Looking forward into the New Year, it’s tempting to think of New
Year’s resolutions and the great big list of Things One Should Do — but
I’m not going to do any that stuff this year. Oh, there will be changes
made, that’s for sure … but I’m not giving them the looming power of
capital-R Resolutions. As non-resolutions, these ideas and reminders
will not inspire bitterness or guilt when they are inevitably bent and
broken, just a bit, right around the middle of March.
Instead, let’s think of changes brought about for the New Year as
Preventive Maintenance. Every body, mind, and soul has things that it
needs to keep it working smoothly. Getting back to basics and paying
attention to those basics will help keep you runnin’ through next
December. Like the old saying goes, it’s the smallest things that mean
the most.
Everyone’s list will be different, but I’m writing mine down, mostly
for my own benefit — because it’s not really real until it’s down on
paper, but also to show y’all that the little things to indeed mean a
lot.
Reading stuff. This will keep me from being stupid,
and therefore is one of the most important things I’ll do in the coming
year(s). I try to make a cursory sweep of news sites and current
events blogs and recipe web sites and Tumblrs of pretty vintage
pictures, but making time to read books — with thoughts and ideas
deliberately thought out and written into paragraphs and chapters — is a
necessary part of my day. Every day.
Manicures. I type a lot, and after a long day of
sitting at the computer, I kind of feel like I’ve got a pair of
shriveled-up T-Rex arms. A good manicure comes with a hand/forearm
massage; a really good one comes with a massage that is out of this
world! Having someone bend and flex and stretch the muscles and tendons
in your hands is my notion of a heaven. Simply heaven. And it’s
definitely worth $20 every couple of weeks. Plus, pretty nails!
The Gym. Nope, not for losing weight or toning up, even though
those are some pretty fantastic side effects. My gym preventative
maintenance routine is purely for cardiovascular health and strength.
No goals, no scales, no nothing but just going there two, maybe three
times a week and seeing what happens.
Converse lo-tops, the blue ones. These offer no
traction, no arch support, and are the only shoes in the world that just
become comfy about the time the sole starts falling off. Therefore,
these are my favorite shoes of all. Converse lo-tops, the blue ones,
keep me comfortable, and grounded. They are the favorite shoes of my
youth and keep me mindful. I cannot aimlessly walk through puddles or
over sharp objects, I must be alert and aware – it’s a good reminder.
The “No Jerks” rule. John Waters once said, “True
success is figuring out your life and career so you never have to be
around jerks.” And he is absolutely correct in that. So from here on
out, everyone who’s jerkish presence is not necessary is hereby banned; I
don’t have the time or mental space to deal with it. Sometimes there
are necessary jerks — TSA gropers, busybody relatives, that one barista
who seems to hate you for no particular reason — and while those can’t
be avoided altogether, I can remind myself that I only have to deal with
them for a few moments. They have to live with themselves.
So, there you have it. Small things, easy things, things I’m
kinda-sorta doing already. Instead of setting up unrealistic goals and
lofty expectations, I’m just going to be mindful of the everyday bits
and pieces that keep me going in my best possible way. There are some
things I could also add as secondary maintenance items — like
small-batch handcrafted gin, frozen waffles, and unrepentant afternoon
naptime. It’s all about accepting your needs and making sure that you
are meeting them in a healthy way. Or, in the case of the gin, with
tonic and a splash of bitters.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Adventures in Seattle Jaywalking (Monkey Goggles)
When I was growing up, jaywalking was easy. You wanted to cross the street, there were no cars, you went.
Just like that. And if there were cars, you watched and waited and
picked your crossing time accordingly. Or you just walked up to the
corner.
In my hometown, pedestrians did not have the right of way, but jaywalking was kind of a cultural thing. Everyone did it, and I think drivers halfway expected it; cars kept pretty much to a steady pace, so it was a simple matter of judging the distance and speed of any oncoming traffic and going, or not, depending on your level of comfortable risk-taking. It was just like playing “Frogger.”
Seattle is supposed to be a “pedestrian friendly” town, and pedestrians are often thought to have the right of way, but I have found that even at a crosswalk, in a light-controlled intersection, you take your life in your hands by stepping out into the street. Crossing the street now is more like playing “Centipede”; cars will see you and speed up or slow down — usually whichever is less convenient for you — as they see fit, with no regard for their own traffic patterns, let alone your safety. Traffic doesn’t seem to have the same regulated speed and patterns that it once did.
True story: I was standing at a busy intersection; my light was red and there were four lanes of very busy, fast-moving traffic in front of me. A car stopped at the green light and the driver started frantically waving me through. When I didn’t walk out into the intersection, she started honking and making the “go ahead” gesture. I pointed at her green light and that, coupled with the honking of the drivers behind her, had no effect — she just kept trying to wave me through. When the light finally changed and I had the right of way, I crossed. I could tell by her icy stare that she was angry with me.
I’m not advocating walking out into oncoming traffic all wily-nilly, oh no. Like I said earlier, successful jaywalking calls for observation, finesse, and knowing when not to hop the curb. And the knowledge that, in Seattle at least, if you get busted, you will get a ticket. Yup, sometimes it’s better to walk the extra 50 yards to an intersection.
Another true story: At least once a week, I get clipped by cars making the I’m-gonna-go-the-very-instant-the-light-turns-green right turn, no matter how obnoxiously clear I make my presence. I have not-so secret fantasies of carrying pockets full of heavy rocks and sharp pieces of metal that I can “accidentally” fling at their cars in “surprise” whenever this happens. The best I’ve done so far, though, is flung a full cup of coffee on a town car. The effect, while pleasing to me, was not the same.
I’m never quite sure if having more pedestrians in the streets would have a traffic-calming effect, or if it would just be another thing for drivers to get angry (and agro) about, but I do like the thought of considering pedestrians (and bicycles, too) as traffic rather than as impediments to traffic. We have places to go, too.
In my hometown, pedestrians did not have the right of way, but jaywalking was kind of a cultural thing. Everyone did it, and I think drivers halfway expected it; cars kept pretty much to a steady pace, so it was a simple matter of judging the distance and speed of any oncoming traffic and going, or not, depending on your level of comfortable risk-taking. It was just like playing “Frogger.”
Seattle is supposed to be a “pedestrian friendly” town, and pedestrians are often thought to have the right of way, but I have found that even at a crosswalk, in a light-controlled intersection, you take your life in your hands by stepping out into the street. Crossing the street now is more like playing “Centipede”; cars will see you and speed up or slow down — usually whichever is less convenient for you — as they see fit, with no regard for their own traffic patterns, let alone your safety. Traffic doesn’t seem to have the same regulated speed and patterns that it once did.
True story: I was standing at a busy intersection; my light was red and there were four lanes of very busy, fast-moving traffic in front of me. A car stopped at the green light and the driver started frantically waving me through. When I didn’t walk out into the intersection, she started honking and making the “go ahead” gesture. I pointed at her green light and that, coupled with the honking of the drivers behind her, had no effect — she just kept trying to wave me through. When the light finally changed and I had the right of way, I crossed. I could tell by her icy stare that she was angry with me.
I’m not advocating walking out into oncoming traffic all wily-nilly, oh no. Like I said earlier, successful jaywalking calls for observation, finesse, and knowing when not to hop the curb. And the knowledge that, in Seattle at least, if you get busted, you will get a ticket. Yup, sometimes it’s better to walk the extra 50 yards to an intersection.
Another true story: At least once a week, I get clipped by cars making the I’m-gonna-go-the-very-instant-the-light-turns-green right turn, no matter how obnoxiously clear I make my presence. I have not-so secret fantasies of carrying pockets full of heavy rocks and sharp pieces of metal that I can “accidentally” fling at their cars in “surprise” whenever this happens. The best I’ve done so far, though, is flung a full cup of coffee on a town car. The effect, while pleasing to me, was not the same.
I’m never quite sure if having more pedestrians in the streets would have a traffic-calming effect, or if it would just be another thing for drivers to get angry (and agro) about, but I do like the thought of considering pedestrians (and bicycles, too) as traffic rather than as impediments to traffic. We have places to go, too.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
A Nudie Suit (Monkey Goggles)
Lately, I’ve been reading a lot about Nudie Cohn,
the late rhinestoner to the stars. Even though things like sewing and
embroidering don’t seem all that flashy, even the most the mundane
aspects of Nudie’s life are far more exciting than the highest points of
mine. I mean come on, his sewing machine lives in the Country Music Hall of Fame.
As a burlesque costumer, fringemaker to Roy Rodgers and Dale Evans, lookmaker to the stars (Elvis’ gold lamé suit and Robert Redford’s “Electric Horseman” get-up were Nudie creations), and a designer of gaudy Pontiac Bonnevilles, Nudie cemented his place in fashion and music history with rhinestones and glitter. And rightly so — his creations were pretty spectacular. Just do a Google image search. Go ahead, I’ll wait.
I was talking with a friend the other day, and the subject of Nudie’s tuxedos came up, because his work was sitting all glittery in the forefront of my mind and I wanted to know — if my friend could get a Nudie suit, what would it look like? Which images would be eternally emblazoned? My friend was pretty secure in his design choice – first of all, there would be a scorpion, because he is Scorpio, and also a guitar, because that’s what he plays. Or perhaps a scorpion playing guitar. It was so cut and dry — easy-peasy. In fact, I was a bit jealous that he had such a quick answer, because the question that had sat, nascent in the back of my head for days was, what would I put on my tuxedo?
Following my friend’s logic, because I am a Virgo, should I get a virgin on my jacket? It would have to be a pretty identifiable virgin. The Jonas Brothers, maybe? Or Madonna, circa 1984? She was like a virgin. Or would I choose to immortalize something that I really enjoy, even though it may not have Deep Sentimental Value? I love toasters, and I really like vintage chicken illustrations, is that enough to warrant bedazzled immortality?
The real question for me seems to be: when it comes to wearing one’s heart on their sleeve, how far do you go? Do things have to be so infused with meaning that they can’t simply exist for their own sake? If I wanted to get a 42-scoop ice cream cone on my sleeves, would I be taken to task to list every flavor and all the reasons I opted to make the green one pistachio and not mint? Would I get catcalls about it from pretty much every jerk on the street? The answer to all of these questions is a resigned, “probably, yeah.”
In the blink of an eye I had talked myself into and out of a great suit — a charcoal gray number emblazoned on the back with a flaming toaster shooting toast into a heart-shaped frame wherein Madonna gyrated in front of the Jonas Brothers (even that married one). I’d further immortalize my Virgoness with a pair of stubborn mules balking on the lapels and a dusting of pink asterisks on the shoulders. Other life-long loves would be paid tribute to with a color wheel of cheese on each sleeve, some dogs eating grapes, and probably a few other random noodlings. If I could be assured of proper execution, and I would trust Nudie to be enough of a stickler to detail to pull this off, the whole thing would be in anaglyph 3D.
Nudie excelled with the personal touch — one of his first suits was for Porter Wagoner, which was covered wagons and cacti and all kinds of emblematic western images and Graham Parsons paid tribute to his beloved Three P’s with the Nudie suit he wore on the cover of The Flying Burrito Brothers “Gilded Palace of Sin” album (go look it up), so the whole symbolism thing isn’t unheard of, it’s just unusual for regular folks like me to go all out like that. We tend to keep our stuff hidden — game faces on, tattoos under shirts, ironic detachment…
But honestly, I’d rather go the Nudie route, and put it out there for everyone to see — vintage chickens and all.
As a burlesque costumer, fringemaker to Roy Rodgers and Dale Evans, lookmaker to the stars (Elvis’ gold lamé suit and Robert Redford’s “Electric Horseman” get-up were Nudie creations), and a designer of gaudy Pontiac Bonnevilles, Nudie cemented his place in fashion and music history with rhinestones and glitter. And rightly so — his creations were pretty spectacular. Just do a Google image search. Go ahead, I’ll wait.
I was talking with a friend the other day, and the subject of Nudie’s tuxedos came up, because his work was sitting all glittery in the forefront of my mind and I wanted to know — if my friend could get a Nudie suit, what would it look like? Which images would be eternally emblazoned? My friend was pretty secure in his design choice – first of all, there would be a scorpion, because he is Scorpio, and also a guitar, because that’s what he plays. Or perhaps a scorpion playing guitar. It was so cut and dry — easy-peasy. In fact, I was a bit jealous that he had such a quick answer, because the question that had sat, nascent in the back of my head for days was, what would I put on my tuxedo?
Following my friend’s logic, because I am a Virgo, should I get a virgin on my jacket? It would have to be a pretty identifiable virgin. The Jonas Brothers, maybe? Or Madonna, circa 1984? She was like a virgin. Or would I choose to immortalize something that I really enjoy, even though it may not have Deep Sentimental Value? I love toasters, and I really like vintage chicken illustrations, is that enough to warrant bedazzled immortality?
The real question for me seems to be: when it comes to wearing one’s heart on their sleeve, how far do you go? Do things have to be so infused with meaning that they can’t simply exist for their own sake? If I wanted to get a 42-scoop ice cream cone on my sleeves, would I be taken to task to list every flavor and all the reasons I opted to make the green one pistachio and not mint? Would I get catcalls about it from pretty much every jerk on the street? The answer to all of these questions is a resigned, “probably, yeah.”
In the blink of an eye I had talked myself into and out of a great suit — a charcoal gray number emblazoned on the back with a flaming toaster shooting toast into a heart-shaped frame wherein Madonna gyrated in front of the Jonas Brothers (even that married one). I’d further immortalize my Virgoness with a pair of stubborn mules balking on the lapels and a dusting of pink asterisks on the shoulders. Other life-long loves would be paid tribute to with a color wheel of cheese on each sleeve, some dogs eating grapes, and probably a few other random noodlings. If I could be assured of proper execution, and I would trust Nudie to be enough of a stickler to detail to pull this off, the whole thing would be in anaglyph 3D.
Nudie excelled with the personal touch — one of his first suits was for Porter Wagoner, which was covered wagons and cacti and all kinds of emblematic western images and Graham Parsons paid tribute to his beloved Three P’s with the Nudie suit he wore on the cover of The Flying Burrito Brothers “Gilded Palace of Sin” album (go look it up), so the whole symbolism thing isn’t unheard of, it’s just unusual for regular folks like me to go all out like that. We tend to keep our stuff hidden — game faces on, tattoos under shirts, ironic detachment…
But honestly, I’d rather go the Nudie route, and put it out there for everyone to see — vintage chickens and all.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
An Open Letter to Food Trucks (Monkey Goggles)
Hi there. I really like the idea behind what you do — a literal
movable feast. Thing is, the movable part seems to be a bit broken.
Sure, your modded-out old school bus has a kitchen big enough for you to
make some red velvet pad thai sliders, and I’m sure they are quite
delicious, but can it bring them to me? No. I didn’t think so.
Your creativeness in the kitchen is not being taken to task here, just your mobility. I know that if challenged, you can come up with wonderful things to whip up and dole out on the fly. Here are a few ideas to get you started.
Mini doughnuts. There really is no excuse for the non-existence of mini doughnut trucks. They could patrol schoolyards at recess, downtown offices in the afternoons, college campuses at happy hour and make a run by concert venues and hipster bars in the evening. A last-call stop at my favorite dive pub would certainly be appreciated.
Pho. I’m picturing insulated containers of beef, chicken, and veggie both and bowls pre-loaded with noodles. Let the patrons add their broth from spigots on the outside of the truck. So quick, so easy, you could patrol an entire neighborhood, dispensing tasty and healthful soup to the work-a-day masses, in less than 30 minutes.
Mashed potatoes. These could, would, and should look exactly like old school ice cream trucks. Instead of chocolate and vanilla ice creams, there would be traditional Yukon Gold, roasted garlic, and broccoli cheddar taters. Instead of cones, there would be savory rosemary waffles. Instead of chocolate and butterscotch sauces, there would be gravies of all sorts. One scoop or two?
Deli sandwiches. I mean really good deli sandwiches. Starting with the basics – roast beef with horseradish sour cream; turkey and cranberry sauce; bacon, lettuce, and avocado; peanut butter and jelly with the crusts cut off – and moving on to the truly remarkable. The aforementioned red velvet pad thai sliders… Why not? Or how about a grilled tempeh with sprouts and tarragon? Ham with apple butter, honey, and mixed greens? Just please nothing resembling a caprese. Those are so last year.
Fruits and vegetables. A mobile fruit stand. A salad bar. Something healthy for those times when you just really want an apple and the closest thing you can find to a piece of produce in the vending machine at work is a bag of Fudge Stripe cookies.
Waffles and coffee. Really. On any given Saturday morning, the dulcet tones of the neighborhood waffle truck would be the most welcome sound in the world. I’d put on some slippers, don a ratty robe, and run out to greet it, eyes full of hope and a fistful of crumpled $5 bills in my hand.
This is my wish, oh food trucksters. Thank you for your consideration.
Your creativeness in the kitchen is not being taken to task here, just your mobility. I know that if challenged, you can come up with wonderful things to whip up and dole out on the fly. Here are a few ideas to get you started.
Mini doughnuts. There really is no excuse for the non-existence of mini doughnut trucks. They could patrol schoolyards at recess, downtown offices in the afternoons, college campuses at happy hour and make a run by concert venues and hipster bars in the evening. A last-call stop at my favorite dive pub would certainly be appreciated.
Pho. I’m picturing insulated containers of beef, chicken, and veggie both and bowls pre-loaded with noodles. Let the patrons add their broth from spigots on the outside of the truck. So quick, so easy, you could patrol an entire neighborhood, dispensing tasty and healthful soup to the work-a-day masses, in less than 30 minutes.
Mashed potatoes. These could, would, and should look exactly like old school ice cream trucks. Instead of chocolate and vanilla ice creams, there would be traditional Yukon Gold, roasted garlic, and broccoli cheddar taters. Instead of cones, there would be savory rosemary waffles. Instead of chocolate and butterscotch sauces, there would be gravies of all sorts. One scoop or two?
Deli sandwiches. I mean really good deli sandwiches. Starting with the basics – roast beef with horseradish sour cream; turkey and cranberry sauce; bacon, lettuce, and avocado; peanut butter and jelly with the crusts cut off – and moving on to the truly remarkable. The aforementioned red velvet pad thai sliders… Why not? Or how about a grilled tempeh with sprouts and tarragon? Ham with apple butter, honey, and mixed greens? Just please nothing resembling a caprese. Those are so last year.
Fruits and vegetables. A mobile fruit stand. A salad bar. Something healthy for those times when you just really want an apple and the closest thing you can find to a piece of produce in the vending machine at work is a bag of Fudge Stripe cookies.
Waffles and coffee. Really. On any given Saturday morning, the dulcet tones of the neighborhood waffle truck would be the most welcome sound in the world. I’d put on some slippers, don a ratty robe, and run out to greet it, eyes full of hope and a fistful of crumpled $5 bills in my hand.
This is my wish, oh food trucksters. Thank you for your consideration.
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