Campy

It's no secret I was kind of a strange child. Those who are close to me have repeatedly been regaled with my howling laments about my youth; being teased for how short I was and how big my nose was, for my funny name and for using big words; I always wore a hat; a baseball cap, a knit watchman's cap, a cowboy hat, or a turquoise-colored floppy suede fringed thing like something Janis Joplin might have worn. I was a tomboy and usually dressed in Hang Ten t-shirts and Toughskins or Billy-The-Kid jeans. I played the cello for God's sake. I loved frogs, baseball, fishing, and loved bulding forts and rafts. I think I had a Huckleberry Finn complex. I went through a brief (but somewhat concerning to my parents) phase where I insisted to everyone who met me that I was a boy.
One of the less glaring things that set me apart from the other kids was that I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about, nor did I engage people in the typical long treatises about, my big plans to be a nurse or a world adventurer or an astronaut or a movie star. For whatever reason, apart from occasional fantasies that I was the fifth Beatle, I just didn't think about 'what I wanted to be'. It's unusual, isn't it? Looking back, I now wonder if this wasn't some subconcious coping mechanism designed to keep my hopes safely muted-a lesson I indeed conciously learned early, growing up in a household where encouragement was in short suppy and unsolicited criticism was offered up as helpful 'training for the real world'. (On the other hand, it's nice to imagine that there actually was a time when I was just too blissfully immersed in the moment-just 'being'-to worry at all about what was to come.) As I grew up, went to high school and entered the work world, it occurred to me at times that perhaps I had a lack of interest in 'goal setting' compared to my peers, but didn't concern myself with it too much. I was also never aware of a particular desire to get married or have kids, nor did I have any concrete aspirations such as saving the world, having an M.B.A. by the time I was 23 or making my first million by 30. I didn't fully realize that my lack of interest or inability to think in terms of my future was atypical or worrying until much later.
Reflecting on this recently I had happy realization. I remembered that as a child there was in fact one thing I did devote significant energy to thinking about and planning for: I wanted to run a camp. I used to spend hours playing on the vacant grassy hillside behind our house pretending I was the warm and generous host of a paradisical rural retreat where kids could come to ride ponies, milk goats, play with puppies, grow carrots, swim in the pond, fly kites, have cookouts, tell stories, catch salamanders and bugs, do crafts and just generally escape the pressure cooker of kindergarten life. The overnight cabins were refrigerator boxes I dragged home and decorated with crayons and cutout windows. I even appointed the "cabins" with pillows and blankets. Gracious living for weary children. It seems I aspired to be the Martha Stewart of sleepaway camp.
Looking around my property these days I view things through a new lens. I realize I have had a goal all along. There are abundant signs I have been preparing for the campers to arrive for some time: I have a charming house with a cozy, well-appointed guest room as well as a fairy-tale rose-covered cottage for guests. I have in fact hosted tent and trailer campers out in the meadow. My yard is made up of different quadrants for different activities: In one area there is fire-pit with benches around it and a little pile of uniformly cut applewood kindling. Neat stacks of firewood await splitting. In this area there is also an assortment of chairs and a picnic table with an overhead string of lights like the ones hanging across ancient narrow cobblestone lanes in Italy. Adjacent is a diminuitive fenced-in vegetable garden that produces asparagus, artichokes, arugula, chard,favas,various herbs,kale, lettuce, mache, peas, beans, squash, strawberies and more, all depending on the season. Flowers, trees and grassy open space abound. There is a volleyball net set up in the east field. In another area there is a fenced-in yard with greenhouse and a garden shed, an outdoor potting bench, a rabbit hutch, and a small scrap lumber pile. In this area there is also a spot for my future chickens. Yet another spot is is a fenced area devoted to the dogs-mine and visitors'. Everywhere there are happily decrepit tennis balls and frisbees. Wildlife such as deer, squirrels,turkeys, foxes, and quail make regular appearances. There is a sparkling pond full of frogs just through the fence and a magnificent estuaruian river for paddling and fishing at the bottom of my hill. Not to mention that the ocean is pretty much right out my door.
Oh, and trust me, there are plenty of salamanders and bugs.
I finally realized that all the years I have spent arranging and improving my place here in the country were the manifestation of my childhood inclination toward creating a safe haven for nurturing tired spirits. I am a good listener and people tell me I am a fair and compassionate dispenser of advice and wisdom. That my friends also frequently cite their visits here as crucial relaxing respites from city life and their daily grinds- treating me like some kind of hero who has saved them- and waxing rhapsodic about time blissfully spent plucking produce from the garden, cooking, eating, drinking wine, playing with animals, padding around in pajamas during the day, lounging in a comfy chair watching movies or reading, or walking in the fresh air... is the culmination of my humble childhood dream.
I see that now. I am starting to get that people count on me to be here when they need some simple downtime and I am fulfilled by knowing this. My job is to run this camp- it matters to many people. I am so pleased to be able to share my simple, beautiful haven for my loved ones to escape to. It turns out I have been working my whole life to be their safe place to fall and it feels great.

Could V.D. Kill You?

Another Valentine's Day has come and gone. I resent this day more every year, whether or not I have a "valentine". If I have someone special in my life, I get nervous that the day will be a disappointment or an outright disaster (and it has often been; some of the most hideous arguments I have ever been a part of came on this day), AND I feel bad for all the lonely people. When I'm single, Valentine's Day just seems like a flat-out cruel joke with its relentless advertising, special restaurant menus and pervasive displays of provocative lingerie. I just keep my head down and plow through it. Can anyone explain this paradox to me: why is there this ubiquitous sentiment these days that it's okay to be single, a solitary person, modernly mateless at the moment-backed up by statistics claiming that currently more than half of all households are inhabited by unmarried singular human units-yet there continues a deeply cultivated aura of judgement in our culture that unless you are part of a couple, you are somehow sad, incomplete or downright odd? I fear that it is a conspiracy concocted by the married perpetually miserables to cover their collective suffering. I mean, how many marrieds wish they were not any more? Based on my informal observations, at LEAST 50 percent. How many unmarrieds wish that they were? Many, yes, but these days certainly not 50 per cent or more. Which brings me to a better point: If only we could get off this treadmill of always wanting what we don't have, then getting it, then not wanting it any more. We're like Sneetches going through the Star On and Star Off machines in our perpetual desire to acquire and to shed; star on, star off, star on, star off... I wish Sylvester McMonkey McBean would pack up his machines and go home.

Letter To Grammy

Thank God the Grammy awards show has upped their game. I thought perhaps last year was a fluke, but last night was again pretty watchable, overall. It seems that NARAS is finally starting to catch up with music fans in their nominations of truly popular, relevant or ground-breaking acts and matching artists with the proper nomination categories. Not all the way there yet, but making progress. (Can anyone forget Jethro Tull as the inaugural winnner in the Best Hard Rock/Heavy Metal category? Hilarious.) The key to lifting this traditionally monotonous and staid program out of the dross of embarrassingly dated awards ceremonies is the live performances. Some of the teamings of seemingly disparate artists were pretty clever, although many were hampered by a criminally bad sound mix. (That seems kind of important, and I notice the Grammys continually suffer from this. Duh.) Last night's highlights in the Let's Stop Underestimating Audience Intelligence category include: Justin Timberlake, Keith Urban and Boyz II Men joining Al Green for an inspired version of "Let's Stay Together"; Nine months preganant goofball M.I.A. crazily waddling and leaping about with Jay-Z, T.I., Lil' Wayne, and Kanye (dig his '80's retro Lionel Richie hairdo); she was (adorably? trippily?) dressed like a Dr. Seuss character and shoulda got to sing more; Buddy Guy, Keith Urban and John Mayer all sitting down with B.B. King in a tasteful yet enthralling and sorely deserved tribute to my departed friend Bo Diddley; and the sole remaining living original Four Top Abdul 'Duke' Fakir singing and dancing with Jamie Foxx, Ne-Yo and a deer-in-the-headlights-overly- Botoxed Smokey Robinson. Smokey sang angelically, but the treat for me was how purely and sweetly soulful Jamie and Ne-Yo both sang. They were very cool. If Amy Winehouse's backup singing and dancing dudes had joined them it would have been total nirvana. But the main reason I tuned in was to see Foo Fighter's Dave Grohl (yummy!) drumming with Paul McCartney on "I Saw Her Standing There" and it was awesome. This was the sole performance that didn't seen to suffer from a poor sound mix- the drums were mic'ed perfectly and McCartney's vocals were up front just right. And he really sounded good- youthful, vigourous, and he hit all the high notes, unlike Al Green. Also, he is such a skilled and nimble bass player, I almost forgot! The best part, though, was watching the obviously ecstatic grin Dave wore throughout the performance. A few more observations: Neil Diamond is a dork. Great songwriter, but what a smarmy geek performance of "Sweet Caroline" he gave. Uggghh. Bono REMOVED HIS GLASSES and we saw his eyes! Nice guylined peepers. Good God, that Sugarland girl can SING. Just one more example of how the 'country' music category has gotten so confusing and dangerously marginalizing: she gave the best soul performance of the night, not Smokey or Justin or Robin Thicke or Stevie Wonder. Although T.I. was a close second with his emotional performance of "Dead and Gone" as he prepares to go off to jail on federal weapons charges. Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift's duet was, I'm going to say it, good. Yes, they are both middling singers at this point, but the sheer vulnerable articulation of teenage girl angst was moving and brave and earnest. Not overly earnest- just right. They just seemed so naked. It gave me a lump in my throat. The Jonas Brothers, however, were out of their league with Stevie Wonder. They were buzzing around him like gnats. It seemed like Stevie was going to start swatting them away, but he restrained himself admirably. Oh, and Joe Jonas is definitely getting laid. Rock and roll has cast its magic spell upon him. Sorry, but a guy who's never had sex just doesn't move like that. Hey, is Whitney Houston okay or not?? Yesterday morning they were talking about her amazing comeback, but last night she seemed still wigged out on drugs. She's so crazy. Kid Rock has one of the best bands in pop music. They are tight. Chris Brown and Rihanna couldn't make it to the show- they were busy fighting. But the worst combined event of the evening was the alternately awkward and snore-inducing ramblings of Robert Plant and T-Bone Burnett (Burnett, by far the largest man in the world, comes off as someone too weird even for a David Lynch film; did you see his HANDS?), Robert and Alison Krauss winning Album Of The Year, and the decidedly underwhelmed audience response to their win. Uncomfortable and wrong. Lastly, who the hell was that shredding fireball lady guitar player in Carrie Underwod's band? How did she squeak under the radar seemingly unnoticed? Were people too transfixed by those shiny hyper-bronzed stilts Carrie tried to pass off as legs?


And... dear Denis Leary and Jon Stewart: Please call me!
Love,
Notorious

In Defense Of Language

Alright. I can't stand it any more. And I know I'm not the only one. What's with the epidemic misuse of the word "literally"? And perhaps more importantly, why do people feel such a need to EMPHASIZE whatever it is they're saying that they commit this semantic crime with such alarming frequency ? Is the rampant misunderstood overuse of this word in conversation a sign- well, obviously, that lots of folks just don't understand the meaning of the word- but more, yet another sign that we are hungering for the personal recognition that is increasingly rare as we continue to over- connect to the internet, the Wii, the Blackberry, and disconnect from our humanity? (Also, there's just way too many people in the world; it's becoming harder and harder to stand out.) We crave validation, that's no secret. When you tell a story, relate an anecdote, it's natural to desire feedback from your audience as in eye contact, a nod, the utterance of "uh-huh" and so on. The better you are at embellishing your anecdotes, the better chance that people will respond to you, which is, let's face it, what we all want: for others to pay attention to us. So my theory is that misuse of 'literally' is a result of attempting to distinguish one's self from the crowd. 'Punching it up' so to speak. Some would say it's our increasing obsession with fame that's driving it. I prefer to be more empathetic and say it's our innate our need to stand out, but in any case this crime does seem to be especially common among t.v. reality-show participants as they struggle for camera time in their inane encapsulations of 'what went down last night', etc. It's no news flash that the ubiquitous presence of these programs is influencing how we speak, dumbing us down. It's an easy embellishment to stick "literally" in there when describing something, sort of like those sticky-backed ribbon roses you slap on a gift when one is otherwise, like me, 'ribbon challenged'. Convenient flourish, but one can become dependent on them and then they lose their specialness. Let's face it; "literally" has become a crutch. It's boring. Now, with rare exception, when I hear someone start to say "I mean he was LITERALLY..." etcetera, I take that as my cue to go to sleep. Mouth wide open. Head back. Sawing logs. Haw-shewwww, haw-shewwww.
When over-dependence on a particular word or phrase becomes a substitute for compelling exposition,thoughtful language, just good storytelling, it's time for assholes like me to bring the hammer down. Please,people, just be more mindful. If it is true attention you seek, then more thoughtful discourse, less prattle. Wake me when it's funny.
Also, while I'm at it: Regime and regimen. Please figure out the difference. One is a mode of rule or form of government. The other is a systematic plan or course of action as in training, diet, or exercise. Yes, they are both rooted in the same word-the medieval Latin 'regimin'- but they have evolved over many years to two distinct words with decidedly different meanings. If I hear one more person refer to their 'spa regime', I'm going to gnaw my arm off.

P.S. It has occurred to me that perhaps I myself am overly dependent on commas in my writing. I'm a comma mama. Not as severe a crime, mind you, but something I will examine. And on a separate but related note, I have a whole defense for the use of 'like' and 'he's all...', 'she's all...' etc. which I may address at later date.

Chaos Theory

"Monkey mind", in case you haven't heard that phrase, is an idea used in Buhddism referring to the over-analyzing, ruminating, basically unquiet state we thinkers often feel trapped in. It's the idea that when one is feeling chaotic,unable to quiet the mind, it is as if you (your mind) are a crazy zany monkey who is running around, up and down trees, swinging from vines, pointlessly scratching yourself, flinging your feces, shrieking and ooohging and uaaaghing, recklessly peeling banana after banana,wolfing down some and tossing others on the ground... Just hyper and in the basest way, an animal. Monkey mind. I love that term.
Why, WHY am I so chaotic? Just one example: I often find myself racing back and forth through the house scribbling words down on Post-Its and dry erase boards and regular old paper in an attempt to catch all my ideas as they tumble out of my head. I am driven by the idea that if I can corral them I will become more organized, not only in my everyday task-driven life, but in my creative life as well, and therefore more serene. But just exactly how helpful or calming is it to have various scraps of paper lodged everywhere- in the house, in the car, inside my day planner; I mean, the day planner is actually stuffed with lists of lists-when I, Hyper McSpazzy, am spinning all around,tripping over piles of paper, spilling my juice, and banging my head on open cupboard doors in my attempts to jot the ideas down? I woke up the other morning with a crumpled Post-It note stuck to my face. Silly monkey mind- that is what meditation is for! And perhaps blogging as well...

Thoughts On Race

Our new president is already rocking my world with his quiet resolve: closing Guantanamo- CHECK! Unconscionable lobbying practices off the table-CHECK! He somehow manages to seem at once so sure, serene AND self-effacing, a combination I personally adore in a human being but certainly never expected to see in any PRESIDENT of ours. I am still pinching myself over this whole amazing turn of events. I by no means will wear the rose-colored glasses for too long, but must bask in the afterglow as long as I can get away with it. Particularly in the liberal bastion where I live, everyone was walking on air Tuesday. As we witnessed the emotion of the crowds on the National Mall,the inauguration ceremony itself, and of course his brave and riveting speech, you'd have to have a heart of stone not to swell with pride and awe. I am also just so happy for all the black people! I went to elementary school in Berkley in the early '70's where I was fortunate to have had a thorough,unsparing year-long Black Studies section as part of my required curriculum in fourth grade. Naturally, about half my classmates were black, and I had several close black friends, and even though sadly I never lived in such a racially diverse community after that, I am proud that time profoundly help shape the me I turned out to be. As great as I hope Obama turns out to be as a president, I mostly am just so moved that America pulled this off. The faces of the people on television on Tuesday just slayed me.
I have to remind myself all the time that because of where I live, how relatively insulated I am from the racial tension that is still sadly commonplace in our society. I was struck today, while many of us are still in the throes of our Obama-reverie, as I gassed up my car and encountered a hulking sad-sack of a guy dressed in a camo sweatshirt and grimy sagging jeans inside the mini-mart giving a hearty dose of shit to the middle eastern clerk. I initially only observed that he was loudly rude and snippy with the clerk, and shrugged it off to your everyday run-of-the-mill grumpy bad vibes that many folks seem to feel entitled to dole out to strangers at will these days.
But when I went outside to pump my gas I overheard him (or I should say, plain-old heard, as he was not making an effort to conceal his rancor) saying, "god-damned bastard, doesn't even speak English!...grrr, mrrrmm, fucking people come to this country...rar, rar, rar"... you get the picture. Call me naive, but I thought it was weird particularly because the clerk's English was actually exemplary, contrary to what is often encountered in these instances. (Also, it's actually unusual to come across middle eastern people where I live.) But of course I realized that's not the point at all when Camo McAsshole and I both ended up back inside the store at the same time, and there was actually then a BLACK guy in there too, which you REALLY hardly ever see around here! If it hadn't been so tense, it would have been funny. Camo was back at it; continuing to hassle the clerk while the black dude stood a safe distance away wearing an uncomfortable disbelieving expression. I just never see shit like this. Blew my mind. Ironically, right after that, I was going to see the film "Gran Torino" which underscores so especially poignantly the race/ethnicity/ immigration issue in this country. It was hard to watch, but such a beautifully rendered message. What an interesting day for me to have during this historic week in which we inaugurated the first African-American president and some of the wounds of the past seem to have a chance at healing.
I really don't get it; why can't we all just get along?

Just warming up...

From my house on any given evening I can hear the roaring ocean, barking sea lions, the buoy and foghorn, shrieking hawks, frogs, owls, crickets, the neighbor's dogs yipping and howling, cars and trucks speeding by out on the road and the far off sound of traffic clacketting along the uneven pavement of the quavering bridge. That's any old night around here; a soothing aural elixir. It can become more cacophonous, dramatic, sometimes unsettling- depending on the weather, wildlife migration patterns, and the level of domestic drama taking place in nearby homes- but I try to never forget how lucky I am to be in this rural paradise. Except, on those winter nights when I lie stiffly awake, saucer-eyed and insomniac with fear that the house will collapse in the next howling gust of wind.
Tonight is oddly warm; quiet except the few tentative crickets shocked out of their winter slumber...
Goodnight giant moon...

Wait, must clean up dog vomit.

Livin' the dream!