall Be Released again." I wanted us to come a little closer to nailing it than we had. Billy and Blowhard had a little more practice on it than I had, so I needed to go over it a few times. So, if we appear as the Canaries again, that will be one of the songs.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Can You Hear Me Now?
Remember the second installment of Star Wars? Not the second episode, but the second installment, The Empire Strikes Back. There was this bald guy who followed Lando Calrisian around. He never spoke and had this electronic gizmo around his head, covering his ears. No one ever explained who he was, what he did, or what the gizmo was. The only time it was ever hinted at who he was and what the gizmo was for was when Lando realized that he had to help Leah and the robots escape aboard the Millenium Falcon because all hell was about to break loose. At that moment, the bald guy and Lando shot one another a knowing look. At that point, I surmised, all of the little lights in the bald guy's head Gizmo started broadcasting instructions into the Millenium Falcon's data base and perhaps notifying all of Lando's loyal friends to get the Hell out of Dodge.
The bald guy and his gizmo were there for these types of emergencies-at least that's what I surmised. I figure now that this gizmo was an old-school futuristic rendition of a cell phone. If the film had been made in this day and age, or if George Lucas could digitally fix it, the bald guy would be wearing one of those ear-pieces that you see on the streets today.
I bring this up because today I am at the RCC Reading and Writing Center and my friend and colleague (The Lee, as I call him), has just introduced me to one of our fellow adjunct instructors. The three of us chatted for awhile and I couldn't help but be distracted by this ear-piece she was wearing. It looked like one of those things Madonna wears onstage, except it had this wire that ran down the front of her blouse and ended at this little tiny microphone that was clipped near her collar.
These devices seem to be the rage. Many people whom I respect, including Billy C, wear these things. There was even this guy at the harmonica workshop
who played a blues harpo and wore one of these things. That just seems weird to me.
I have an old-school cell phone: big, awkward to carry in your pocket, always lost. I sometimes carry it with me. But I only use it grudgingly, since fewer and fewer places seem to have reliable payphones. Few people have the number because I don't want to get interrupted when I'm busy with something else.
I've always had a slight phobia about phones, since my days working retail in the Monkey Wards' Catalog Department. So I try to control their intrusions into my life. I can't imagine why anyone would want one around all of the time.
The first time I realized how behind the times I was occured when I went to grad school at the same university where I had earned my BA 20 years earlier. Back in the day, you would see mostly people walking around talking to each other. But the first thing I noticed in grad school was the number of people walking around talking on their cell phones. As I approached graduation, I began to see people walking around seeming to talk to themselves. These people, of course, had these little wire microphone things so they wouldn't have to hold the cell phone to their heads and get brain cancer.
Now, of course, they have these little ear-piece cell phones that you can just stick in your ear and go forth in a state of constant contact.
Puts a whole new meaning to the phrase "Be Here Now."
The bald guy and his gizmo were there for these types of emergencies-at least that's what I surmised. I figure now that this gizmo was an old-school futuristic rendition of a cell phone. If the film had been made in this day and age, or if George Lucas could digitally fix it, the bald guy would be wearing one of those ear-pieces that you see on the streets today.
I bring this up because today I am at the RCC Reading and Writing Center and my friend and colleague (The Lee, as I call him), has just introduced me to one of our fellow adjunct instructors. The three of us chatted for awhile and I couldn't help but be distracted by this ear-piece she was wearing. It looked like one of those things Madonna wears onstage, except it had this wire that ran down the front of her blouse and ended at this little tiny microphone that was clipped near her collar.
These devices seem to be the rage. Many people whom I respect, including Billy C, wear these things. There was even this guy at the harmonica workshop
who played a blues harpo and wore one of these things. That just seems weird to me.
I have an old-school cell phone: big, awkward to carry in your pocket, always lost. I sometimes carry it with me. But I only use it grudgingly, since fewer and fewer places seem to have reliable payphones. Few people have the number because I don't want to get interrupted when I'm busy with something else.
I've always had a slight phobia about phones, since my days working retail in the Monkey Wards' Catalog Department. So I try to control their intrusions into my life. I can't imagine why anyone would want one around all of the time.
The first time I realized how behind the times I was occured when I went to grad school at the same university where I had earned my BA 20 years earlier. Back in the day, you would see mostly people walking around talking to each other. But the first thing I noticed in grad school was the number of people walking around talking on their cell phones. As I approached graduation, I began to see people walking around seeming to talk to themselves. These people, of course, had these little wire microphone things so they wouldn't have to hold the cell phone to their heads and get brain cancer.
Now, of course, they have these little ear-piece cell phones that you can just stick in your ear and go forth in a state of constant contact.
Puts a whole new meaning to the phrase "Be Here Now."
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
The North and The South
I didn't say anything tonight, but during the Mt. Rub walk, my body was talking to me about two different subjects at once.
Normally, since I am diabetic, I try to eat something before I exercise. I'm having to re-train myself in this regard. My afternoon didn't go as I had planned. I ended up in a books store because I ended up with an extra hour to kill. So I went and bought a copy of Emile Zola's GERMINAL, which my teaching partner wanted me to read. I went in the back to the froo-froo coffee place and ordered a lightly sweetened froo-froo coffee beverage and sat down to read for a little while.
When I finished, I figured that the milk and beverage would carry me through the hike, since I had a late lunch.
On my way to Mt. Rub, I got trapped by the usual 6 PM train that seems to always slow to a stop when your in a hurry. So I untrapped myself and went and got a few groceries for my lunch tomorrow. I thought about a preemptive trip to the restroom before my walk, since it takes around an hour and I had just had a froo-froo coffee beverage, but I was a little worried about being too late and Do was waiting and I didn't want to leave her hanging out there alone that close to dark.
When I finally got to the mountain, I was about five minutes late.
The walk went well until we began to round the first bend on our way back down. First, I began to feel nature's call. I thought about stopping somewhere and exercising the male prerogative of urinating at will, but the mountain was busy with walkers and I thought I could hold it for awhile.
Then, I began to feel a little hungry. This gradually built up to full-out bonking (when your blood sugar drops). I keep some energy bars in my car, which was 15 minutes away, so I figured I'd be okay. But, as I got closer, the bonking grew and I began to feel a little wobbly. I didn't say anything because I still thought I would be okay.
At the same time, my bladdular needs were increasingly increasing. It was a race between bodily urges.
I probably should have said something about the bonking to Do, but I didn't. But I did wonder if I would have to linger in my car while the energy bar entered my blood stream. Then I remembered that I had a case of orange juice in my trunk that I had not yet unloaded. So, when I got the car, I chugged that, which took less time to de-bonk me than the energy bar would have.
As far as the other need, let's just say I took care of that soon after.
And, by the way Do, if I seemed like I was losing interest in what you were saying and that I was in a hurry to get away, that's why. I was having a little trouble focusing.
Well, a few minutes with Zola, and I'm out.
Normally, since I am diabetic, I try to eat something before I exercise. I'm having to re-train myself in this regard. My afternoon didn't go as I had planned. I ended up in a books store because I ended up with an extra hour to kill. So I went and bought a copy of Emile Zola's GERMINAL, which my teaching partner wanted me to read. I went in the back to the froo-froo coffee place and ordered a lightly sweetened froo-froo coffee beverage and sat down to read for a little while.
When I finished, I figured that the milk and beverage would carry me through the hike, since I had a late lunch.
On my way to Mt. Rub, I got trapped by the usual 6 PM train that seems to always slow to a stop when your in a hurry. So I untrapped myself and went and got a few groceries for my lunch tomorrow. I thought about a preemptive trip to the restroom before my walk, since it takes around an hour and I had just had a froo-froo coffee beverage, but I was a little worried about being too late and Do was waiting and I didn't want to leave her hanging out there alone that close to dark.
When I finally got to the mountain, I was about five minutes late.
The walk went well until we began to round the first bend on our way back down. First, I began to feel nature's call. I thought about stopping somewhere and exercising the male prerogative of urinating at will, but the mountain was busy with walkers and I thought I could hold it for awhile.
Then, I began to feel a little hungry. This gradually built up to full-out bonking (when your blood sugar drops). I keep some energy bars in my car, which was 15 minutes away, so I figured I'd be okay. But, as I got closer, the bonking grew and I began to feel a little wobbly. I didn't say anything because I still thought I would be okay.
At the same time, my bladdular needs were increasingly increasing. It was a race between bodily urges.
I probably should have said something about the bonking to Do, but I didn't. But I did wonder if I would have to linger in my car while the energy bar entered my blood stream. Then I remembered that I had a case of orange juice in my trunk that I had not yet unloaded. So, when I got the car, I chugged that, which took less time to de-bonk me than the energy bar would have.
As far as the other need, let's just say I took care of that soon after.
And, by the way Do, if I seemed like I was losing interest in what you were saying and that I was in a hurry to get away, that's why. I was having a little trouble focusing.
Well, a few minutes with Zola, and I'm out.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Last Night of Class from Hell
I took a celebratory-late night walk up Mt. Rub tonight. I started pretty late, about 7:10 PM. But I had to exercise the polluted feeling I had from taking this damn class on English Language Development. God, it was horrible. And I'm not sure that anyone became a better teacher for it.
So, I'm done.
The walk did me good. It was around 8 when I wound around the mountain and started downhill, so I got to see the city at dusk and the clouds that blew in overhead as the wind swept around me and my fellow hikers.
I'm walking at a pretty brisk pace these days, when I walk alone. I might walk a little slower when walking with Do, but that's because we talk and talking slows one down. When I'm alone, I get going pretty fast. I'm going to try to walk every night this week.
So, I'm done.
The walk did me good. It was around 8 when I wound around the mountain and started downhill, so I got to see the city at dusk and the clouds that blew in overhead as the wind swept around me and my fellow hikers.
I'm walking at a pretty brisk pace these days, when I walk alone. I might walk a little slower when walking with Do, but that's because we talk and talking slows one down. When I'm alone, I get going pretty fast. I'm going to try to walk every night this week.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Brother Can You Spare a Dime?
I was looking for the link to the chords and lyrics of "Brother Can You Spare a Dime," and I found the lyrics with the following intro, sans chords. Anybody know what the chords would be?
They used to tell me I was building a dream
And so I followed the mob.
When there was earth to plow or guns to bear,
I was always there, right on the job...
They used to tell me I was building a dream
With peace and glory ahead --
Why should I be standing in line, just waiting for bread?
They used to tell me I was building a dream
And so I followed the mob.
When there was earth to plow or guns to bear,
I was always there, right on the job...
They used to tell me I was building a dream
With peace and glory ahead --
Why should I be standing in line, just waiting for bread?
Thursday, April 20, 2006
The Angry Bunnies
This post by Howlin'Hobbit
reminded me of a dream I had about one of my phobias.
I don’t have many fears. In fact, most things that people are afraid of don’t bother me at all. I don’t mind being in an elevator, even when it’s stuck between floors. Heights only bother me a little bit. But I do have one irrational fear. It goes back to when I was a little boy.
When I was three years old, I was brutally attacked by my pet hamster. I remember it as clearly as if it was yesterday. I remember its beady, crazed eyes; its razor sharp teeth; its calm, quiet demeanor before the attack. If only I had known what it had in store for me.
Fluffy had just had a litter of baby hamsters. After this miraculous event, I would spend hours staring into her cage as the pink baby hamsters nuzzled her soft white belly fur, suckling on their mother's tiny hamster bazooms. I did not know that you’re not supposed to disturb a mother hamster and her young. They become irrational. My parents had warned me to leave her alone, but I was a curious child and often had to learn for myself. I had reached into the cage to pet Fluffy one too many times. She snapped and bit me on my finger, causing a geyser of blood to gush forth. I cried and screamed. My mother grabbed me and pulled away before it was too late. Blood spurted from my wounded finger, spraying the walls and furniture of our once-pristine home.
Fluffy then turned her back to me and cannibalized her children.
Since that time, I have had a fear of rodents. I won’t run from the room screaming if you show me one, but I do not like to hold them or pet them. I fear their teeth and try to avoid them at all costs.
I even have a recurring nightmare where I am hanging in a tall, narrow room, holding onto a chandelier for dear life. I am barefoot.
On the floor are several angry bunny rabbits (yes, I know that rabbits are not actually rodents, but remember this is an irrational fear). They are huge and their eyes are red with fury. Their teeth are longer and sharper than Fluffy’s were. They are leaping, snapping at my feet. My hands are sweaty, causing my grip to loosen.
But I cannot let go, or the angry, angry bunnies will get me.
reminded me of a dream I had about one of my phobias.
I don’t have many fears. In fact, most things that people are afraid of don’t bother me at all. I don’t mind being in an elevator, even when it’s stuck between floors. Heights only bother me a little bit. But I do have one irrational fear. It goes back to when I was a little boy.
When I was three years old, I was brutally attacked by my pet hamster. I remember it as clearly as if it was yesterday. I remember its beady, crazed eyes; its razor sharp teeth; its calm, quiet demeanor before the attack. If only I had known what it had in store for me.
Fluffy had just had a litter of baby hamsters. After this miraculous event, I would spend hours staring into her cage as the pink baby hamsters nuzzled her soft white belly fur, suckling on their mother's tiny hamster bazooms. I did not know that you’re not supposed to disturb a mother hamster and her young. They become irrational. My parents had warned me to leave her alone, but I was a curious child and often had to learn for myself. I had reached into the cage to pet Fluffy one too many times. She snapped and bit me on my finger, causing a geyser of blood to gush forth. I cried and screamed. My mother grabbed me and pulled away before it was too late. Blood spurted from my wounded finger, spraying the walls and furniture of our once-pristine home.
Fluffy then turned her back to me and cannibalized her children.
Since that time, I have had a fear of rodents. I won’t run from the room screaming if you show me one, but I do not like to hold them or pet them. I fear their teeth and try to avoid them at all costs.
I even have a recurring nightmare where I am hanging in a tall, narrow room, holding onto a chandelier for dear life. I am barefoot.
On the floor are several angry bunny rabbits (yes, I know that rabbits are not actually rodents, but remember this is an irrational fear). They are huge and their eyes are red with fury. Their teeth are longer and sharper than Fluffy’s were. They are leaping, snapping at my feet. My hands are sweaty, causing my grip to loosen.
But I cannot let go, or the angry, angry bunnies will get me.
My Set List
1. I Wanna Be Like You
2. Bears
3. Brother Can You Spare a Dime
4. Times Like These
5. Wayfaring Stranger
6. Fisherman's Blues
7. Little Red Riding Hood
8. Maggie's Farm
9. Quinn the Eskimo
10. Don't Think Twice, It's Alright
11. Daydream
12. Come on Up to the House
13. Wild Honey
There are probably others.
Works in Progress:
1. Over the Rainbow
2. Song to the Siren
3. Within a Mile from Home
4. Buster Keaton
2. Bears
3. Brother Can You Spare a Dime
4. Times Like These
5. Wayfaring Stranger
6. Fisherman's Blues
7. Little Red Riding Hood
8. Maggie's Farm
9. Quinn the Eskimo
10. Don't Think Twice, It's Alright
11. Daydream
12. Come on Up to the House
13. Wild Honey
There are probably others.
Works in Progress:
1. Over the Rainbow
2. Song to the Siren
3. Within a Mile from Home
4. Buster Keaton
Saturday, April 15, 2006
In Defense of Tofu
This was going to be a reply to a comment from Do, but it turned into another blog entry.
My theory is that, often, it's not the meat, but the stuff we put on it that makes it flavorful. So, in most soy-based meat substitutes, it depends on what you do with it. The flavor, to me, comes from the fruits and vegetables anyway. So instead of ground meat, I put the ground soy substitute in my spaghetti sauce. Infact, my tasty version of spaghetti sauce is this:
1. Saute one chopped-u onion and as many chopped-up cloves of garlic as you can stand.
2. Add one package of soy crumbles and brown.
3. Dump in 1 can of lentil soup, one jar of tomato sauce, and one can of tomato paste.
4. Stir.
5. Simmer.
6. Glob it on some spaghetti or other pasta.
6A. Add some Parmesan cheese.
7. Eat.
8. I also sometimes scramble some eggs or egg substitute or egg whites and use that instead of adding the soy.
9. Either way, I don't miss the meat.
10. In honor of my late great friend Keith R, "That's what she said."
Yes, I am aware that most of us eat much more protein than we need. That's why I surround my protein with fruits and vegetables. And carbs.
Yes, I am aware that we eat far more carbs than we need, so I cut that down too. I'm not sure that I'm ready to go cold turkey on that yet. Or that I need to. My inner jury is still out on that one.
Barry Sears, the Zone guy, says that soy protein is good because it helps regulate your blood sugar (one of my concerns these days).
He also likes cottage cheese.
Cottage Cheese tip: mix about two cups of berries with three and 3/4's cups of cottage cheese and 1/4 cup eggwhite-based protein powder. Sprinkle on some cinnamon (also good for managing blood sugar, so they say) and nuts. MMMMMMMMboy! Try Greek-style yogurt instead of cottage cheese, even better.
When I do crave meat, I go organic, or at least free range. It is better for you and tastier, as is anything organic.
As for Tofurkey, stay away. Stay very away.
My theory is that, often, it's not the meat, but the stuff we put on it that makes it flavorful. So, in most soy-based meat substitutes, it depends on what you do with it. The flavor, to me, comes from the fruits and vegetables anyway. So instead of ground meat, I put the ground soy substitute in my spaghetti sauce. Infact, my tasty version of spaghetti sauce is this:
1. Saute one chopped-u onion and as many chopped-up cloves of garlic as you can stand.
2. Add one package of soy crumbles and brown.
3. Dump in 1 can of lentil soup, one jar of tomato sauce, and one can of tomato paste.
4. Stir.
5. Simmer.
6. Glob it on some spaghetti or other pasta.
6A. Add some Parmesan cheese.
7. Eat.
8. I also sometimes scramble some eggs or egg substitute or egg whites and use that instead of adding the soy.
9. Either way, I don't miss the meat.
10. In honor of my late great friend Keith R, "That's what she said."
Yes, I am aware that most of us eat much more protein than we need. That's why I surround my protein with fruits and vegetables. And carbs.
Yes, I am aware that we eat far more carbs than we need, so I cut that down too. I'm not sure that I'm ready to go cold turkey on that yet. Or that I need to. My inner jury is still out on that one.
Barry Sears, the Zone guy, says that soy protein is good because it helps regulate your blood sugar (one of my concerns these days).
He also likes cottage cheese.
Cottage Cheese tip: mix about two cups of berries with three and 3/4's cups of cottage cheese and 1/4 cup eggwhite-based protein powder. Sprinkle on some cinnamon (also good for managing blood sugar, so they say) and nuts. MMMMMMMMboy! Try Greek-style yogurt instead of cottage cheese, even better.
When I do crave meat, I go organic, or at least free range. It is better for you and tastier, as is anything organic.
As for Tofurkey, stay away. Stay very away.
Friday, April 14, 2006
What's Good and Bad about Soy Protein
Ok. Before anyone hits me with the line about wanting to enjoy life and eating what tastes good and all of that, let me just say that, health-wise, I've reached a point where my body is saying ouch and I have started listening. I'm not on a diet so much as returning to eating foods that aren't going to kill me. I have never seen "Super-Size Me," but I have been living it for the past couple of years.
And, just so you know, I actually like fruits and vegetables. I also Have always been able to dabble in non-dead-animal types of food and enjoy many of them.
The only thing that has changed is that I am partially abandoning my previous eschewment of "substitutes." That is, I used to insist that any processed food that substitutes for the real thing (i.e. Silk instead of milk, Nice Dreams instead of ice cream), really only reminds you of that which you are doing without and, therefore, most people who try these things will only go back to that which is supposedly bad for you.
So, to lower my cholesterol, I have begun to use some meat substitutes. Maybe not permanently, but for now. Here are my thoughts about the good and bad aspects of each:
The good thing about TOFU is that it is cholesterol free. The bad thing is that it tastes like tofu, so you have to dress it up.
The good thing about SOY PROTEIN POWDER is that if you throw a dash of it into a cup of cottage cheese with lots of fruit and it give it a pudding-like consistency. The bad thing is that it tastes like soy protein powder and ruins the flavor. Egg protein powder has a more neutral flavor that compliments the fruity cottage cheesey concoction.
Soy Italian Sausage tastes ok. But it has a grainy quality and doesn't plump when you cook it.
Soy ground beef substitute is fine in a marinara sauce, which I think makes it a bolognese sauce, but has a more chewy texture.
Soy nuts and endame baked endame are a good source of protein, but soy nuts are a little too crunchy and endame aren't crunchy enough.
Non-soy cooking tip: If you mix egg substitute with egg white, you can make an omelet that looks almost like a normal omelet. If you put the egg white in the pan first and let it begin to cook and then put in the egg subsitute, it really begins to look like a real omelet.
Tofurkey is dressed up tofu. Tofurkey sausage is neither turkey nor sausage.
And, just so you know, I actually like fruits and vegetables. I also Have always been able to dabble in non-dead-animal types of food and enjoy many of them.
The only thing that has changed is that I am partially abandoning my previous eschewment of "substitutes." That is, I used to insist that any processed food that substitutes for the real thing (i.e. Silk instead of milk, Nice Dreams instead of ice cream), really only reminds you of that which you are doing without and, therefore, most people who try these things will only go back to that which is supposedly bad for you.
So, to lower my cholesterol, I have begun to use some meat substitutes. Maybe not permanently, but for now. Here are my thoughts about the good and bad aspects of each:
The good thing about TOFU is that it is cholesterol free. The bad thing is that it tastes like tofu, so you have to dress it up.
The good thing about SOY PROTEIN POWDER is that if you throw a dash of it into a cup of cottage cheese with lots of fruit and it give it a pudding-like consistency. The bad thing is that it tastes like soy protein powder and ruins the flavor. Egg protein powder has a more neutral flavor that compliments the fruity cottage cheesey concoction.
Soy Italian Sausage tastes ok. But it has a grainy quality and doesn't plump when you cook it.
Soy ground beef substitute is fine in a marinara sauce, which I think makes it a bolognese sauce, but has a more chewy texture.
Soy nuts and endame baked endame are a good source of protein, but soy nuts are a little too crunchy and endame aren't crunchy enough.
Non-soy cooking tip: If you mix egg substitute with egg white, you can make an omelet that looks almost like a normal omelet. If you put the egg white in the pan first and let it begin to cook and then put in the egg subsitute, it really begins to look like a real omelet.
Tofurkey is dressed up tofu. Tofurkey sausage is neither turkey nor sausage.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Oriole Spotting
I'm pretty sure it was an oriole. Black yellow, with a little white thrown in.
My Department Chair came in to ask me to run a meeting the next day, since he was not going to be there. So, while he rattled off stuff he wanted me to cover, my eyes drift the back window. And there, on the fence, sits this beautiful couple of birds. One has a bright yellow breast with oriole type markings. I have never seen one. I'm not sure if orioles even live out here in the Inland Desert. He was there with his girlfriend, who was less colorful-the way of most of our ornithlogical friends.
I shouted, "Look! It's an oriole!"
My DC turns around and looks.
"Yeah, nice. So discuss the new textbook adoption, and if you have time..."
"He's flying towards the window!"
My DC turns around again.
"Hm. Very nice. Then, let people know how much is in our budget...."
There isn't much that's pretty outside my window. A lake is located behind us, but you can't see it. What you do see is debris from the state park. It's an ugly view. But occasionally you see a bird or two.
Once, while lecturing, I saw a redtail hawk sitting on the fence. I've seen quite a few of these in the area, but never outside my window. So, I drop the lecture and say " hey, look, everybody!" and point at the window.
The students turn around, look, someone says "Hm, neat bird," and they turn back towards me.
They couldn't have been less impressed.
Is nature doomed?
My Department Chair came in to ask me to run a meeting the next day, since he was not going to be there. So, while he rattled off stuff he wanted me to cover, my eyes drift the back window. And there, on the fence, sits this beautiful couple of birds. One has a bright yellow breast with oriole type markings. I have never seen one. I'm not sure if orioles even live out here in the Inland Desert. He was there with his girlfriend, who was less colorful-the way of most of our ornithlogical friends.
I shouted, "Look! It's an oriole!"
My DC turns around and looks.
"Yeah, nice. So discuss the new textbook adoption, and if you have time..."
"He's flying towards the window!"
My DC turns around again.
"Hm. Very nice. Then, let people know how much is in our budget...."
There isn't much that's pretty outside my window. A lake is located behind us, but you can't see it. What you do see is debris from the state park. It's an ugly view. But occasionally you see a bird or two.
Once, while lecturing, I saw a redtail hawk sitting on the fence. I've seen quite a few of these in the area, but never outside my window. So, I drop the lecture and say " hey, look, everybody!" and point at the window.
The students turn around, look, someone says "Hm, neat bird," and they turn back towards me.
They couldn't have been less impressed.
Is nature doomed?
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Harmonica Workshop
Attended a beginners' harmonica workshop today at the Folk Center. The cost was $20, plus the cost of a harmonica. I couldn't find my Pocket Pal, so I sprung for a Hohner blues Harp, which cost $29.95.
I mean, what the hey.
A local blues harpist guy ran the workshop, which was pretty much a bust. The lesson here is two-fold: 1) Not all talented musicians are good teachers and 2) It is hard to teach a large group of people how to play a tiny instrument that you have to blow air into, or suck air out of, for that matter.
I had a similar experience during a pennywhistle workshop at the Folk Festival last summer. Didn't learn much there either.
At start time, the class was pretty small. The instructor stalled, or so it seemed, until the class size swelled to about 20 people. The attendees ranged from folk like me, who had barely ever attempted to play harmonica, to those who had elaborate harmonica cases, with Multiple harmonicas in different keys. Billy C brought Blowhard Canary with him, as did another father his son. A mother and daughter came. They looked like sisters.
The guy played a pretty good harp. But he spent the first 45 minutes of the two-hour workshop talking about other players, playing cuts from a couple of CD's, and talking about places where you could hear the blues or sit in and jam with the players. Gave us a few handouts that we could have gotten if we had just bought the book he copied them out of.
Most of the rest of the workshop was that way, with a few demonstrations by the teacher, interrupted by the occasional excuse for the class to blow into their own harps.
I mean, the guy could have had us in the palm of his hands if he had shown us how to play a scale. He could have followed that with a couple of progressions or techniques. I don't think people would have cared that they weren't playing any songs, as long as they learned how to move their slobbery lips back and forth a few times. It would have even given the actual players that showed up a chance to show off a bit-maybe even help the newbies out a little.
At the end, one of the players asked that the instructor teach an intermediate class where he shared some of his licks. Translation: teach us how to do something next time and we'll forgive you this time.
I asked Jerry who was teaching the uke workshop. They have never offered uke workshops before. This was for beginners, so I thought it might be a waste of time. But I was interested in taking a more advanced workshop. This workshop was cancelled because of poor turnout, but Jerry suggested that maybe I could teach one as I was farther advanced than the lady who would have taught the cancelled workshop.
I was flattered. Billy C and I talked about it a bit and thought we could co-teach. It would be fun to do it that way.
We had dinner at the Pizza and Such next door. We usually dine at Heroes, a local big food, beer, and wine establishment. By "big food," I mean that the portions are huge, as are the servings of beer and wine. But I have never had anything there that I thought was as good as it was big.
We had eaten at Pizza and Such once before and it tasted good. I had a salad (eating a lot of those these days), as did Virginia Canary. Mine was good and hers looked interesting. Tonight, I had a different salad, which was just as tasty as the other. So, it looks like Pizza and Such will be my future stop for eats on Open Mike Night.
Right now, I'm gonna get my Harmonica for Dummies book and my new blues harp and do some damage.
I mean, what the hey.
A local blues harpist guy ran the workshop, which was pretty much a bust. The lesson here is two-fold: 1) Not all talented musicians are good teachers and 2) It is hard to teach a large group of people how to play a tiny instrument that you have to blow air into, or suck air out of, for that matter.
I had a similar experience during a pennywhistle workshop at the Folk Festival last summer. Didn't learn much there either.
At start time, the class was pretty small. The instructor stalled, or so it seemed, until the class size swelled to about 20 people. The attendees ranged from folk like me, who had barely ever attempted to play harmonica, to those who had elaborate harmonica cases, with Multiple harmonicas in different keys. Billy C brought Blowhard Canary with him, as did another father his son. A mother and daughter came. They looked like sisters.
The guy played a pretty good harp. But he spent the first 45 minutes of the two-hour workshop talking about other players, playing cuts from a couple of CD's, and talking about places where you could hear the blues or sit in and jam with the players. Gave us a few handouts that we could have gotten if we had just bought the book he copied them out of.
Most of the rest of the workshop was that way, with a few demonstrations by the teacher, interrupted by the occasional excuse for the class to blow into their own harps.
I mean, the guy could have had us in the palm of his hands if he had shown us how to play a scale. He could have followed that with a couple of progressions or techniques. I don't think people would have cared that they weren't playing any songs, as long as they learned how to move their slobbery lips back and forth a few times. It would have even given the actual players that showed up a chance to show off a bit-maybe even help the newbies out a little.
At the end, one of the players asked that the instructor teach an intermediate class where he shared some of his licks. Translation: teach us how to do something next time and we'll forgive you this time.
I asked Jerry who was teaching the uke workshop. They have never offered uke workshops before. This was for beginners, so I thought it might be a waste of time. But I was interested in taking a more advanced workshop. This workshop was cancelled because of poor turnout, but Jerry suggested that maybe I could teach one as I was farther advanced than the lady who would have taught the cancelled workshop.
I was flattered. Billy C and I talked about it a bit and thought we could co-teach. It would be fun to do it that way.
We had dinner at the Pizza and Such next door. We usually dine at Heroes, a local big food, beer, and wine establishment. By "big food," I mean that the portions are huge, as are the servings of beer and wine. But I have never had anything there that I thought was as good as it was big.
We had eaten at Pizza and Such once before and it tasted good. I had a salad (eating a lot of those these days), as did Virginia Canary. Mine was good and hers looked interesting. Tonight, I had a different salad, which was just as tasty as the other. So, it looks like Pizza and Such will be my future stop for eats on Open Mike Night.
Right now, I'm gonna get my Harmonica for Dummies book and my new blues harp and do some damage.
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