Let Poundpapi Holler at You for a Minute

In the meantime

2009-08-14T16:46:00.003-04:00

I know- I've got updating to do. In the meantime, enjoy these fun videos- scenes from the life of a real-life married couple, translated into those cute animated shorts. This is the most recent, they have many more vids:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5T1BTy-VqAg

BTW- these have language that is not safe for work, although the videos themselves are harmless.

Si pone in lista: Italia 2009

2009-06-09T08:51:00.000-04:00

Gentile clienti,

Okay, enough of that. I'm not even sure if what I wrote makes complete sense, but none of y'all would know any different anyway. Here's the list of stuff that's happened to me since I arrived in Italy two days ago:

1. "Sei fidanzata?" I'm on the train from Rome to Arezzo, where I'm staying. Two ladie sit in the seats facing mine, as I was finishing up some last minute translating. I'm not scared to ask for help translating, especially because it's a very easy way to break the ice with Italians, who can be somewhat formal and distant if you're a stranger to them. Throw some Conditional mood at them and ask for their opinion, and you're in like Turin.

So these two ladies happened to be teachers of the Italian language, which meant we got to shooting the shit and next thing you know, one of them asks me,

"Sei fidanzata?"

"Are you engaged/wife-ied?"

Nightmares of being kidnapped and held hostage in the basement of a Tuscan farmhouse danced in my head, but I escaped the train without matrimonial incident, luckily.

2. I've had good food wherever I go. Not always amazing food, but always very good, and that's more than most places can say. They are really serious abiut food here: pride is taken in the quality of whatever product you're using, and the less done to it, the better. Tuscan food is veru much this way, compared with the food of Emilia Romagna which is apparently amazing, but more complicated. (Another big thing in this part of Italy is wine, and tonight I had my first glass and it was bangin. Not a bad way to spend fifteen bucks.)

3. Sunstroke/death: The thing about Italy is that nothing happens precisely as you plan it, and from the outset of any trip here, accepting that will make your life easier. Even the Americans running the program here take a more lackadaisical Italian attitude- I'm not sure if being here gives them permission to be unorganized, or if their dependence on Italians leads to disorganization by default.

Anyway, I was told that a representative from the program would meet everyone arriving at the train station, and get us to our lodgings.Perfect, because after travling over the ocean on a sleepless flight in a tight seat, I couldn't imagine dealing with luggage in a new city and a sweaty ass.
Of course, the guide was never there. Instead, I walked around the hilly city in the brash Italian sun, dodging the antiquing crowds, going to various program offices trying to locate anyone with information- all to no avail. I was sweating like crazy, heart pounding a mile a minute, feeling like Beyonce after doing a three hour show in Dereon heels. After a couple or three hours of no luck, I finally found my new landlord, who thought it would be great to make me roll my seventy pounds of luggage up the hill to his house which is perched at the top. Suffice it to say, I was scared that my first day in Italy was about to be my last on earth- apparently my body doesn't do well without oxygen. Weird, right?

Anyway- I'm glad I pulled on through, because this house is cool as far as Italian lodgings are concerned. Hundreds of years old, no neighbors, on top of a hill, with thick stone walls that would make A/C redundant.

4. I sang my first audition in the longest time yesterday, and boy was it quite the event. While this program is a college pay-to-sing, there were a few people in that room who have some pull, and there are also a few really kick ass singers in the program as well. The audition went well, thank Il Signore. Today was my first lesson and coaching, both of which were awesome and reaffirming. In fact, during my coaching, I was given a Come to Jesus speech, but in the most positive of senses.

It's still hard to know what to make of this: just a week ago I was working a regular job with benefits and the happiness of a constistent check, and a week later I'm being told that people want to help get me back on track in the opera world because they believe in me.

And yes...I'm believing again, too, but that still doesn't fully answer whether or not I'm willing to give all it takes.

In the meantime, I'm soaking up these musical experiences like so many gelati, and really figuring out how to sing and be in the moment without expectation of what might or could happen outside of making a nice sound.

That plus Italy makes me a happy boy.

All G(r)eeks Click Here

2009-03-30T22:46:00.001-04:00

Actually, click here.

Things like this are why I can't quit the internet.

Più duro, meglio, più presto, più forte

2009-03-15T17:36:00.002-04:00

Is my title messed up? Is there a way to say, "better" in Italian using the word "più"? I guess I'll have to wait a couple of months to find out, because I'm going to Italy. Yes, all of you have read this already on my Facebook status. Now for the backstory and details:

Not too long ago, I was daydreaming frequently about two things in particular: going back to Italy this summer, even if it meant doing a program where I'd be earning no money, and; finding a way to study with this teacher from Oberlin College who is a really nice guy and whose technical ideas seemed to work with me during our one and only lesson last summer. This state of day-dreamery lasted about a week or so. Typically, I'd have gone longer, but the daydreaming got cut short when I received an email from said teacher at Oberlin College. It said:

"Dear Poundpapi,

Oberlin has a program in Italy. We need a tenor for one of our shows. Wanna come if we cover the program expenses?"

Why, yes I do. <------ That was my answer.

I'm not exactly sure how my answer could have been any different, honestly. I've been patiently waiting for some type of sign of what I could do with my life, and even my oblivious self couldn't ignore how amazing the timing of these events was.

So, from early June through the middle of July, I'll be living in Arezzo which is a non-touristy city in Tuscany. I'll be singing a role in a never-done opera (La Rondine) but studying with a lovely teacher and his bitchin (in both ways) partner who is a vocal coach. Score. I'll also take Italian lessons, hopefully from my future Italian husband. I ain't scurred to be scandalous, no I ain't.

Okay, so while I was daydreaming of summer trips and voice lessons, I was also daydreaming about what it would be like to go live in Bologna for a year. I've never been there, but according to all reports, it's a liberal city with great food, a big gay scene, and not too many tourists mucking things up. I'm for all of those things. So, in between heart-wrenching sessions of online job hunting, I'd occasionally look for jobs and apartments in Bologna. Now, this was truly, truly daydreaming, because getting a job and a new life in Italy seems so far beyond the realm of what I want to deal with right now- at least logistically. Still, it never hurts to spend a little time pretending. The other issue with running away to Italy for a year is that job permits for foreigners are notoriously hard to get. So, I put the thought out of my head, Fred.

So fast forward again- I get the news that I'm going to Italy, so immediately, I Facebook Giulia- my Milanese hookup- to let her know that I'm coming her way, and would love to see her and her kick-ass family. (In particular, I want to see her great-aunt Zia Piera- that woman is about ninety years old, sharp as a knife, cute, and willing to give lessons in Milanese, which is a completely separate language from Italian. What's not to love about Zia Piera?)

So I write Giulia: "I'm coming your way- yadda, yadda, yadda- this is so funny, because I was just daydreaming about running away to Italy for a year to get a job, and then I remembered how hard it is for foreigners to get work permits, yadda, yadda, yadda."

Giulia (in nicer words): "Poundpapi, you are an idiot. You've known me for years, and still forget that my job's whole purpose is to help foreigners get work permits in Italy."

Is this a sign?

///

So that's that. Going to Arezzo. After the program finishes, I want to go to Milan, see the Orianis, maybe take a quick trip up near the Swiss border- Giulia has homies there, and it would be nice to get away from Milano. Then a few days in Rome- during my last trip, I got nowhere near enough time in that amazing city- and then back home. Or maybe not. I'm not really planning on any touristy stuff. Just food and men. If any of you have friends living in Roma, please holla- it would be nice to have a homie there to guide my restaurant choices.

Last but not least- there are reasonable non-stop tickets (about $700- not bad for the tourist season) from Toronto to Roma on AirCanada. Anyone want to join me?

Lists Within Lists

2009-02-16T15:56:00.004-05:00

So much to report on since my last writing:

A. Lerla (of riceandbeansandcollardgreens) is living in Chile for six months beginning a week or so ago. I'm so excited and jealous. In her honor, let us discuss a peculiar construction in the Spanish language, one I like to call:

¡¡¡Unnecessary Combat!!! (BAM! POW!)

Unnecessary Combat makes perfect sense to me. In my family, people are always trying to tell others how to do everything and how to experience everything. The result is an underlying aroma of defensiveness in interpersonal interactions, lol. One reaction to the defensiveness would be to back off, but that would be too Scandinavian. Latinos? We just up the ante. I bring this up because Unnecessary Combat goes something like this:

1. The Setup: there is no setup. The point of UC is that it generally comes out of the blue. The casual observer would assume that a conflict is already in motion, judging by the tone of the utterance, but the casual observer would be wrong.

2. The Exclamation: ¡get your upside down exlamation marks ready (option-1 on Macs)- UC is muy sabroso!

3. The Contradiction: now is when you contradict whatever was said in #1, namely, nothing. It goes something like this:

"¡Ay, pero...!"

In English- "Oh, but....!"

4. The Roundoff: get to your point. This coffee is soooooo rich. The pernil is suuuuuper flavorful. You sing veeeeeeerrrrry well. You look gooooood in your new dress. Etc. It is perfectly acceptable, and in fact expected, that you will utter the entire UC in an incredulous and grunty voice. Otherwise- how will anyone believe you? (Bioletta is legendary at this voice. I hope she reads this entry. In fact, Maven should send her a link. If I were to send it to her myself, it would just be tacky, lolz.)

5. Victory: you've left no choice but for everyone to agree with you.

That's all there is to Unnecessary Combat. In real time, it goes like this:

Lerla and Dom sit at her kitchen table and take their first sip of amazing Hawaiian coffee.

Simultaneously: "¡¡¡Ay, pero que rico!!!"

The best part of this example is that it really happened, and the UC was rendered even more unnecessary because we were both experiencing the coffee together. It's not like I needed to talk Lerla into trying the coffee. In fact, since it was her coffee, she already knew how rich it was- why should I try to convince her? I guess this example should be called Super-Unnecessary Combat. SUC.

Bioletta also knows about UC, because of her Spanish heritage, and I bet Madness could go to battle too. While I've yet to meet the Californian homegirl, for sure Bioletta and Lerla and I have derived hours of entertainment from UC-ing and SUC-ing each other. (BCSM- don't be dirty!)

B. In my quest to be happier, I've finally joined a gym. Actually I've flirted with working out consistently several times before, but never found the right approach to making it stick. Typically, I was motivated by achieving physical gains quickly, but this time, priority #1 is to elevate myself from the emotional funk/fallout that has been part of my life lately.

In short, a few weeks ago, I thought it was time for me to really sit down and excavate some of the feelings surrounding the life-changing events of the last 18 months. During treatment, exploring these emotional nooks and crannies didn't seem prudent. I was very much focused on having cancer be a short detour as opposed to a complete new mode of transportation, so I didn't feel there was too much about which to get worked up (lolz). Experiencing the emotions surrounding loss well after the fact is kind of my M.O. anyway, and this situation proved no different. Honestly, I'm grateful for that, because in this case, I think the crisis warranted as cool a head as possible.

Anyway, when I decided it was time to excavate, I kind of wasn't prepared for how much it would hurt. Fine- let me go see a therapist. Did it, and derived no pleasure from it. In fact, I left her office feeling worse than when I arrived, which I'm sure is common. God bless her, but homegirl didn't seem terribly experienced- she was a tender young thing. I guess the hospital figured that the big guns were better saved for cases of schizophrenia and the like. Fair enough. Our session was one painful hour of her going through the little therapy manual in her head. Listen. Mirror patient's concerns. Express some sympathy while maintaining objectivity. Awkward silence. Of course, I already knew going into therapy that therapists are not there to provide answers as much as they are there to provide an outlet/avenue. Still, I'm not seeing her anymore.

So I'm thinking that I'll just use the gym and my friends for therapy for now. Seems to be working, too. As for the gym thing, I'm actually feeling good about this go-round, as opposed to my previous encounters, and the reason is very simple: I'm eating before and after workouts. Yes, I'm so sincerrrre.

A couple of years ago, my brother The Hulk and SIL lost a bunch of weight doing Body-for-Life, and were nice enough to send my a copy of the book when I expressed interest. Cool. Except that it was too much, too soon, and in some cases, just plain wrong for me. The diet portion was boot camp-ish and unpleasant (too much protein, not enough cheese, lots of no-nos, nothing truly delicious, etc.) and what killed me most was that the author recommended working out first thing in the morning on an empty stomach. No wonder I was walking around like a zombie for the few weeks I stayed on that program. I'd leave the gym feeling like I had just spent the previous two weeks on a non-stop weed binge- tired and spaced out just as I was ready to start what were thirteen and fourteen-hour days at that point. Silly me- I kind of thought maybe this was the rush of endorphins I kept hearing about. No- this was low-blood sugar with a hint of anemia, lol.

So now that I'm over losing a bunch of weight in a short time, the whole gym thing is way better. Cardio still does me in a little bit, but not like before. Lifting weights is a whole new world when I'm properly fed. Finally, I know what endorphins feel like! Most importantly, I'm not going to even attempt an overhaul of my diet concurrently with the new workout regimen. One thing at a time, as far as I'm concerned.

C. Saturday (Valentyme's Day) was my one-year birthday. At least, it's my blood and immune system's birthday. Spent the morning with my big sister in tha 'Lo, and then made it back to Rochacha in time for a disco nap. "Disco nap?" you may ask? Yes. I had plans to go out with a guy and a few of his friends, all of whom I met at the Cluuuuhhhhhb a couple of weeks ago. We'll call the guy Blow Out. (Don't be dirty, Bill. Lerla, take a guess at why this is funny, and you'll be correct.) The reason for the nickname is that on the first night we spent any significant amount of time chatting, his hair had been did. Blowed Out. Interesting choice, for sure, but his saving grace is that he has a really good sense of humor about it, on top of a great personality, plus he look gooder than a mug. (Chay-Funk, remind me to tell you about what you'd surely find to be his most attractive quality.) A good time was had again, on Valentyme's.

Can I just marvel, once more, at how poppin the Cluuuuuuhhhhhhb was here? In Rochahca? I spent a good portion of the night trying to convince a possible tranny to do some dips on the dancefloor, but I guess that club wasn't that poppin : (

D. I feel like I'm zeroing in on what an appropriate career might be for me, aside from the music thing, and thank Jeebus, because it calms my anxiety. I'm thinking that I'd like to get involved either with grant writing, or grant making for non-profits. I know- I have more mental whittling to do on the topic, but I'm feeling good about this. I know I could be a good grant writer. When I bother to proofread, I'm a good to great writer, and I really do flourish at jobs in which explicit instructions are de riguer. Furthermore, grant writing/making skills are useful in both the arts and community service- the fields closest to my heart. Finally, the jobs outlook for grant writers is better than average, and apparently, one can make a decent living out of it. In a sign that the universe may be opening itself up to my eventual employment in this field, I keep meeting people involved in grant writing/making here in Rochester. Most recently, on VD, Blow Out introduced me to a friend who is currently a grant writer, and who will be transitioning to grant making at the state level later this month. He's going to hook me up with some ideas about how to get involved in this area, which is nice as I have little to no experience.

In short, things are trending up here in Rochacha.

The Best Thing About Jazz

2009-01-21T22:07:00.003-05:00

The best thing about jazz is that sometimes it's impossible to tell where the changes are taking you. Then you end up in a new place and it seems obvious that that's where you were going all along.

I swear to Bejeezus, that thought came to me tonight while at a concert and was not intended to be some Oprah quote of the day.

Orale, ese!!!

2009-01-15T14:04:00.002-05:00

Yesterday must have been Hate on Oppressed People's Day at Wegman's- the local grocery haven. This is why:

1. I was strolling around Wegman's doing some shopping for SIL, and also picking up some items for myself. Typical bougie fare adorned my shopping cart: organic cage-free eggs, Pecorino Romano, brussels sprouts, whatever whatever, blasé blah. I'd even stopped by the tea bar to pick up a cup of perfectly brewed super-grassy Japanese green tea, so I was feeling good, reveling in the food Elysium that is Wegman's. I made my way over to the yoghurt section to pick up some lovelies, and as I was leaving, I stopped for a millisecond to consider getting some goat's milk for the hell of it. Just as I stopped, the guy stocking the refrigerated foods section walked near me, and when we made eye contact, he asked, "Are you looking for tortillas?" with a genuine Let-Me-Offer-Your-Mexican-Ass-Some-Great-Customer-Service Smile. After politely declining his tortilla-finding services, I cracked the hell up and called BCSM. He loves racist humor. I'm still laughing.

2. As I was picking up paper towels, a little hunched lady asked me to read her the prices on the sponges she was eyeing. So I did, to which Ol' Girl replied:

"They want I should pay $3.49 for sponges?!?! I can't believe it!!!"

Why did my prejudiced ass immediately assume this lady was Jewish? I mean, I do live in the midst of many Jews. A & A would feel right at home here in Brighton, NY. Still...was I lashing out because someone called me a Messican?

Actually, I reserved my lashing out for one of the developmentally disabled people they hire to be "Helping Hands" in the parking lot. Ol' Boy almost got plowed into when he tried to weave around my shopping cart. I guess there's a recession on tolerance, too : (

In unrelated news, can I just mention that the first couple of weeks of 2009 have already destroyed all of 2008 as far as goodness goes? Considering my 2008, that's not very hard to do, but it seems as though 2008 was pretty much a difficult year for everyone. Anyway, within the past few weeks I:

- had a great date with Mister, and will have another one on Saturday when we go to hear some Zydeco together.

- had a great trip to Buffalo where I saw Lerla, met her best friend HowYouDern and saw Ban Bornelius- one of my favorite people ever.

-'Bout to get a new President.

- yesterday I got a call (two months late) letting me know that I won a small grant that I'd applied for in September. Since the application stated that the awards would be made in November, I'd already assumed that my application was denied. In fact, I was relieved, because I originally applied for the grant to help pay for this past audition season, which was cut short but my busted voice; so in the event that I won the grant, I thought I would have to decline it anyway. So it turns out that there were way more applicants for the grant than they'd ever had before, which accounts for the delay. Furthermore, since these grants are for young adult cancer survivors, their raison d'être is to help grantees with whatever transitions are happening in their lives. In short, they're encouraging me to accept the funds and put themto use toward something else, like getting an apartment. (I'm only too happy to do so- I'm ready to not live at home anymore.) According to the young woman who runs the organization granting these awards, my application was unanimously approved by the board because my essay was so damn good. (high fives self)

- BCSM sent me a link to a job notice for which I am qualified and interested. Of course, I've sent out tons of resumes lately all with no luck, but I've got my fingers, toes and dick crossed for this one.

Emopapi

2009-01-11T19:52:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I feel like I'm on a narrow precipice-

ready to fall into something new at the slightest breeze or breath.

Or maybe I'll explode- just a thin skin

filled to bursting with juice

waiting for an excuse.

Ladies and Gentlemuuuuuuun!!!!

2009-01-07T19:20:00.006-05:00

This post is dedicated to BCSM, at whose bidding, I have condescended to updating my blog. 'Tis a new year and all, right?

First things first- shameful and/or funny moments in music:

1. BCSM brought this up to me in a recent email. On the wonderful extended mix of "Do I Do" Stevie gets a little too crazy when he announces Dizzie Gillespie as the guest artist. He does that grunty "I'm grunting so you'll know I really mean it" voice, but the thing he gets so worked up about is just an introduction. Granted, an important introduction, but are introductions grunt worthy? Love? Yes. Pain? Yes. Intros? Not so sure.

2. I know I've posted this before, but I love when Aretha telephonically chit-chats with her girlfriend about "who dropkicked who this week" in her '80s hit "Jump to it". Does Aretha hang out with Shaolin monks?

3. Ghostface Killah's Supreme Clientele has a track on it called "Child's Play" in which he reminisces about the puppy loves he had back in the days of Chick-O-Sticks and half-days at school. Near the end of the song, he's no longer rapping, just talking over the beat with "Nawmean?"s sprinkled generously throughout:

"Those were the days right there

Boston baked beans,

Girls come to school with mad candy

You'd just come in school for half days and all that

Just to see that girl right there...

go home and think about it,

Maybe hump the bed sometimes on her,

Nawmean?"

My love for Ghostface grows stronger each day.

4. Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam. Hmmmm. The PR side of me hates to admit this, but homegirl really couldn't sing back in the day. ButIstillloveher. "Can You Feel the Beat" is so hot. But this song ain't about that. Please just explain to me these lyrics from "All Cried Out":

"Don't you know my tears will burn the pillooooowwwww"

Lisa Lisa- if your tears are that powerful and acidic, you need some Visine, and stat.

5. Swingout Sister's yummy chorus: "MmmmmBreakout". Also she sings like she's deaf.

Okay, enough for funny moments in music with Poundpapi. In other news, I've gotten the latest CT scan results, and they are looking good. With almost a year between me and the end of treatment, I'm starting to feel less scared about actually making moves. If I could just figure out what those moves should be. I've been perusing many different options- jobs, interning, going back to school. I've yet to be convinced by any one route, and I'm realizing that this might be a fact of life for most people, and I've been living in a privileged, artsy-fartsy bubble for years. So I guess I'm kind of looking over the edge of a high jump into a pool of water, waiting to gather the cojones to take the plunge into a pool I know nothing about. It's fine though. I know that opportunities will present themselves when I commit to taking those first few steps...

On one Making Moves front, I went on a date last night for the first time in forever. I guess it's been since the spring before treatment. Crazy. While in NYC, BCSM thought that I needed to get out and about in the Booty Realm. My first reaction was that my life is too all-over-the-place right now to share it with another person, but then I got to thinking: there are fucked up people in fucked up circumstances all over the world dating and forming relationships. Why not me?

Well, it's always a bit of walking on the eggshells of priceless and near-extinct birds when meeting new people and having to explain what my life has been for the recent past, so the pressure doubles when this occurs in a possibly romantic context. For good or bad, in my case there's really no way around it, considering the wide swath cancer has cut through my life, so it takes a whole lot of faith that dumping so much information at someone's feet on a first date won't freak them out.

So I was pretty relieved when I sat down with Mister for a beer and found him easy to talk to and engaging. That's all the news for now.

A War of Wills

2008-10-23T20:02:00.006-04:00

Hello Chirruns.

I know I promised a twofer last time, and I began on the second post, only to have it whither and die as I fell asleep. Do not despair- here's another in its stead.

So, I'm on vocal rest. For those not in the know, that means I'm not allowed to utter a sound for the duration of the rest. Ideally, I'd like to take a month off from speaking, but in the real world, I have possible auditions scheduled for mid-November. Add to that a wedding which Maven and I are attending together, and I'll be flying by the seat of my pants, vocally, but, whatever. More on the vocal side of this issue later. But now...

Have y'all ever lost your voice, or been on vocal rest before? There's a weird phenomenon whereby in interactions with speech-abled folk, they will stop using their own voice without realizing it. It's unnecessary, unhelpful, and hilarious. For instance, I had to go to the Post Office today to mail off yet another application. I came prepared with a Stickie pad, and pen, ready to communicate my ass off with my PO clerks. I had already prepared a stock-greeting note, explaining that I was without voice, and would be writing instead. (I also had to go to the bank, but the prospect of passing a note to the teller made me reconsider. I went to the ATM instead.) When I arrived at the Post Office, there was actually a clerk there with larngitis, and I kind of hoped she would be the one to help me, so we could giggle at the coincidence. It didn't work out that way, though, so I went to available clerk, and showed her the note. Immediately, she resorted to lip synching and oversized gestures while gathering information from me and processing my transaction. I'm pretty sure my eyes rolled involuntarily. When she was almost finished, she paused and said, "Wait- why am I whispering?" and laughed at herself. I would have laughed, but I'm on vocal rest, so I nodded instead. Fun times at the PO.

So this morning, there was an incident that will forever live in humorous infamy in my heart. On school days, I help my brother and SIL get the kids ready for school, as they both start work pretty early. Poe is twelve, and self-sufficient, as long as I wake her lazy ass up. Every morning is the same with her. I knock gently on the door- no answer. I knock louder- no answer. I call her name- no answer. I go in the room and bounce the bed- no answer. I turn on the lights- LEAVE ME ALOOOOOOOOONE!!!!!!! I immediately crack up, because she has this high-pitched cat/baby voice that she uses when she's exasperated, and it delights me to no end.

Anyway, I digest. (I totally stole that from someone else.) Pappy is really the one who needs a bit more guidance in the morning. He showers and dresses himself, with frequent reminders of all the steps involved in a real shower. He usually makes himself breakfast, too, if it's something that can be safely accomplished. His specialty is a cheese quesadilla prepared in the toaster oven. The kid lives for those things. Anyway, Pappy's bus comes late enough in the morning that usually we have anywhere from a half hour to an hour to burn. Left to his own devices, Pappy would play Spore on the computer, or watch TV, but SIL puts the kabosh on that, with a quickness. So instead, I have him read to me, or we practice math until the bus comes. Good times.

So this morning, Pappy comes down after showering and dressing. He enters the kitchen and spies a granola bar sitting on the counter- one of those tiny Quaker ones, filled with chocolate and marshmallows.

"Can I have this for breakfast?"

I wave my finger "no".

"But I want it!"

More finger waving.

"But why?"

I pull out the pad and pen, and write something like, "Because that's a snack, not breakfast. Eat a quesadilla."

"There's no tortillas. I'll make toast instead."

Mission accomplished.

So it's peanut butter toast with grapes on top. I think I kind of rocked his world when he first witnessed me putting fruit on my peanut butter toast. However, I stick with the usual suspects- bananas and apples. Who knows- maybe grapes on peanut butter toast are righteous?

After breakfast, Pappy came to me and asked, " Can I watch TV now?"

Finger waving.

I then made the universal sign for 'book'- you know you hold your palms together and then unfold them all booklike. He caught it, but wanted to argue, as usual. I gave him my oft-used "Yourassisdangerouslyclosetotimeout" Look, and he wandered off to find a book, I assumed. My assumption was proved wrong. This stubborn kid sat down and was about to start playing video games. Nuh-uh. Poundpapi ain't having it! I pulled out the pad and wrote in my best loud script:

I was pretty sure I had gotten my point across, so I returned to fiddling with the printer so I could finish printing another application while he selected the morning's reading material.

Pappy returns a couple minutes later and hands me the following note:

My spine lost all rigidity at that moment, my torso splayed across the desk in complete surrender to the hilarity of the moment. I mean, how many different ways are there to laugh about this?

1. This kid wants a fuckin snack, pronto!!!
2. This kid does NOT want to read!!!
3. He felt the need to write it to me, instead of talking. Maybe he figured the written word would carry more weight?
4. Once the granola bar was classified as a 'snack' he was only too happy to stick with that nomenclature.
5. This note reminds me of that Chick-Fil-A ad campaign where cows paint billboards urging people to "Eat Mor Chiken". Not that Pappy misspelled anything, but his script has always been cow-like, I guess, lolz.

And such is life with Pappy.

P.S. Do you understand how hard it is to watch The Office without phonating?!?!?! UGH!!!!

I saw something nasty in the woodshed!

2008-10-04T15:09:00.002-04:00

Ahhh. This blog title comes from "Cold Comfort Farm" and it is appropriate for a couple of reasons:

1. I think we need to start a meme in which we list things introduced to us by friends which we now love. I'll begin the meme with my next post- today will be a twofer.

2. On Tuesday, I have an appointment with a hypnotist/past-life regression therapist. Thus begins the bulk of this present post:

I spoke to BCSM yesterday on the phone, and he mentioned that I hadn't been blogging lately.

"Yeah," I said. "Just too much gloom and doom. Nobody wants to read that shit."

However, gloom and doom seem to have lifted, and for the strangest reason ever: yesterday I was diagnosed with vocal nodes. Yup- the singer's nightmare. Little callouses preventing the vocal cords from closing fully, the way that healthy cords should.

Remember in my last post how I was bemoaning my inability to sound good? Yeah, that would be the node-thing. A week or two after I wrote that post, I thought to myself, "Okay, Dom. Maybe you're not a complete idiot. You know how to sing, so there's probably something physiologically wrong with your instrument. Go get it checked out."

Check. After crying to the ENT sexcretary (I swear, everytime I speak to an ENT sexcretary, I have to resort to tears to explain how urgent the sitch is) I was able to get an appointment many days away, as opposed to many weeks. Score! Yesterday, sitting in the examination room, looking at all the computers, scopes and gadgets, a palpable calm came over me, as I knew that an answer was right on the horizon.

The first ENT (a resident) didn't see anything wrong with the little mirror he stuck down my throat. He kept marveling at my lack of a gag reflex. I felt slightly ashamed, as if he were calling me a slut, but whatever. I'ma do me, boo. He managed to gag me once with his Extend-o-Mirroir, and we both burst into laughter because the sound was hilarious. Anyway, since I was so specific in describing my symptoms and communicating the severity of my problems, he had the attending ENT stroboscope me, whereupon they found the offending lumpy callouses.

I doubt that they've ever encountered someone so relieved to be diagnosed with nodes, as I felt vindicated knowing that I wasn't just imagining things, or making up problems. Actually, scratch that last thing: nodes can be an indication that you are making up problems, in a vocal sense. In my case, I've just been way too focused on getting all of my shit in a pile so that I can jump on the next opera train heading out. In addition, I was scheduled to sing in two concerts at the end of this month, and the stuff I was to have sung is among the hardest stuff in the repertoire to sing. Add that pressure to the pressures of my living/social/employment circumstances, and it's a recipe for a disaster omelette all up in the Thoat. (That's how you say 'throat' in the Dirty Dirty.)

A week ago, conversating with my voice teacher, after going over all the technical stuff that could be causing my problems, he ended the conversation by saying that above all, I needed to allow myself the pleasure of singing that comes from being musically engaged, as opposed to constant technical engagement. While I had unkowingly abandoned this aspect of my practice in favor of trying to refine technique, learn notes and get jobs, it seemed so obvious to me that that was a huge part of why I was fucking up so much. The pressure of being good enough to accomplish XY and Z transferred into pressure on the cords, which are Not Having It.

Anyway, the whole thing boils down to this: my cords are shot for a little bit. Some rest and careful retraining should take care of the problem. In the meantime, I've had to cancel everything I had planned for this month. This is where the happiness comes in. I'm not sure if I had ever felt so much pressure in my life over these two concerts in MN later this month. Between the rep, the financial burden and the timing, I was probably pretty close to having a nervous breakdown. Now that I have nothing to do this month but get better, I feel like a new man. I even feel mostly at peace with the prospect of canceling auditions this year. Of course, I'd rather not, having already invested hundreds of dollars into it, but if my voice won't co-operate with me, there's nothing I can do. Sometimes being helpless is the best way to be.

Anyway, this whole thing started with me seeing something nasty in the woodshed. For those of you unlucky enough to have seen Cold Comfort Farm, the first thing you should do is ask Maven to borrow it. Or Netflix it. Or whatever. There is a character in the movie whose entire existence revolves around a "traumatic" childhood incident- to humorous effect, I should add. As for me, I'm not sure I have a woodshed incident, although I've been interested for quite a while in exploring the whole past-life regression thing. I'm not even sure I believe in it, but at the very least, maybe some hypnosis will help me to be more calm in the face of mounting pressure. Of coruse, if anything interesting comes of the past-life session I'll be sure to holler at y'all about it.

Is this the place to be really real?

2008-09-02T22:10:00.003-04:00

Why do we lie to ourselves?

This is where I am:

-31 years old, living with mother.

-broke as a joke.

Already these first two items are enough to make life miserable. Let's just say they aren't conducive to forging a new social life in an unfamiliar city. However, there's more to the list:

-on the verge of going into a whole lot more debt pursuing work in a field that doesn't pay well to begin with. (Yes- singers are idiots who actually have to pay to get work. This year's application fee tally comes in at $600 so far- WITH NO GUARANTEE OF A SINGLE AUDITION!!!!!!)

-alright at singing, but nowhere near where I should be to match my goals; vocally frustrated and not sure that I can trust anyone's opinion anymore.

I was going to quip about being bitter, but I don't think bitter is the appropriate word at all. This is just the State of My Union, and if these are objective truths, what is the harm in recognizing them? Clearly, the Bush administration, hurricanes and gas prices have been horrible for my career, lolz.

The only problem with recognizing truths is that it can complicate matters previously made simple through sheer blindness/idiocy/willpower, and I hate complicated matters. Questions arise: How far do you chase a passion? Does the moderate success I've had so far justify everything I've put in? People who are more successful than me still have a hard time getting enough contracts to pay the bills, and when you're an independent contractor, you're only as good as your last review (let some companies tell it) and the next paycheck is not guaranteed.

So those are the cons. Some pros:

-I do life-changing work. If not for others, then for me. That is, when I can get work. This is kind of masturbatory, no?

-I have had some measure of success, 'though not quite enough to let me know I'm headed the right way.

Not sure there's anything else to add in that column.

The other big complication arises from the fact that I'm completely disillusioned with the system that got me where I am in the first place, and I have no interest in perpetuating that bullshit onto other people. So that whole "fall back on teaching" thing is so repulsive to me that I'm not even considering it, especially when I feel like I have very little to give. In short, that's two degrees and most of a third, perfectly suited for wiping down my ass, thank you very much.

If you haven't noticed, the pressure of planning an audition season is getting to me, and I feel like obstacles keep popping up in my path. Just today not a few tears were shed when I realized the demo I had recorded turned out to have lots of distortion on it from my audio equipment. For once, I actually sang well on a demo recording, and that's the one that gets fucked up. Now I'm in Rochester, with no pianists, no money, no place to record, fucked up equipment, and I'm singing like a stupid asshole, and voilà! no demo. I won't bore you with more emo bullshit about how badly things are going for me right now. Clearly, if I felt the need to blog about it, shit is bad.

All the spreadsheets and planning in the world can't help me shake this feeling that I'd be better off reading the writing on the wall. I guess the big question left is, "What do you want to accomplish, Poundpapi?" (If there are better questions that I haven't thought of, please do share.)

That's a tough one to answer. My initial reaction was to start naming the various companies and programs and I want to work for, competitions I'd like to win, etc. My second reaction is that I want some sort of stability and independence for my life. Of course, a large part of these answers has to do with ego, for sure, but even more than recognition and money, what I want is to know that I'm doing the right thing. I want to know that I'm meant to be doing what I'm doing. (That was a light-bulb moment, thank you very much.) Hence, my over-the-top frustration right now: if circumstances can be compared to a Magic 8-Ball, and I'm asking it whether it's worth it for me to keep pretending that being a singer is a sustainable and fruitful endeavor, the message that pops up on my 8-ball is, "all signs point to 'no'".

Long story short, I've never felt so compelled to consider abandoning singing. In the event that some sign, some miracle comes along to encourage me to continue fighting this foolish fight, my mantra for now is, "be prepared for that moment". I just really, really hope that that moment reads my blog sooner, rather than later.

P.S. In the non-gloom and doom segment of today's entry, I played Gay Volleyball tonight, and that shit is SO MUCH FUN!!!

Tender Web Goodies

2008-08-29T13:55:00.003-04:00

Quick post. I've been messing around with my 'puter, looking for free applications to tweak my stuff with. The results so far:

Ubiquity:

http://labs.mozilla.com/2008/08/introducing-ubiquity/

This is still in super-development, but it promises to be something that I'm fixing to love. The whole line of thinking with this program is that all too often, there's no easy way to integrate the disparate pieces of information we deal with on the net. Ubiquity is about connecting those disparate pieces of the net. For instance, you can highlight info on a web page (for instance, a map or an article) and in a few keystrokes email it to a contact through your GMail account. As I said, this program is in the early stages, but it seems like it has great potential.

Flock:

http://flock.com/

Another Mozilla product, Flock calls itself the Web 2.0 browser. I just downloaded it today, and am still getting used to it. I'm also writing this blog entry directly from Flock, as opposed to having navigated to Blogger, which is mighty convenient. Like Ubiquity, Flock aims to integrate all the typical things young 'uns like us use the web for: multimedia, blogging, rss feeds, etc. Also, I've noticed it's pretty darn fast, although I'm not sure if that's because it's a fresh and new program, unburdened by history, cookies and such. Unfortunately, Ubiquity is yet to be compatible with Flock, which is strange to me, but whatevs.

Quicksilver:

Quicksilver is basically a launch bar, something that is built into all computers from the get (the Dock in OS X, for instance). You may wonder why you need another launch bar, when you have one already, but the word on the streets is that Quicksilver is life-changing. I've yet to dive into the depths of Quicksilver's loveliness, but it basically allows you to launch applications and complete tasks within them all with hotkeys that you define yourself. The thing I'm using it for most right now is to control iTunes with hotkeys while I'm using other programs. It eliminates the need to stop what you're doing, open iTunes and navigate from within that program. There are so many better things to do with this program, but I've yet to explore. Fortunately, it's pretty good at coaxing you in the right direction- you just kind of type the hotkey to pull up the Quicksilver command interface, and then type whatever it is you want it to do, and it will offer suggestions.

Last, but not least, Skitch.

http://plasq.com/skitch

Skitch let's you take pictures of whatever is on your desktop, and then draw stuff on the image. Basically, it's the LolKats creator's dream.

Blogged with the Flock Browser

This One's for Dolla Bill

2008-08-25T10:00:00.002-04:00

As if two grown ass men fawning over SWV's oeuvre were not gay enough, I spent hours last night, in a gay coffee shop doing a house/tribal remix of their ultimate slow jam, "Weak". The menz and gurlz must have thought I was touched, because I couldn't help but to giggle to myself in delight as I spent so much time and energy on a trifling-ass project.

I dedicate this to Bill because he lurves some Sistas With Voices, plus I totally ganked his copy of It's About Time on this last visit to MPLS.

Please enjoy, but be careful, because there's a lot of knocking-off-of-your-feet going on around here.

Listen, and or download it HERE.

I Need the Precious in My Life.

2008-07-31T13:31:00.002-04:00

This post is the result of what happens when I get crunk in Chicago. In short:

1. Visitng HS friends in Chi-town, we prepared to go to a party by listening to "Meeting in the Ladies Room" by Klymaxxx and whatever, whatever. In the spoken monologue at the beginning of that classic R&B hit from the '80s, homegirl says, "I had to leave my condo to come to this?!?!?!" I shouldn't have to explain why that is hilarious. On the subsequent walk to the party, Shana and I troped on this line:

"I can't believe I had to leave my studio apartment to come to this?!?!?!?!"
"I can't believe I had to leave my Section 8 housing to come to this?!?!?!?!"
"I can't believe I had to leave my cardboard box to come to this?!?!?!?"

Needless to say, we were laughing loudly over for most of the walk. About ten minutes later, when we had already moved on to another topic of conversation, Shana, who had seen the Lord of the Rings movies, but not read the books, stopped us all, and asked, "What was it called, where the hobbits lived in that movie?"

I immediately doubled over in laugh-pain: "I had to leave the Shire to come to this?!?!" Madness ensued.

Later on that night, after the party, we confirmed that we should have stayed in the Shire, but whatever, whatever, blasé blah.

So that's one thing.

The second thing, is that when in Chi-town, R. Kelly is bound to be a topic of conversation. In our case, the focus was how unashamed he is to write songs about any old bullshit that pops in his head.

The last thing is that when I'm with friends and have access to GarageBand (like I do on my laptop) I think there is no finer means of QT than to make a song together.

Thus was born an R&B song inspired by LOTR. I know. Cory, Ben, Shana and I spent all afternoon, evening and night on Sunday crafting this beauty. Since we didn't have the time to quite polish it up to the concept I'd originally had, I spent a few hours this morning finishing it up. (Also, I'm a control freak.) Hopefully my colleagues like it, and also find a way to remaster/remix their own versions as they see fit.

The hardest part was not cracking up laughing when seeing everyone in the room huddled over a pad with pen in hand, seriously writing their lyrics. Speaking of lyrics, here they are:

(Spoken Intro)

Yo the shire was cracklin,
how the bitches titties was smackin together
like hands clappin for my boy Gandalf,
the premiere attraction,
bringing home the dank Shire weed,
and Brandywine streams
that keep the honies wetter than the Anduin.
You see what I'm handlin?
Pop off, Sam, you cockblocker, I know what I'm doin-
I may have hairy feet but my shaft is clean.
If there's any snakes in the grass,
you better grab your knees.
Yo, watch yo ass Nazgul,
My dogg Bilbo gave me a shank,
step off, sons.
You busted ass kings.
Yo, you tell 'em, Gollum.
Yo, I'm high as hell, man,
I'm high as hell on this Shiiiiiiire weed.

So hobbit watchu wanna do
I know you got the Precious withcu
Please don't cut me with that little sword
cuz we're both running from the goblin hoarde
but there's something you must understand
you are dealing with a twisted man
it's like I'm crawling with a gangsta lean
cause I'm a gold ring fieeeeeeeend....

Chorus:
I need the Precious in my life-
I'll give my Lexus, plus my wife.
I'll kill some Elfses for my high.
Gold rings don't meltses, we stay fly.

Stay next to me Precious and never let me go.
I didn't leave the shire to see you at the club with some other ho-bbit.
Don't wantchu in my belly, I want that ass up on my finger.
Forget R. Kelly, here's a track from a new R&B singer.
So you my ring or not, we can get it hot up at Mt. Doom.
I'm swingin Sting a lot, cause it's a lot of jealous dudes,
And when they axe you, why you hanging with that hairy short ass hobo,
I know your answer: "Cause no one's got a dick as big as Frodo."

"You're so big! Frodo! Bag me!"

Chorus

Ooooh.
Do not ask me what my name is, stupid troll I'm famous.
They know what my names is, but they afraid to say it.
I built one tower and I fuck with one coward,
Now I got two towers and I fuck with more cowards.
Dark Ride the whip....

Where could my Precious be?
You know you'll get a Lexus from me.
If you tell me where my Precious is,
I'll even give you my first baby!
Where is my Precious?!?!
You know you'll get the keys to the Lexus.
Wheeeeeere are you Precious?

Wait, What?

2008-07-04T19:59:00.003-04:00

Wait a minute- have I really not blogged since June 9th? That is terribly wack, and I'm sorry that I've excluded you from the tumultuous goings-on of my recent life. I'll do some recapping here, mmkay, then?

Let's see, the first thing to cover is my birthday, which was celebrated a week early. We had a bunch of family over to the crib, mostly folks from my father's side, which is fine by me and most of my crew. It was really nice of them all to drive from Buffalo to holler at me for my first post-cancer birthday bash. Because my mom knew better than to invite folks from her crazy-ass side (except for cousin Ruth, who's cool in my book) we all had a good, non-overbearing time. Good food (including vegan PR entrees for me and a few friends) good music and an invigorating game of Red Light Green Light were enjoyed by all. (I was the first MC for Red Light Green Light, which was a mostly kid affair. You know how boring adults can be.) The nicest part was that everyone's gift was quite appropriate for where I am in life: veg. cookbooks were abundant, bottles of red wine were presented for my yet tested glass-of-wine-a-day habit, money and lotto tickets for my broke ass, and a gift card to Wegman's so I could stock up on all the things necessary for a Vegetarian pantry. I couldn't have crafted a more thoughtful collection of gifts from anyone, much less from a group of people that maybe don't understand or know me too well. Great.

The next weekend, which was my birthday proper, I spent in that 'Lo with Laila drinking way too much. Actually, it was the night before the birthday that got out of hand with the drinking, and after some toilet bowl yakitori got made (cute, I know) I couldn't bear to do anything on the actual B-day aside from laying on Lerla's couch, smoking weed and watching Pot Psychology. Lerla and I are considering starting our own video blog, blogging our reaction to this video blog. I mean, everything online is derivative, right? (Speaking of video blogging...)

I have to admit, my relationship with tha 'Lo is occasionally skewed, and I often think that I contribute to the skewing of other people's relationships with the city as well. Basically, I don't know what it means to be a productive, normal person when I'm on the West Side, because I spent so many years there just smoking weed and chilling, and I basically revert to old patterns when I go there.

Oh! Oh! I totally have to rat myself out: at about 10:30 on my birthday morning, post-yakitori, pre-normalization, Lerla and I decided that it was appropriate for us to order pizza. My still-slightly drunk and newly stoned self could think of nothing else to eat. Fortunately, Mr. Pizza delivery starts at 10 am, and we hit that shit. Unfortunately, I chose not to overcome my lust for pepperoni, and I fell of the Vegetarian wagon when Lerla and I devoured an entire pizza over the course of the day. I'm kind of ashamed, although I correctly predicted that if anything, pork would be my downfall. In all honesty, that fucking pizza made me feel so much better after eating it. Clearly Buffalo's cuisine has been fine tuned over decades toward soothing drunkards' sour stomachs. Fortunately, I have no other meat-sins to confess.

There are, however, meat-things to confess. Shortly.

Lerla and I have a friend from high school named Crazy Cory. Crazy Cory actually lived with Lerla and her family for the last three years of high school, so they're pretty much family, and I try to visit Crazy Cory at least twice each year. So basically, he's the homie. For years, Crazy Cory has been practically begging Lerla and I to go camping in Michigan, where his childhood friends own a cabin with land on a winding river, and for years, I was never able to make it. This year was to be different!

Of course, because mybrokeass is a brokeass, I was thinking that this year might be another "I'll go next year" year, but Lerla wasn't having any of that. After telling me how much she wanted to go, I thought it would be assholish of me to pull out of the trip, so at the last minute, it was back on. At my birthday party, Lerla and I, along with D squared (more friends from high school) made plans to attend this legendary Bullfrog Camp in Michigan. We left on a Thursday afternoon, and after ten hours of driving through Canada (not bad) and Michigan (straight up and down dickish) we arrived at Camp Bullfrog, tired, and hateful from the several assholishly-labeled detours that were littered across the fucking Wolverine State. I swear to gog, for the spiritual center of automotive USA, they sure know how to make your driving experience doodoo.

Anyway, we show up to the camp, tired, hungry and hateful. Then we saw the cabin. Mind you, for folk such as myself, accustomed to living in sanitary and palatial bungalows, it takes a day, at minimum, to acclimate to the hygienic atmosphere (or non-hygienic, watevs) of camp life. This trip, I was especially interested in seeing how I'd acclimate, as my immune system is still so naive. Even knowing that I'll release hygienic inhibitions at a later point does nothing to soothe the heeby-jeebies I get when first plunged into camp life.

The point of all of this, is that we rolled up on this camp, and its inhabitants (who had been there a week already) and all I saw was dirt. Dirt in the kitchen. Dirt on their shoeless feet. Dirt in the pots and pans. Dirt in the stagnant sink water. Yup, this was camp.

Needless to say, I wasn't hungry anymore. My momma trained us right, in true PR fashion: we will not only talk shit about your personal cleanliness, but if your food is cooked in anything less than a premature baby incubator, you are filthy, and I ain't eating your comida. My appetite didn't return until late the next day, at dinnertime.

Still, I only dwell on this slightly stressful arrival to emphasize the next part of my story. The folks who own Bullfrog have been coming for generations, and as a result, there are generations-old traditions in place, the most stellar of which is: Sauna!

Sauna!!!works like this: the Bullfrog cabin is on a bend in the Manistee River, and behind the cabin, on the sandy beach next to the river is where the fire pit is. A short distance from the fire pit is the sauna- a makeshift wooden structure covered in plastic, with seating for twenty good acquaintances inside. Random metal gears and railroad ties are kept in the campfire, and after a couple of hours of heating, they're dragged into the pit in the sauna to be used as the heating element. (At night, you could see the metal shapes glow orange in the dark, with bright yellow sparks everywhere, as if they'd been dipped in glitter- cool!) "Sauna!!!!" is yelled into the campground, alerting everyone to stop what they're doing, and get their ass down to the river for a good time. Everyone crams inside the sauna, and when you can take no more, you run out the door and into the Manistee River to cool down.

Saunas usually happen about thrice daily: post-breakfast, pre-dinner, and pre-bedtime. Fortunately, on our first night there, we were lucky enough to arrive in time to catch the last sauna of the day! Nighttime saunas are naked affairs for those who wish, and I'm pretty sure I got accidental dick on the shoulder before I knew anyone's name. It was all good, though, because that sauna was truly worth it. We emerged from the river refreshed and relaxed, our hate floating away in the night like a tender floater.

I didn't get to bed that night, rather, I didn't get any sleep. The tent we were in was small, and for whatever reason, I too hyped up to be tired, so after tossing and turning for about an hour, I left the tent, and went back down to the campfire. I spent the night at first, talking to the few stragglers still hanging out, later by myself, tending the fire and watching the sky grow lighter. There really isn't anything much better than witnessing the sunrise, especially when next to a campfire, is there?

Oh wait, there, is: the breakfast ass-washing sauna. For years, I'd contended that in the house of my dreams, I would have an outdoor bathroom. Definitely an outdoor shower, and if possible, a terlet with a view would be nice too, a la Richard Branson. (Check out from 6:55 on, for my fantasy crapper.) At minimum, my bathrooms must have ample fresh air, and I figure, instead of windows, why not just do the damn thing outside? So imagine my delight when I learned that the traditional Bullfrog shower was not an indoor affair! Bottles of Dr. Bronner strewn on the riverbank attested to the fact that the morning sauna was a cleansing ritual in more ways than one. The combination of hot sauna, flowing river and cool, minty soap made for one of the most gratifying and cleansing morning bath experiences I've ever had. I really did feel so fresh and so clean after the morning sauna, and it was hilarious participating in and witnessing a group ass washing. Needless to say, you know my ass was in the most upstream position, cause homie don't play that!

What made it even better was when I started singing, "Wash, wash the boo-tay, wash, wash the boo-tay baby!....Doodoo brown!" to this song (if it can be called that). It kind of became our morning bath song, if only in my 'hood ass mind. So appropriate yet, so inappropriate. Kind of sums me up, no?

The other huge highlight of the Bullfrog experience for me was my first canoe trip! On Day 2, we took a short, little 2-hour excursion down the Manistee River. We actually started upstream so that we'd arrive at the camp. All I could think the enitre trip was, "This is really fucking civilized!" Truly, that is how I felt. It is civilized to wash that bootay in the river. It is civilized to tenderly paddle a canoe on a stream.

I was afforded one more chance at civility the next day, when a 5-hour canoe trip was planned, which involved about twenty-four people, lots of nudity (including a skillful, two-person in-canoe standing striptease) several capsizings, and a couple of acrobatic feats of heroism. Fortunately, I shared a canoe with Crazy Cory, and despite some misgivings about his navigation (I luh you, boo) we didn't tip once. I even had to man the helm all by myself once when Cory jumped out of the canoe to help some capsizees regain their shit, and I was able to steer the boat into a little inlet behind a logjam with my still-embryonic paddling skills. Even with all the turmoil involved in tipped canoes and the 15 minutes of rain and lightning that threatened our trip, I have to say that the trip was one of the best things I've done in my life. In fact, as soon as I got home to the Rochacha, I started researching places to canoe locally. That was, until I remembered that I'm broke and do not own a canoe. Lolz. We'll reach civility someday, Poundpapi.

Anyway- this entry is going on too long, and still have more to write, so I'll wrap up the whole Bullfrog thing like this: it was amazing. There were some wonderful people to meet there, we all had a great time, and I tried a couple of new things out that I ended up loving.

And now, for the grand finale, teh Sux0rz. Sorry for the LolKatz, but it's a hard habit to break. Since my return from Bullfrog, I've been in quite the funk. While the reality of my everday living situation has never been far from my awareness, the bit of traveling I've been able to do since treatment finished has been enough to distract me from what is disaster, in some senses.

Of course, disaster is an old friend of mine, for sure, so I say that in the most objective sense, lol.
Still, being thirty-one, unemployed and living with your mom is disastrous. Especially if you're as independent as I am, and living with a mom who doesn't know how to not control the lives of those around her.

Of course, now that intensive treatment seems to be over for me, I could just go out to my local Starbucks, get a job with health insurance (if they'll cover me, that is) and become a regular person who does regular things. Of course, that would require some sacrifice as far as my plans of re-becoming a singer are concerned. When you get a real job, you can't just disappear for weeks at a time for auditions and voice lessons and shit, right? (Someone tell me- I really don't know!)

So, folks, that is where I'm at. I'm in the cracks. I know that if I can just hold out until audition season and sing like I know I can, I'll get some work. If I sing really well, I might get some really good work. The operative words being, "if I can hold out". I'm ready to move on, but I have a feeling that I'm getting ahead of myself, you know?

It's so strange- I don't remember feeling this consistently frustrated during my treatment. I guess in that situation, I knew that there wasn't anything I could do but be patient. Now that I'm healthy again, I think it's easy for me to feel a bit vicitmized (much of that my own fault/choosing, for sure). Why is it so difficult for me to remember what a friend patience has been in the past? Also, why don't I choose to view this period as preparation rather than stagnation? Clearly, I need to reframe some shit, and in the meantime, find some meaningless job where I'll make some, but not too much money.

Last, but not least, come hell or high water, I'll be hollering at the Minnesota crew once more, this time in July/August. At the very least, I'll be there for two weeks, hopefully three. I've got a cat sitting gig in a cute house with a steam shower! So all you Linas and Oles better get ready to do some saunas with me.

Holler.

PR VD ZOMG

2008-06-09T12:53:00.003-04:00

Hey Y'all.

This is a quickie.

Just found a Veg PR food blog.

Or rather, a Veg food blog with PR food recipes on it.

The thing that seemed interesting to me was this recipe for Mock Bacalaitos. Hmmm, I may have to investigate...

Mumbelina

2008-06-05T23:29:00.002-04:00

Clearly my MO is TCOB, if only in a bloggish sense. This post too is about making good on a former blog promise. In this case, I present an entry on my niece, Poe. How about a list?

• Poe is twelve years old. Of course, as her Funcle (fun uncle) I always pretend to forget how old she is, thereby insulting her when I suggest that she could be nine, or in the fourth grade. It works like a charm, and usually elicits a half-meow half-scream of frustration. Then we both crack up at how absurd the sound is.

• Most of Poe's utterings sound like meowing to me, actually, and it's always cracking me up. I guess I'm hardwired to think kids meowing is funny. In fact, I love it so much that when Poe really wants something from me, (she loves to take my cell phone and change the wallpapers on me) sometimes I'll make her ask for it like a tender kitty. You know, a licking-her- paws-and-cleaning-her-face-with-them-while-meowing tender kitty? On other days, I require her to make herself cry. She's quite the actress. Only, it's difficult to make yourself cry when your uncle is trying his hardest to crack you up. My favorite way of lording power over her is to make her give a full bow and flourish, and ask, in an English accent, "Most Royal Highness, might I have the pleasure and honor of both seeing and holding your cellular telephone for a few minutes?" or some such nonsense. She's actually started to turn this little game back on me, when she's got something I want, like a piece of gum, or whatever. Makes me proud to know she's learning.

• The other thing that Poe does is mumble. That's where the title of this post comes from- it's my nickname for her, whereas Poe is usually what her parents call her. "Poe" is an homage to the Teletubbies, one of my niece's favorite things as a baby.

• It's funny, because Poe and I were not quite this close from the start. She's always been a shy girl, and doesn't take kindly to people flitting in and out of her life. When she was young, that's all I did, as I was either away at school, or off on gigs. Even when I was home with family, I was in Buffalo, while she lived in Rochester. She was very standoffish with most everyone, aside from her parents, in fact, and even more so with my scarce self. However, once she figured that she could get you to play teatime, or horsie, or whatever it was with her, she was stuck on you like glue. It's funny how these earliest traits are still present in the twelve year-old, albeit in slightly less extreme forms. Poe is still slow to warm to new people, although she's getting better at it. It's funny, because once she decides to trust you, she completely discards any semblance of a shell and gives you her all. It's quite remarkable, and it's why I think she could make an excellent actress or performer of some sort- once she gets over the hump, she's not scared to try anything.

• That thing about being an actress? I'm not sure it will ever happen. We've encouraged her to try out for the plays and musicals at school, because we know how amazing she'd be, but she's not quite ready to spread her wings amongst cohorts. It's all good, though. She's creative in other ways: she's always writing stories, and imagining and creating things, and reading books. She and Pappy both loved when I'd read to them from the Lemony Snicket series, although I'm not sure if Pappy was quite following the story as much as enjoying the whole experience. Poe, on the other hand, is readily able to see things in her mind- they become very real for her. I loved having that time with them, and I'm just realizing that we're long overdue for another reading session.

• Poe is a tomboy. She refuses to wear any girly clothes. She is very conscious of her appearance, but never in a way that makes sense to her gay uncle, lol. (I guess this is just one of those things I'll never understand.) She loves to play sports, and is involved every season. She skis, plays basketball, soccer, tennis and softball. My brother was an athlete when he was younger, and my SIL's family seems to be all for girls participating in sports, so Poe gets plenty of support and reinforcement for her achievements. I'm pretty jealous for the natural ability she has.

• Poe and I are always betting on one thing or another. Usually, exorbitant amounts of money are involved, but occasionally we'll do realistic bets, when we know we'll win. Either way, it doesn't matter, because one of us always finds a technicality on which to withdraw. Poe also makes up games, a common enough thing for kids. I've even been known to do it, in my day. Lately, one of the games Poe and I have been playing is "I Bet You Can't Get Me On The Couch". It is a feat of unbridled athleticism, and it goes like this: you have to get your opponent onto the living room couch. Simple enough. Until, that is, Poe does THE FACE. See, the best strategy for staying off the couch is to simply become dead weight- a floppy rag doll. Poe knew this from the very beginning, and employs this tactic to stunning success. However, it is not just the dead weight that thwarts her would-be conquerors, but THE FACE which accompanies her flop to the ground. As if privately tutored by Stanislavsky himself, when Poe goes limp, she fully embraces the character of a corpse: her tongue lolls out of her mouth, her eyes roll back, her head lolls around. I've learned that it's nearly impossible to pick up seventy pounds of dead weight when you're doubled over laughing hysterically. Even my brother, The Hulk, had to give it several attempts before he successfully landed Poe on the couch. I wonder if it's these games that I love most about her. I've always liked people who know how to play.

• She is horrible at geography. Sometimes at dinner, we'll have an impromptu geography/general trivia quiz, with me playing Alec Trebek. Every time we do the quiz, I ask her to name the states bordering New York. For whatever reason, she cannot remember them, even though she knows I will ask everytime. We've done this at least a dozen times, and every time she panicky bullshit thing which cracks me up. "Well, you've got your....uhhhh, see there's..... you know, how about that state that........yeah." She hasn't figured out that you can't bullshit me on geography. (Ask the Monday Night Trivia Krew.)

• Many of you already know this, but I have many, many nieces and nephews. Somewhere around twenty-three, or so. However, Poe and Pappy are special to me. Since all of my siblings are at least ten years older than me, their children are, in many cases, closer to me in age than I am to their parents. Poe and Pappy are young enough that we get to enjoy a more usual uncle/niece & nephew relationship, as opposed to their cousins, some of whom are old enough for me to take out partying. (Not that I have.) I get to do fun things with them, like buy them pogosticks for their birthdays, and teach them how to ride bikes and bake, and pick them up from school. They, in turn, keep me young.

So that's the introduction to Poe. I'm sure you'll here more about our adventures in future blogs. Before I go, you can't think I'd let a single family post go by without a Pappy update, can you? The update is this: Pappy still has not touched a lick of meat! He's been taking salads to school for lunch, and my SIL has asked me to teach her how to prepare tofu for him. I still don't know if I've expressed how shocking this is, but just like everyone else in the family, I kind of shrug my shoulders and say, "I guess the kid has decided what he wants!" There's no one like Pappy, and no one like Poe, that's for sure.

Lavoe Espectacular!!!

2008-06-03T19:00:00.005-04:00

*EDIT*

If you downloaded the songs as single tracks, the way I originally posted them, some of the songs will be messed up. So, I've reposted them, all in one big zip file. Sorry for the confusion, but now there are even more songs than I originally posted. Enjoy!

Alright, chirrens. I'm finally making good on my promise to get y'all some musica latina so that you'll be ready for summer. Today's entry will be devoted entirely to a shining star of the salsa scene, a man deserving of an entire blog himself: Hector Lavoe. Instead of boring you with biographical info easily retrieved on Wikipedia, I'll cut right to the music.

A quick primer on his music: Lavoe collaborated extensively with Willie Colón, an important man in the NYC salsa scene from the '70s on. Colón was a trombonist, and his extensive use of trombone in the horn section (including all-trombone horn sections) was innovative and, IMO, appropriate. It created a mellower, darker sound, appropriate for salsa of the time, when so many lyrics dealt with gritty or serious subjects.

For those new to salsa, my favorite feature of the music is that you have so many disparate elements come together to make one great texture. It's kind of like that ice-breaking game where one person repeats a motion and sound, and one by one, people join in until they've created a huge machine. To truly appreciate the musical features of salsa, a fun exercise is to isolate each instrument and sing along with it. Feel the rhythmic tension in the places where you're not singing and something else is.

And now, the songs. Here is the MegaUpload link. It's a large file, so just get it started, and before you know it, you'll have 22 songs for your summer soundtrack. It includes non-Lavoe songs, but for now, I've only written notes for some of the Lavoe songs.

Here's the tracklist:

Abuelita- Hector Lavoe

Aguijon- Willie Colon

Ah Ah, Oh No- Hector Lavoe

Bandolera- Hector Lavoe

Barrunto- Hector Lavoe

Calle Luna, Calle Sol- Hector Lavoe

De Ti Depende- Hector Lavoe

Fue Varon- Ruben Blades

Juanito Alimaña- Hector Lavoe

La Fama- Hector Lavoe

La Maleta- Ruben Blades

La Mora- Ruben Blades

La Murga- Hector Lavoe

Me Voy a Pinar del Rio- Celia Cruz

Periodico de Ayer- Hector Lavoe

Pintame- Elvis Crespo

Plantacion Adentro- Ruben Blades

Segun el Color- Ruben Blades

Soñando Despierto- Hector Lavoe

Todo Tiene Su Final- Hector Lavoe

Un Amor de La Calle- Hector Lavoe

Dom's Original Notes:

La Fama- a rumination on how alienating it is to be famous.

Ah-Ah, Oh No- my new favorite: a dude is getting mixed signals from his honeycakes.

Periodico de Ayer- classic!!!

"Your love is like yesterday's newspaper, that no one buys to read anymore.

Sensational when it appeared in the morning,

It was confirmed news by noon,

And at evening, forgotten material...

And why would anyone read yesterday's newspaper?"

Abuelita- this song makes me wish I knew my grandmothers better. Actually, they were both mean-ass women, so I mean this in a completely idealized-grandmother way.

"Thinking about my grandmother (abuelita)

The things she told me make me smile,

And now it's I who say them,

Listen, because you'll say them too."

De Ti Depende- this is bolero- a slow, romantic ballad with an easy, intimate dance. Turn the lights down low and get close, y'all.

Un Amor de la Calle- another slower selection, but this time a rumba. I think the rumba might be the sexiest dance ever. Yup, I say that with full knowledge that the tango is shaking it's sexy finger at me, but really, the tango is way too obvious. In the rumba, the passion is simmered down- the difference between balsamic vinegar and a reduction. Maybe I'm full of shit. Strangely enough, this song's lyrics are pretty rough. Paraphrasing:

"I thought you were different and sincere, and I let you in my life without conditions, but it all turned out to be a dream. You're just one of many. You're like any one out there. A love like yours is found in the streets."

Ouch.

Soñando Despierto- God this song rocks so hard. By the time the coro (background singers) comes in halfway through the song, I'm bouncing as if I were listening to Southern rap, or something. The arrangement is so tight- the trombone chorus, the tension created when the cowbell enters; this is not a flashy song, rather, it's like a simple dish where you have just a few amazing elements that when combined, magnify each other's loveliness in perfect delight. The tight and insistent piano rhythms clash perfectly with the temporarily lazy cowbell. Then the cowbell tightens up, accompanying a trombone riff so fierce, it sounds like a shark is gonna come and gobble you up. The conguero throws in just a few extra hits that almost sound like he's fucking up the rhythm, but then you realize that he's totally right, and it makes your spine tingle and your body release. I'm getting hyped just writing about it. Songs like this make me want to go practice on the congas my brother misguidedly bought this past Christmas. (That's an entry in the making.)

Bandolera- back to something faster, a very traditional salsa. This is what salsa should sound like. A clear mambo influence (jazzy horn writing and traditional instrumentation) but with that NYC spin on it. There's a really long piano solo in this song that I have memorized note for note. This song is a 'fuck off' to the shit talkers. The PR slang for shit talking is bochinche, and it's one of my favorite words. A shit talker is a bochinchero/a. To be honest, I have no idea what a "bandolera" is, but it don't seem good. Anyone want to educate me?

Juanito Alimaña- when you live life in the fast lane, you might get hemmed up. "The streets are a jungle of concrete and fierce savages. Everywhere danger is waiting for you."

Calle Luna, Calle Sol- one of the fiercest songs for its background vocals alone. Another song of warning: "Camina pa'lante no mires para el'lao"- "Walk straight ahead, don't look to the side." Sounds like when I go to NY.

Todo Tiene Su Final- "Everything has its end, nothing lasts forever. We need to remember that eternity does not exist."

Hope you all enjoy the new tunes.

VD: Vegetarian Diaries

2008-06-01T22:15:00.003-04:00

Act I.

The family has been very accommodating about the new vegetarian. Last night was the first night an unforced opportunity came up for me to explain my reasons for the dietary shift. I think my family was shocked to find out that the move away from meat was not really for health reasons, considering that I've spent so much time in the hospital recently. If anything, I'd consider the sugar thing to be the bigger culprit in my life, but that's neither here nor there.

Of course, in explaining to people what your ethical reasons are for foregoing meat are, it is nigh impossible to not sound self-righteous, which is why I waited for someone to ask me what my reasons are in the first place. Still, I think I did manage to articulate my thoughts without being overbearing, always trying to refer back to what I thought was appropriate for me and me alone.

Still, there's always an asshole, right? There was a family frienemy and frequent dinner guest at the dinner last night. Frienemy can be cool and shit, but she's overbearing and loves to be right all the time. She decided to take up the mantle of dietician (which she is not) and wanted to quiz me:

"Where are you going to get your calcium from, huh?"

(Looks at me with a smirk across her face.)

"Well (bitch) I already said that I'm still going to eat dairy. That, along with the numerous vegetable sources should cover me."

"Hm."

(I mentally choke her.)

Clearly Frienemy thought:

1. I was incapable of researching ways to make this dietary shift in a healthy way.

2. My move to meat-free was a personal affront to her.

That hungry, smug bitch should just be happy there'll be more meat for her hungry ass.

Act II.

About two days ago, I was over at my brother's house, chilling out with SIL and the kids. My move to vegetarianism was the topic at hand, and Pappy, a very healthy eater and meat lover, declared his intent to become a vegetarian as well. I didn't want anyone to think I was evangelizing, and after a few minutes of explaining what vegetarianism is and that maybe it was something he should think about, he remained firm. Both SIL and I just shrugged, giggled to ourselves at his quick conversion, and figured out he really didn't grasp the whole concept.

Three minutes later, our suspicions were proven correct when Pappy went into the refrigerator, and got some leftover chicken out for lunch. He wanted the biggest piece, he told me. This got us (me, SIL and Poe) laughing.

"We thought you were a vegetarian!"

"Oh." (chomp, chomp)

No other response, save for chicken demolishing.

Act III.

Yesterday, we had a family dinner together, once again at my brother's (The Hulk) house. Frienemy and Afooi were also invited. On the way to dinner I picked up some margarita supplies and veggie burgers to complement the tostones and veggies that were being cooked, as the others would be feasting on ribs and chicken. When I brought out the veggie burgers so that I could grill them up, Pappy told me that he wanted one too.

"I'm a vegetarian, remember?"

Apparently, he went the entire day without eating a single fiber of meat- a tricky thing to do when you're an eight-year old compulsive eater with Easy Meat Access. (I'm totally laughing right now about Maven's Nut Bag/Meat/Pulp/Juice situation.) He was firm: neither ribs nor chicken were on his menu for the night. I was shocked. SIL gave me a nod behind his back to let me know that he wasn't just making up stories for my benefit. So, after making it clear to him that he was under no obligation to be a vegetarian just because I was, I grilled Pappy up a veggie burger, and it wasn't long until we were sitting together at the kitchen bar eating our veggie burgers, asparagus and tostones.

The Hulk, much to my surprise, had never eaten a veggie burger before. It just goes to show how out of touch I am with the real world that I'm shocked anyone hasn't had a veggie burger. He tried it, and declared it "goohd."

I asked The Hulk what was going on with the whole Pappy-becoming-vegetarian thing, and he said, "because he wants to be like you." A misguided inner "awwww" echoed through me...

Act IV.

It is our habit to eat meals on the weekends all together, but tonight we gathered around Cuca's dining room table. This time, we were all eating a vegetarian meal, as my mom figured it would be easier and cheaper anyway, and that way she wouldn't feel guilty about not making me meat, since she wasn't making meat for anyone. Cuca cooked up some white rice with gandules guisadas on the side, which we spiked with vinagre. A salad and generous portions of avocado finished the plate beautifully.

The Hulk and SIL brought the kids to a neighbor's kid's birthday party earlier that afternoon. While the mom of the house is a vegetarian, on special occasions, her husband will cook meat. Today there were ribs (must be rib season) and pulled pork: two products highly irresistible to boricuas young and old. Pappy held strong to his newfound dietary convictions. I have to say, I'm impressed. Not only is this kid a meat lover, as I mentioned before, but if you can get him to remember something, anything for more than twenty minutes, it is a miracle. My shock was only equalled by my feelings of pride: he is displaying will power that I didn't know he had!

Well, it turns out that maybe it's not so much that he wants to be like me. (womp, womp) At dinner today, talk turned to one of Pappy's classmates who is also a vegetarian. Her name is Clarissa. A few months ago, I was invited to their classroom where I read a book to the kids and ate lunch with Pappy. Clarissa joined us at our lunch table, and let me tell you, Clarissa is Such a Fuckin Lady! Good conversation and table manners? I'm a fan. Well, it turns out lil' Pappy might be foregoing the meat to get some third grade booty. I am more proud of him now than I was a paragraph ago!

So, as we're at the table in post-eating repose, Frienemy decides that her opinion on Pappy's vegetarianism is needed:

"Oh, this won't last more than a couple days. He'll be eating meat again before you know it."

All of this may be well and true, but she's clearly an asshole:

1. Why the need to talk about kids like they're not even there?

2. What is her damage about eating meat?

3. Why would anyone give a flying fuck what she thinks in the first place? She's just a family frienemy.

4. Plus, she has much back in her front. (Shoutout to Lerla an dem.)

And with that, I bid you all goodnight.

Oh wait- before I go, I'm declaring my promise that not another Pappy story shall go posted before I pay tribute to my niece Poe. For all the stories I write about Pappy, Poe and I are about as tight as an uncle and niece can get, and I feel bad that I haven't shared the delights with my tender readers. I've also got a million other ideas for posts right now, so youse are going to have to get an RSS reader, or just check back frequently- I can't stand no late-ass mugs.

Placatan, Maven!

2008-05-29T16:08:00.002-04:00

OMGanesha. I have so much to blog about, I just know that I won't remember any of it. Also, I can't promise unity of theme, by any means. Here goes:

Maven is proud, and rightly so. A Google search for the term "placatán" turns up Maven's Haven in the top ten searches. You will also notice that Old Coot's blog is a top-ten result, and as a result, your dear Poundpapi is proud, as I was the source of their Placatániness. Placatenacity? Placatenderness? Please, suggest adjectives of your liking in my comments section, how I do love audience participation.

Since Maven's use of the word on her blog, she has had a request for clarification. "What could need clarifying about this magical word?" I asked myself, but now that I'm all Jesus-like and errythang (sike) I figured sharing the love might be good for my karmic account. Surely, there is karma involved in enlightening others on PR slang.

One thing I've noticed, both growing up around PRs and traveling to Italy, is that Southern Romance languages have a rich and varied onomatopoetic vocabulary. Actually, I'm sure most languages have great vocabs in this sense, but Spanish and Italian speakers seem to be willing to use these words more often in everyday speech, when compared to English speakers. Clearly, there's a need for more color in Spanish and Italian conversations, lol.

To be honest, I'm not even sure if "placatán" counts strictly as onomatopoeia, because it has two too many syllables to describe the event. For instance, if you were going to suplex your wrestling opponent, or smack someone on the forehead with a Bible, the word "placatán" is the perfect sound effect to accompany it. Clearly, the last syllable being the accented one (btw- aigue or grave? so many linguistic considerations here) it should line up with the resulting smack/slap/suplex-ing.

I have to be honest, this word cracks me up and makes me giddy to this day because it's so....extra. For instance, the two extra syllables, when just a good...actually, I was just sitting here for about thirty seconds trying to come up with another authentic-sounding slap sound (in Spanish, of course) and drew a blank. Clearly those two extra syllables are exactly what the situation calls for, and nothing else will do. It's almost like they create a short, but powerful suspense, as we all know that a powerful ending is coming, accompanied by a slap. (Next time I go to the Chinee masseuse, I'm going to ask for a 'powerful ending' and see what I get.)

This word in particular reminds me of my brother The Hulk, because he delights in using it almost daily. I can't express the exact joy I feel when I picture him saying it, but it's akin to watching someone get playfully clotheslined. Classic AFV-type stuff.

A quick perusal of the internets does not easily turn up information on the etymology of this word. At one point, I wondered to myself if maybe this was just something that we used in my family/neighborhood, but I swear I've heard it in broader contexts, like on TV and in songs and such. (Madness or Lerla, can you corroborate?)

As for other instances of PR onomatopoeia, my favorite example is the word for bus, "la guagua." In the proper Spanish pronunciation of this word, the [g] is softened to the point where it almost begins to resemble an English [w]. The transformation is not complete, but close, and it causes many with PR accents in English to put slight [g]s where they don't belong. Guatever. Anywayz, I digress. As it turns out, "guagua" is a good aural representation of the sound of an old bus idling, and that's the story of why PRs usually call a bus a "guagua" instead of an "autobus" or whatever the correct Spanish term is.

This last bit of Spanish trivia is not rooted in onomatopoeia, as far as I know, although the point of this section is that I don't know where this word comes from, so maybe I'm wrong. If you have info, please pass it along.

Youngsters growing up on the West Side of Buffalo (wessai!) and in other PR enclaves had access to this wonderful treat in the summer. (Whoah- yet another sidetrack, but I just wrote "on the West Side" as opposed to "in the West Side." How did that construction come about? Is that a Buffalo thing?) These treats are called "limbers" and they consist of a little paper Dixie cup filled with frozen liquid. The 5¢ limbers were just plain old Kool-Aid in the two basic flavors: red and purple. (At least, those are the only two Kool-Aid flavors that exist in my mind.) If you were ballin' out of control that day (I learned that from "the streets" Madness. Wouldn't your little pumkin be proud of me?) you'd plop down 10¢ or even 25¢ for a "coco": sweetened coconut milk with cinnamon. These were the slamminest.

"Where might a kid, hot, dirty and sweaty from playing kickball all day find such a rare, incomparable treat," you ask? From the streets. PRs in the 'hood are very quick to sell various foods out of their homes in order to supplement what might be a very meager income. In fact, considering where I grew up, it was definitely a very meager income. In your own 'hood, you knew all the limber spots, and in case you didn't, your friends did, and if all else failed, these folks would often put up a cardboard sign on their front porch proclaiming, "Se venden limbers." (To be honest, I'm surprised any of them could get the spelling right, considering that PRs pronounce this word as "LEEM-behlls" or "LEEM-beds". For those who had never seen the word spelled, and didn't have a clue what the fuck people were calling them, you [meaning me] would frequently just leave off the last consonant, resulting in "LEEM-behs" and call it a day while sucking down on that shit. People would also sell more substantial fare from home, such as pasteles, acapurrias, tembleque, budín, etc. I'll explain what these are later, these parenthetical shits are getting unwieldy.)

Each Limber House had it's own protocol. On some, you'd walk up to the front door. On others, you'd have to venture into the backyard, hoping that there was no dog there to eat you. My favorite setup was when they'd have a chest freezer right underneath or next to a side window in their alley, and you'd knock at the window, and complete the transaction. It made for the least intrusion of personal space for both parties, and you could also watch them pull the limber out of the freezer, thereby ensuring a sanitary exchange. (Sike.)

In any case, you'd knock at the entryway of choice, and after hearing the day's menu, you'd make your choice and give the Limber Mistress your change. After receiving the tender morsel, you'd get to flexing your Limber Technique. First, you warm all the way around the cup with your hands, thereby releasing the Limber Innards from its icy grip. The tricky part comes next, and it's where you squeeze the cup, forcing the Limber up, and then get it to flip over so that it was inverted in the cup, and thereby easier to eat. Real pros could do this without sullying their hands, using physics and the occasional tongue action to complete the flip.

So there you go. Fancy PR Pops. If you ever get the hankering, I'd suggest you try them out this summer- especially the coconut/cinnamon flavor. After leaving the West Side, I was surprised that this basic combination is not very well known to the rest of the world, and it made me somewhat sad.

In completely unrelated blogging, I know that I promised music recently. I'm going to sort of fulfill that promise, although today's selection will not be the Latin music that I spoke of before. Instead, I present you with a selection from The Roots recently released album, Rising Down.

Those of you who know me personally already know that The Roots are important to me, and they are important to many of you. I not only like them for purely aural/sensory reasons, but also for what they represent in hip-hop: a breath of fresh air.

If I'm honest, I'll say that Rising Down does not measure up to the perfection that was Game Theory. There is only one track on Game Theory that I skip regularly, and it's not even because it's bad, but because it's a super heroin-y downer. The rest of that album is amazing not only for it's individual songs, but because the group decided to make it one long continuous album with maybe just one or two gaps between the songs, and they achieved a very organic, unforced result. But I digress...

Rising Down is not Game Theory, and I'm glad, because they try to cover new ground with each release. In this case, several different musical genres are used to inform various tracks. Today's selection incorporates a genre native to Washington, D.C. called Go-Go. While I was unaware of Go-Go as a distinct regional genre and culture, I was familiar with it in practice. Two examples of Go-Go music that the broader public would be familiar with are Beyoncé's "Crazy in Love," and Amerie's "One Thing."

As you can hear for yourself, Go-Go music features an extensive percussion section including congas, and a swung rhythm. Apparently, if you go to a Go-Go club in D.C., you'll hear lots of covers of R&B hits with a Go-Go twist. I've even heard it described as the black D.C. version of Jam Bands. Interesting.

Anyway, the Roots took this style, and came up with this infectious gem, called "Rising Up". It features a D.C. rapper named Wale and a great singer named Chrisette. The above link is an mp3 for your pleasure. If you like it, support The Roots and buy their shit. If you don't feel like buying their shit, but like them anyway, I can guarantee that their live show is worth the money. Here's their performance of "Rising Down" on Letterman- definitely worth watching, if only to see Tuba Gooding Jr. rock a sousaphone.

That's all for today, y'alls. I gotta go rest up so I can go to the club later tonight.

So download this shit, and get to jammin. Be careful when driving- you're likely to speed uncontrollably when the drums come in.

It's a Holy Ghost Party

2008-05-26T15:22:00.003-04:00

I sometimes have trouble understanding people who don't like going out dancing at the club. Luckily, this was not an issue for me last night because I found a club to go to on a night with a slammin party, and I even had a gay friend to accompany me. Score.

Let me get the minor details out of the way first. Last night, there was a White Party at Tilt, which happens to be a very cute club, certainly of the degree I'd not expect in Rochacha. In fact, this club was way, way cuter than the dance clubs in the Twin Cities (although that's not hard to do) and had a way better DJ. Go figure, the town is a-shambles, but there is a hot gay club. The night started off pretty scary. I've never been to a club that opened its doors at 10 pm, especially in a city where the bars close at 2. So, when I show up, in lovely white from head to toe (including white sweatbands around my wrists) I was taken aback that there were only a handful of people, and very few of them observed white party etiquette, b.k.a. I wish a motherfucker would come to the club in non-white. So for a few minutes, I was standing at the bar alone, and dressed for the event, unlike the other couple of early birds.

Soon, "Let the Music Play" by Shannon came on in the Lounge portion of the club, and I thought, alright, this place is getting better already, and within minutes, the club was packed with fine people dressed in white. I breathed a sigh of relief, as it became clear that the Rochesterians would be able to bring it like I needed last night. After a few beers in the lounge, we moved our party to the dance floor, and let me tell you, the DJ was hot, hot, hot. So were the go-go dancers (hey boos). It was your typical melange of popular songs remixed,but the remixes that he was playing were often tribal, frequently soulful, and never the lily-white fare I came to expect in my years in Minneapolis. The Get Me Bodied remix was COLD AS ICE! There may have been only one or two songs that didn't move me. Not a bad average, by any means.

The dancefloor was hot, hot, hot. There was dude with the faux-fur (I hope) Russian-type hat with the earflaps and white sunglasses. He looked a lot like Batt Biller and danced pretty damn well. I was thinking that the hat was highly impractical, but now that my ears are suffering constant ringing, I'm thinking that earflaps weren't a bad call at all. There was Chocolate Twinkie, who was working it on this platform right next to where I was on the floor. We caught each other's eye just when the DJ switched it up to a slammin beat and simultaneously gave a "Hey!!!!" of appreciation, and then laughed and continued working it. Last, there was the Rosario Dawson lookalike, wearing a sexy bohemian/artsy outfit with the cute hat and elbow-length fingerless gloves. Homegirl could dance, and we also caught each other when things got really hot.

Which brings me to my point. I find it hard to believe that there are people in this world who don't feel the need to experience the release, community and sense of life that happens in communal dancing. When I hear people say, "I don't dance," or, "I'm not into the club scene," I silently judge and pity them. More pitying than judgment, actually, because I wonder if there's ever a time and place where they are physically able to let go of their self-consciousness.

I'm like everyone else, I love going to the club to look cute, see who else is looking cute, meet new people, get drunk, yadda, yadda, yadda. But all of that stuff really goes away if the music is right. At that point, I really couldn't give a damn how stupid I look because the rhythm seems to bypass that part of the brain responsible for editing and controlling my behavior, and goes right to my funk receptor. Of course, I'm not sure why I'm writing this all to you, as I don't think I have a single friend who doesn't like to dance. (Thank God.)

Still, I have had some quizzical looks cast my way when I say that going to the club is like going to church for me. Maybe that's because I went to crazy Pentecostal church as a little kid, so church was full of screaming, shouting, dancing, and other out-of-control behavior. It freaked me out then, but now I know better. Those Pentecostals were just looking for an acceptable way to get loose and cut a rug. Of course, they'd tell you different, and they'd tell me I'm going to hell for writing this. Still, I challenge anyone to tell me the difference (in purpose) between the following videos.

Pentecostal Break Down

Bomba

House

Aight, den. I've got some more chilling and healing to do, and earplugs to find for my next excursion. If there's one bit of wisdom that I can impart as a final message to this post, it is this: find some cute sweatbands to incorporate into your clubbing outfits. I can't believe I lasted this long without them.

Biryani of Guilt.

2008-05-24T10:45:00.003-04:00

The big day is here! Today will be my last handling of meat, and I'm excited. Actually, the whole thing is slightly weird, but here's the condensed version of an uninteresting story. Have y'alls heard of Biryani? I hadn't, until I moved to Rochester, and met Manne and Afooi. (Of course, Manne is the wife- names changed to protect the innocent.) Biryani is hard to pin down, because it is a dish that shows up in the cuisines of just about all central Asian cuisines, from Iran to Malaysia. For those not in the know, biryani is basically a rice dish made with whatever protein desired, infused with saffron and other aromatics, and potatoes and caramelized onions. If you enjoy the greater Indian flavor palette in any capacity, this dish is a sure-fire win, when capably prepared.

Afooi happens to be of Indian ancestry, so being a friend of the family, we frequently trade our Puerto Rican food services for his Indian. It is a great partnership because both Manne and Afooi are good, clean cooks, so I really feel that I'm getting a good education in Indian home cooking. Back when I started the long ignored "Cuca's PR Kitchen" I thought biryani should make a guest appearance as an important non-Boricua food delight. So I asked my "Hindu friends" (that is a Simpsons reference, and an ignorant one, because Afooi in a non-practicing Muslim and Manne is a white American, lol) to give me a biryani tutorial. After months of conflicting schedules, earlier this week a class in biryani was offered, and I gladly accepted. Then I promptly decided to become a radical vegetarian. Of course, before I could send a declaration of war to the Hindus, they went out and bought everything to make the biryani, which is a considerable expense in saffron alone, as they will cook for about ten of us.

So, while I've been on a vegetarian diet for two days now (canon explodes) tonight I will at the very least be involved in some meat cookery. The cool thing is that we'll be cooking it all on a charcoal grill, which is an exercise in temperature mastery, for sure. Cooking rice indoors can be tricky enough for some people (although my boricua-ness prevents me from being in their number) Not sure if I'll eat it or not, but either way, the biryani won't go to waste. My niece and nephew can eat grown-sized portions of any food, and fortunately, their parents have been great at exposing them to all sorts of cuisines, so they are about to throw down on Indian grub.

Accompanying the meal will be a great raita, samosas and hopefully some cumin pappadums.

As for my two days meat-free, I feel good. However, I attribute this (physically) more to the absence of great amounts of sugar. In an ethical sense, I know I'll be feeling great next week, after tonight's biryani with a side of guilt has long been pooped away.

In other news, let's talk about Latin music. I've been swearing up and down for about two weeks that I was going to sign up for salsa classes as a means of non-gym exercise. I've yet to do it, but at my sister-in-law's graduation party last week, I was responsible for the music, and I put together a killer set of salsa with some bachata and merengue thrown in. We danced and it was great. Today, after dinner, I'll be getting some lessons from my sister-in-law. I know how to salsa by myself, but the second you put a partner with me, I'm a hot mess. Isn't that so crazy?

Anyway, last night, after hours of watching YouTube clips of people dancing to salsa, cumbia and even Norteno and Duranguense, I'm going to start throwing fun songs and video clips on this blog for everyone's enjoyment. As much as I can, I'll make the tracks downloadable, so that you too can join in the Hispanic Fun. First- I've got to do some research, so I make sure that I'm properly informed.

In the meantime, holler.

A Change is Finna Come

2008-05-22T10:57:00.002-04:00

Gentle Bitches,

How are youse doing? I'll tell you straight up, Poundpapi has needed some type of intervention in the last week. Things have come to a head. He knows he can't keep living like this, and in my first step toward getting off the crack, he's just going to keep it trill with you all.

I have a sugar problem. Yup. I have an ice cream problem. I have a carbohydrate problem. While I jokingly referenced crack in the above paragraph, two days ago, you would have thought the remark appropriate. I started off the day innocuously enough- the usual granola, with some vanilla yogurt and banana thrown in to keep the meal moist. (That was for you, K-Annie.) Actually, that meal was in no way innocuous, because the granola is overly sweetened (you know that shit is true if my desensitized-to-sugar tastebuds can tell) and the yogurt already had enough sugar in it to sweeten the whole experience. In combination with the banana, it set off a chain of events that just spiraled in a downward direction. The problems with eating sugary food are legion:

1. They do not fill you up. Then you wonder why an hour later you are up, wandering in front of the fucking cupboards again, trying to figure out what else you want to eat.

2. Sugary foods start this reaction in me whereby all I want to consume for the rest of the day are other sugary foods. The thought of protein becomes disgusting to me, unless it comes in the form of frozen, sweetened dairy products. The really twisted part is that somehow, my brain chemistry has intertwined these sugary foods with comfort and peacefulness. Of course, the comfort and peace only last as long as I'm shoveling the carbs down my throat. It's really fucking ridiculous the tricks my brain and body pull on me, and while I'm aware of the absurdity of finding comfort in Cream of Wheat (deep and wide, deep and wide, there's a fountain of Cream of Wheat flowing deep and wide- Hallelujah!) the impulse to devour it is just so ridiculously strong. Same with iced cream. In fact, the recipe for Dominick's infantile happiness looks like this:

Milk+Sugar/Weed=Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!!

Thank God I haven't had access to weed lately.

3. They really fuck with your mind. Sugar-haze mindset is immediate. Then comes the crash. Two days ago, I took two fucking naps, all about an hour or two after eating hot sugary messes. Earlier in the day, my mom had asked me if I would mind cooking a simple pasta dish for dinner, which she loves eating. I said sure. Come cooking time, I was passed out, and in the process of dragging my ass into the kitchen, I could feel this absurd rage start to bubble within me. The whole time, my inner voice incredulously watched as I slammed pots around and cursed the water for not boiling fast enough. I cursed lack of white wine, moaned about the presence of chicken stock, bitched about the tongs I was using...nothing could make me happy. Of course, inside, I was shocked at my behavior, and laughing all the while, but it was only later that evening that I realized that I was acting like a crack whore. In this case, I was a sugar whore.

So, after hours and hours of reading Mad Organica's archives (check the links) I've decided that I absolutely must take more control over what goes into my body. Here's what I'm thinking:

1. I've sworn off sugar. I will now lightly sweeten with other products when absolutely necessary. Agave syrup, honey, brown rice syrup, whatever. Just no sugar.

2. No more corn syrup, either.

3. I will limit non-whole grains. Short-grain brown rice and whole wheat breads will replace their equivalents in my diet. As for the pasta thing- I'm having trouble with that one, because in my experience, whole wheat pasta is teh suck, but if I can find a better substitute, yay! If not, then I'll just limit how much pasta I eat anyway.

4. Of course, I'll be adding good stuff in order to replace all this shit. That will not be an issue for me, because I've always enjoyed whole foods anyway.

Big as this is, there's even bigger news in Poundpapi land. I'm pretty sure I'm about to become a vegetarian. I'm not yet ready to take the vegan plunge, but I am convinced that I can do vegetarianism easily. I know, this seems unlikely, as I come from the land of Buffalo wings, and my ancestry is that of the pork eaters, but really, I've eaten plenty of meat in my life, and I think I'm ready to let it go. While this is a part of the greater healthy diet plan, the main impetus for this decision is ethical. I've known about the shitty conditions forced upon animals for years now, and I can no longer be conscious and asleep at the same time, neither can I afford organic, local meat raised in humane conditions. (Technically, isn't it the fucked-up factory conditions that should be called 'humane'? I'm sure these animals knew how to live on their own before we bred all that shit out of them.) So I'm giving it up.

I do think I'll be able to source local, humane eggs and dairy products, so I do not plan on giving those up, as I know that a variety in protein sources will help me, at least in this transitional period. However, fish are also off the menu. (I just had a pang of regret as I realized that my beloved Japanese dashi will no longer be available to me. Oh well.)

Saturday will be the big finale to my meat eating career, as, unfortunately, wheels have been set in motion already for a lovely biryani dinner to be cooked for me by my Indian family friend. His lamb biryani is one of the most stellar dishes I've ever eaten, and I can't think of a better way to say so-long to meat and white rice.

I'll be interested to hear the reactions of the Puerto Ricans when I announce my new plans. I know my sister-in-law will be on board, because she already is very mindful of food choices. She's sworn off corn syrup herself recently. Also, since I started the whole chemo thing, folks in my family have been trying to to buy organic stuff more frequently, so this may not be too far out in left field for most of them.

Last night, as I lay in bed, I kind of mentally said goodbye to all the things I wouldn't be eating as a vegetarian. In general, my soul was at peace with the beef, chicken and fish, but pork products (suprising, I know) kept tugging at my heart. A single tear rolled down my face for bacon. Pernil caused my heart to skip a beat. Soppressata and her lovely sister prosciutto- we will miss your porky presence on arugula pizze. Also, I fear for my sanity at Christmas time when pasteles are made, but I'm hoping to create a vegan version by then.

Madness goes on at length about how her switch to veganism has deepened her clarity of mind, and while Maven hasn't been quite as vocal about that stuff to me (probably so she wouldn't come off as preachy to a lifelong meat eater) I'm sure she has plenty to add to this conversation. Anyway, that is the thing I'm looking forward to most. I'll be sure to update you all on any sugar/meat withdrawal I have. I just hope you don't see me on the news for holding up an iced cream truck.

Girl, I Just Got My Shoe Check!

2008-05-20T14:56:00.003-04:00

(Disclaimer: Your tender Poundpapi in no way encourages financial irresponsibility. Unless you're going to buy hot shoes.)

The title of this post is timely, as many of us will be (or have already) received our economic stimulus checks in the mail. Furthermore, my friends at Opera Theatre of St. Louis have reported that their food stipend checks have also arrived at the beginning of the season, as always.

Oh- I'm sorry, did I call it a food stipend check? Silly me. Everyone knows that it's a plain ol' Shoe Check. The fact that we were some hungry, destitute bitches by the end of the season mattered not when we were beautifully shod. (I'm exaggerating here. This company's food stipend for apprentices was an uncommon thing, in my experience. They paid us well enough to eat regardless, so this check was a tender bonus, to be used wisely, or shoe-ly. Guess which I picked.)

Anywayz, my first summer at St. Louis, the girlz and I were out shopping at the lovely mall in Clayton, and we just so happened to wander into a shoe store sporting a huge "Going Out of Business" sign over the entry. Time to get busy, bitches.

In actuality, I was not really planning on buying anything on this shopping trip, but then I saw these hot pumps. Let me rationalize this ridiculous purchase to you, much as I rationalized to myself, with Damien and Aaron as my backup singers:

1. It was finna be my birthday. Three or four weeks, but still, tempus fugit.
2. I had a shoe check! (A partial shoe check.)
3. The pumps were muthafuckin fierce. At least as fierce as this. (Make sure to watch the whole video!)
4. I needed some black pumps.
5. I talked the salesman down from ca. $500 to $200.
6. They were the last pair, and in my size!

Bet. I was getting ready to hook the shits up, but I needed to try them on one last time, just to make sure that it was going to be worth emptying my bank account. As I modeled in front of a full-length mirror, a random middle-aged black woman sitting behind me made her presence known.

Woman: "Yeah, they look good and all, but what I need to know is: can you walk in them?"
Me: "Sashay, chantay, bitch." (cues Supermodel, proceeds to fuck up the whole catwalk)
Woman:"Aight, den."

I worked them boots like I was about to get voted off ANTM. I almost bit it on that shiny, smooth floor as the new, baby human leather soles had yet to be scuffed by mortal folly. Still, I was triumphant, and slapped the credit card down on the counter. You can bet I wore them bitches right out the damn mall.

Of course, while the uppers of these pumps were made of the tenderest leather available to their Italian craftsmen, the combination of hard sole with that nice, tall heel makes for a less-than-orthopedically-correct walking/dancing/sashaying experience. In fact, my big toe still goes numb when I wear those boots too often. Believe me, my big toes have spent a lot of time in the last two years in a state of numbness, but the heels are hot, plus, I love getting my money's worth out of expensive shit like that. If we estimate about 600 days since I purchased them bad boys, I'd say that I've worn them about 200 times, and when I wear them, it's usually an all-day event. They are trusty, no doubt. They are also crusty, and for that, I intend to find someone to repair and restore them.

However, the purpose of this entry is not to rehash a story many of you have heard already from mine own lips. In response to pieces written in the NYT and on mavenhaven, I've decided that while I have no intention of not wearing hot pumpz, I can certainly devote more time to foot healthy activities, yes? That includes as much barefoot walking as possible, given my reluctance to actually appear barefoot in the general public. Since we are a no-shoes household to begin with, I thought that I'd go a step further (ki ki) and hop on the treadmill barefoot, and see how my feet handle it. After a forty minute walk, I have to say I've never enjoyed walking on a treadmill more! My wide feet freed from the unkind clamp of running shoes, I noticed that my somewhat flat feet began to regain more of an arch and my alignment and stride seemed much more natural. Last, my feet, ankles and legs got a workout, but in different muscles, and without a hint of the strain that would sometimes accompany my walking/jogging stints on the machine.

So, there you go. I'll be sure to report more on this experiment. I also intend on tracking down a pair of Nike Frees for when I feel like venturing in a barefoot-ish manner outside the confines of my home. Hopefully this stuff will make up for those nights when I just have to put my heels on.

SHUT THEE HELL UP!!!!!

2008-05-15T13:33:00.002-04:00

For those of you who missed Keith Olbermann's reaction to Pres. Bush's claim that he gave up golfing in honor of the soldiers killed in Iraq, go here. You may and will thank me later, as it is an enthralling editorial.

Elaborations and Grab Bags.

2008-05-14T17:18:00.003-04:00

Clearly my doctoral thesis is completed, as I have nothing better to do other than update my blog for youse. In this case, I'm even more pathetic than usual, because I'll use at least part of the entry to elaborate on something I referred to in an older post on PR etiquette. I think the shit is hilarious, if only because I experience first-hand all the fucking time. For those of you too lazy to click on the link to the Wikipedia article on Latin American etiquette, here is the text of the portion applicable to Puerto Ricans. My comments will appear in italics.

Puerto Rico

Remember that Puerto Rico is politically part of the United States and Puerto Rican people people frequently travel back and forth from the island to such cities as Boston and New York and have for generations. As such, most rules of etiquette in the United States are applicable here as well.
Among Puerto Ricans, conversations are usually very interactive and full of interruptions. Interruptions mean interest in the subject discussed; (this is a generous way of looking at it) silence denotes disinterest rather than paying close attention. (god forbid anyone actually listen thoughtfully) If you're talking to someone else and a third person joins you, you are expected to stop what you're saying and acknowledge the newcomer.
Watching television is a very social activity. Asking for quiet is typically both unreasonable and impolite. (They fucking hit the nail on the head here. I wonder if PRs would consider it rude if I asked them to "shut the fuck up, I'm watching "The Office"?)
People's hygiene habits are scrutinized, especially in the tropical climate of Puerto Rico itself. People are expected to take one or more baths or showers daily. Body odor, unshaven legs and underarms in women, bare feet, or wrinkled clothing are considered disgusting. Many men wear cologne. (This is so funny because it's true. If you don't come correct, we will talk lots of shit about how dirty you are. Hilarity. Puritanical hilarity, even.)
Salsa, merengue and even reggaetón may seem like "sexy dancing", but there are unspoken rules. It is rude for a man to dance too close to a woman who is not his wife or girlfriend, even if others seem to be doing it.
It is considered vulgar and ostentatious to open gifts in public. Gifts are never opened in front of a group of people to avoid people comparing the merits of different gifts. (Never knew about this one.)
Women in Puerto Rico are very independent and many of them dislike to feel patronized or bound to traditional roles. While talking to a woman in informal situations avoid calling them "señorita" (miss) or "señora" (mrs), as they could interpret those titles as 'inexperienced'/'ignorant' or 'old'. (Yes. If you want to be respectful, always refer to women as 'mami' or any variation thereof.)

I spent this morning making little progress in my hunt for a thesis topic in the most pleasant manner. I brought out the old hammock and strung it up between the garage and maple tree in the backyard. The sun was out, but not overbearing, and the birds were chirping. I settled my pajama-clad ass in that hammock for several hours while I read the chapter on Verdi in Masters of Italian Opera. I totally just made that name up, but it's something like that. In between mini-chapters, I watched sparrows and orioles hop through the long grass in search of bugs to eat. The combination of long grass with my proximity to the ground made for a cute spectacle: little bird heads would pop out of the green expanse as if attached to a hopping bunny bodies.

Also in Today's Grab Bag: did y'all see yesterday's Oprah? It was about regression therapy, and they showed video clips of the audience and other folks undergoing sessions. It was very interesting and though provoking, I think. Personally, I either have very little psychic ability, or I'm just too obtuse to recognize connections when they appear. For that reason, I've not given much though to whether I've inhabited other bodies in lives past. Still, I'm not one to rule out these possibilities, considering that quantum physics has assured us that just about anything is possible.

Speaking of Quantum Physics, let's move on to another item in Today's Grab Bag: I'm currently reading three too many books, one of which is called "The Fabric of the Cosmos". (Reminds me of the Fabric of Hate.) Anywayz, this book is by Brian Greene, author of "The Elegant Universe," a book and PBS series which I'm sure may of you have experienced. For those of you inexperienced with either of these books, or with physics in general, it can all be summed up like this: reality as we know it does not even begin to approach what really goes on in the universe. Furthermore, you'll have to abandon just about everything you know to be true in order to even sort of kind of understand all the information quantum physicists and string theorists have learned. (I think Greene admits somewhere that even quantum physicists don't really understand quantum physics totally because it's so far out that it's nearly impossible to truly understand.)

I find this type of stuff enthralling, although it's kind of frustrating and scary at the same time. Frustration comes in when I think that no matter how hard I try, no matter how many paradigm shifts I have, it is highly unlikely that I'll ever truly 'see' the world/universe for what it really is/may be/could be. (Probability is a huge component of QP.) The scary part of this all is what if I do just happen to be the one in a trillion person who happens to see between the cracks of reality, and get fucked up in the process? Like, what if my molecules just so happened to line up with the gaps between the molecules of this couch that I'm sitting on, and I get stuck in the couch and vice versa? That would be some crazy LSD-type shit, and I really, really, really am over that shit, not that I ever tried hallucinogenic drugs.

Last in Today's Grab Bag, I bought a New Yorker a few weeks ago to accompany me on my trip through the Great Midwest, and there was a story on Bengal tigers inside. The story wasn't that interesting to me, except for a short anecdote near the beginning, where this man, who lived in tiger territory, was walking near the jungle with a group of others. As they were walking along, this man was ambushed by a tiger. As the tiger grabbed the guy with its paws, the man, realizing he was powerless, embraced the tiger. Immediately, the tiger dropped him, unharmed, and went after another guy in the group, who was carried off into the jungle where he was killed. Crazy ass story, huh?

"Oooh girl, your breaf is harrrrrsh,

2008-05-13T21:30:00.001-04:00

Cover your mouth up like you got SARRRS!!!"- K. West, via Kermit the Frog

Did you know that there is a huge community of amateur Kermit the Frog puppeteers on YouTube? I'm beginning to think that YouTube is basically a microcosm of the innertubes themselves- you could probably find a video about anything.

As for the above quote, it comes from a video of Kermit lip-synching (che tragedia, I know) to Kanye's "New Workout Plan". Even without the Il Kermie, the line makes me crack up because of the serious diction Kaney employs in his ongoing quest for word-painting supremacy.1 Still, the addition of puppets is a surefire way to make most things even better, IMHO.

Please enjoy this video, a Kermie cover of the NIN song "Hurt". Laughing and crying all in one green bundle.

Twoferyomamma

2008-05-11T18:14:00.003-04:00

Umm...I know it's highly unusual for me to do two posts in one day. It's because youse are not ready for my jelly. Still, I was just wasting time on the net, and googled myself. On the first page, I found these.

Thanks to whosoever made them.

Happy Mother's Day

2008-05-11T10:17:00.002-04:00

How about a link to great movie shorts about insect reproduction- recreated by Isabella Rosselini?

http://www.sundancechannel.com/greenporno

Amazing.

Also, there's a great update on the oft-neglected Beyoncitis which is well worth your time. Make sure to read some of the comments for a Beyoncé-esque version of MadLibs.

Follow the trail o' pork

2008-05-09T16:01:00.002-04:00

Hey-

This afternoon, I was treated to a performance at Twelve Corners Middle School of Fractured Fairytales. For those of you who do not have nieces that participate in these sorts of things, it's basically a staged, contemporary re-telling of a fairy tale. There were six performances, and they were hilarious. Lots of references to contemporary technology, Starbucks, Napolean Dynamite, etc. Also, there was a lot of cross dressing: clearly none of the girls felt like playing wicked stepmothers and witches.

There were two Rapunzel retellings, both awesome. In the first, Rapunzel's hair was actually extensions. Perfect. In the second, it wasn't her hair that was long, but her eyelashes. When she later fell into a shallow ditch, her friends tried to help pull her out by her eyelashes. It wasn't until hours later than "The Voice of Reason" spoke to Rapunzel, letting her know that she was perfectly capable of climbing out of the ditch herself, which she then did. Amazing.

Still, my favorite Fractured Fairytale was the retelling of Hansel and Gretel that started the whole production off. In this retelling, Gretel was an insatiable beast. When the children learned that a girl was lost in the woods near their house, they set off to find her, leaving a trail of pork chop tidbits to mark the way home. Unfortunately, as Hansel drops the pork choplings, Gretel follows behind, gobbling them up. When they finally reach the witch's house, they find that it is made of bologna, not candy, and Gretel wastes no time getting to business. She gets so caught up in her porky rapture that when the witch arrives, Gretel attacks and eats her too, mistaking her for a talking ham.

The funny thing about this all is that Brighton is a very, very Jewish suburb (Anna and Aaron are thinking of moving here, I think) and Twelve Corners Middle School is a school with a large Jewish population- the kids get all the Jewish holidays off from school. I was not expecting so much pork-talk this afternoon, and even more surprising, my Puerto Rican niece was in no way involved with this fractured fairytale.

Anyway, I don't have pics of the pork for y'all, but I do want to share some really cute pics of the chirruns:

Here's the pics

2008-05-08T10:56:00.002-04:00

Youse-

In the last post, I promised some flickr account action. Since I have yet to get my flickr uploading desktop software functioning properly, please enjoy these old school pics until I upload more recent stuff.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/poundpapi/

Also, I've added a slideshow to my sideshow. Good shit.

Enjoy, bitches.

Damn, son!

2008-05-07T13:09:00.007-04:00

Youse,

It's been so long since my last post, and I know that I have a lot of updating to do. Of course, this task may seem unnecessary to most of youse as the reason for my absence was that I was in your presence. However, the next few posts will at least allow me to share some tender photos.

For those not in the know, I was in Austin enjoying Matt and Emily's marriage (another post) and then I was in Minneapolis enjoying those wahoos and singing (yet another post). What this post is about is my return home. Backwards, yes, I know.

Still, it's hard not to want to write immediately about the paradise I encountered when I returned to Rochester. Granted, my stay in still cold and brown Minneapolis helped draw the experience of landing in lush, green spring-y Central New York into sharper contrast, but by any measure, things here are quite beautiful. (That is, if you don't have allergies. This morning while lotioning my body (an activity that strikes me as very Mariah Carey-esque) I witnessed smoke-like plumes of yellow pollen wafting away from the huge pine tree in my backyard. Fortunately, I have yet to experience the pain of allergies.)

Rochester, New York also calls itself the Flower City, as opposed to Minneapolis's nickname, the Flour City. I think part of the reasoning is the Lilac Festival, which is soon to commence. The Lilac Festival takes place in Highland Park, which is a large park on a large hill in South Rochester. In addition to the huge trees and bulb gardens strewn across the hills and gullies, there are copious amounts of lilac bushes- something my nose detected as I drove past the park on my way to Gay Coffee Shop. Of course, the scent o' lilacs will be masked once the Festival begins in earnest, as I saw the food vendors setting up their deep frying trailers in preparation for the hungry hordes this weekend.

Anywayze, even though my mailing address is Rochesterian, I live in a first-ring suburb named Brighton. Brighton's nickname is the Tree City/Village/Suburb. I actually meant to post pics in the autumn after one of my walks turned up a wealth of huge, beautiful trees in full fall colors, but you know how I do. Or in this case, you know how I don't. Well, as I've never been in Brighton during the Spring bloom, I've been constantly impressed with the quality of bloom we're getting in the tree city. It seems that everyone in the neighborhood has not only huge oaks and sycamores (my faves) but also cherry trees, dogwoods, redbuds and the like. Here is a picture of my cute lickle house, with the redbud on the left and the dogwood on the right:

Knowest thou the redbud? It's a great tree, although it would be even more amazing if its blooms were perfume-y. That said, the fact that the blooms closely follow and do not obscure the structure of the beautiful branches make it quite handsome, as if it belonged in a Japanese print. Also, this tree is hilarious to me because the blossoms just don't give a fuck. The will sprout directly from the trunk itself. Here is proof:

One last look at the wonderful redbud's canopy:

I have so many other pictures to share, but I will just go ahead and load them up to my flickr account so that youse can truly enjoy the bounty of my back (yard). One last parting shot. I was trying to get a close-up of a dogwood blossom when I spotted a slender bee on one of the petals. I tried shooing it away, but it stayed on the petal, inanimate. In the picture you'll see the reason why:

Sorry, Wendell. Don't mean to step to you on this subject matter. It won't happen again. Please don't send the vultures.

I'm Lookin at the Man in the Mirror

2008-04-14T23:10:00.002-04:00

Yo, the freakiest thing just happened to me. I was just finishing up some homework in the bathroom, and as I was washing my hands afterward, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. That wasn't the weird thing....oh wait, it was.

Have you ever looked in the mirror and not recognized yourself? I don't mean in some metaphoric, soul-searching, Michael Jackson kind of way. I mean in a concrete, physical, Michael Jackson kind of way. I see a kind of resemblance to the person that I was, but what I saw tonight is not an easily recognizable face from my catalogue. I look like a long-lost brother, or something.

It's understandable, I must say. Within the last two months, I've gone bald, got new glasses and most recently, attached a goatee. I think the cumulative effect of all these small changes just seemed hit me tonight. Strangely, this is not the first mirror gazing I've done today, thanks to the Armani Exchange sunglasses I copped at Marshall's that needed modeling. Furthermore, I've been through various phases of hair, goatee-ism and visual aid, so I think there's something special about this new image. I'll wait till I get to see the Tejanos and Minnesotanos- y'all will tell me whether you recognize me or not.

I can't stop laughing to myself about the whole situation, to be honest, both because it's silly as hell to not recognize yourself in a mirror- and it's also kind of magical. Let's say, for instance that this different face I see is in fact different- what kind of ramifications would that have? I guess for a lot of people it would be problematic, but to be honest, I think as long as the face is an upgrade, why the hell not? Or have I always had some type of facial dysmorphia? Who knows (how to spell dysmorphia)?

Anyway, I just connected some deeper dots here that probably needed absolutely no connection, except for in my crazy head, but this is my blog and I'll do what I want. What I want is to tell you that I've jumped on the Oprah/A New Earth bandwagon. Yup. I'm coming out, a la Diana Ross, who as we all know is Michael Jackson's alter-ego. (Fellow bloggers- don't you just love when an totally random idea, like Michael Jackson, becomes a handy, spontaneous theme in an entry?)

Back to A New Earth. I'm a sucker for religious/spiritual stuff, and so I picked this thing up a couple of weeks ago. It's basically a distillation of a lot of universal wisdom, which is nice, and very user-friendly, I find. The points in the book that are germane to this post are the author's ideas that our identification with the physical world around us separates us from our true being, which is Consciousness. Detachment from the 'ego' (all the labels and conditioning we carry with us) is possible through experiencing the present moment, which requires letting go of the past and future. Through detachment, one is able to objectively and fairly experience the material world without identifying with it and the suffering therein. Good stuff no? It's like Zen for those of us who can't devote our entire lives to living in the monastery, and I don't mean that in a derogatory way. I really dig the way this guy explains experiences and intuitions that I and I'm sure you all have had.

So I'm sitting in bed, practicing Presence, and feeling good, and it was only after that practice when I looked different to myself in the mirror. In just 5 minutes of practice, I was able to detach myself from the image I had created of myself, and WALAH! I'm a new person. Now you see why I'm laughing.

So, the point of this story is to let all y'all know that I'm officially enlightened. Feel free to touch the hem of my robe (bata in Spanish) as I pass by on the way to and/or from the morning shower. Also, let's have a celebration in celebration of my enlightenment. (Did I really just do that with 'celebration'? Sometimes I really deserve a fucking Nobel.)

More PR Knowledge

2008-04-11T21:55:00.002-04:00

You may wonder, "Why all the posts about Puertorriqueño-ness lately?" and I'll tell you why: I'm surrounded by them. And by them, I mean us.

First, a quick story:

When I first acquired friends unacquainted with the dulcet tones of a thick Puerto Rican accent, I was shocked to hear that they found my mom's accent to be cute. "What accent?" I thought. Clearly context was everything in this situation, and for whatever reason, my brain never thought to consider my mom's speech accented, even though I was privy to, and even spoke accent-free English myself. I think this was the linguistic equivalent of me thinking that we weren't that poor when living in the projects. Interesting phenomenon, or whatever you'd call it. I learned about the poor thing when I was about eight or nine years old, but the accent illusion stayed with me until high school. No one ever pointed it out to me until then!

Well, after years of living away from the family (and boricuas in general) coming back into constant PR contact has been something of a culture shock. I didn't recognize the issue for what it was at first- I'm not always the quickest to connect my emotional/psychological dots. Still, I knew that there was annoying shit going on during what passes for conversation in this family: constant interruption and unwanted advice in unfailingly loud voices. (Of course, those of you who know me in the flesh might correctly say that I was only describing myself here. I'll touch more on my role in all of this, maybe in a later post, but because my boricua-ness has been diluted through the immigrant experience, I'm practically Ms. Manners compared to some of my relatives. Scary, I know. The relatives I refer to here are my parents and their siblings/cohorts.)

Well, thank God for Wikipedia, because it connected the dots for me, and... it turns out that Puerto Ricans are just that way. I'm not being sarcastic. I guess in some cultural contexts, interruption is an acceptable conversational technique. It's hard to accept, I know, but the proof is in the pudding. (BTW, I wandered onto that page after reading about Japanese culture in one of my frequent Wiki crack binges- I didn't consult the Great Wiki for a solution for my PR problem.) Of course, painting an entire culture with such a broad etiquette brush could be a mistake, but in my family's case, there is no denying it. Of course, my siblings and I are merely watered-down versions of the originals, and considering my long stays in the land of MN nice, I've lost some of my edge.

So the conflict is this: it's one thing to deal with an overbearing, loud, figuratively deaf mother yourself, but how do you remain calm when witnessing the verbal assault on an unsuspecting non-PR with no access to Wikipedia? Back when I still had The Chest Tube, a home care nurse would come once or twice a week to TCOB, and if it was one of the cool, non-filthy ones, we'd shoot the shit- a pleasant volley of ideas and information, until my mom took over:

Mom: SO DO YOU KNOW OF ANY GOOD ITALIAN SHOPS AROUND HERE?

Nurse: Oh yeah, the one I shop at is called Lombardo's, and it's over near where the...

Mom: OH, BECAUSE I GO TO THIS ONE RIGHT OVER HERE, IT'S ON WINTON...OH SHOOKS (this is a common mom-ism)...WHAT'S IT CALLED...IT'S RIGHT OVER THERE ON WINTON....YOU KNOW IT'S ON WINTON....RIGHT OVER THERE....WHAT'S THE NAME....

Nurse either doesn't know the name, or is momentarily stunned by the high decibel interruption. Is it the rudeness or the loudness? We'll never know. She snaps out of it.

Nurse: Oh, are you thinking of Pontillo's?

Mom: IT'S RIGHT OVER THERE ON WINTON, YOU KNOW, RIGHT NEAR THE CREDIT UNION, AND THEY HAVE A GREAT FISH FRY AND DIFFERENT DESSERTS, IT'S IN A STRIP MALL...

Nurse: Yup- that's Pontillo's for sure!

Mom: YOU KNOW- RIGHT AFTER YOU PASS JEFFERSON, ON THE LEFT THERE'S THAT CREDIT UNION, YOU KNOW, ON WINTON, AND THEN THERE'S THAT STRIP MALL, AND IT'S A LITTLE ITALIAN GROCERY SHOP AND DELI, THEY HAVE FISH FRIES AND CANNOLIS AND STUFF LIKE THAT...

Nurse: Yeah- that's Pontillo's.

Mom:OH YES! PONTILLO'S! THAT'S THE NAME- I KNEW IT WAS SOMETHING LIKE THAT- YOU KNOW, AN ITALIAN NAME LIKE THAT- THEY HAVE A GREAT FISH FRY AND OTHER PASTRIES THAT YOU CAN TRY, YOU KNOW, IF YOU WANTED SOMETHING SWEET- YOU KNOW I DON'T ALWAYS WANT DESSERT, BUT SOMETIMES AFTER A FISH FRY YOU REALLY NEED A LITTLE PASTRY- THEY HAVE THEM THERE, AND THEY ARE REALLY GOOD.

Nurse: Pontillo's is nice, but I think Lombardo's is better bec...

Mom: OH, SEE, I GO TO PONTILLO'S

Nurse: Yeah, Lombardo's is bet...

Mom: PONTILLO'S IS GREAT.

Nurse: ...ter because their not...

Mom: THEIR FISH FRY IS SO GOOD!

Nurse:...as expen...

Mom: THEY'RE RIGHT OVER THERE ON WINTON.

Nurse:...sive.

Mom: SOMETIMES I NEED A LITTLE SOMETHING SWEET, YOU KNOW? AFTER A FISH FRY...SO DO YOU THINK I SHOULD CHECK OUT THAT OTHER PLACE? WHAT'S IT CALLED?

Nurse: Lombardo's? (a single tear rolls down her cheek) Yes- they're bigger, and they' don't charge as much.

Mom: OH WOW! WE'RE GOING TO HAVE TO GO THERE, DOMINICK! PONTILLO'S WAS NICE, BUT IT DID SEEM KIND OF PRICEY, SO MAYBE WE'LL CHECK OUT THAT OTHER PLACE.

And so on....

This could actually serve as a template for many of my mom's conversations:

Mom: Do you know ABC?
Person: Actually, I do. Let me tell you abou...
Mom: Oh, because I know XYZ. XYZ is amazing- let me foil any attempt you make to tell me about ABC, so that I can tell you what I know about XYZ, but then, at the end of our conversation, I'll need you to recap your ABC information, because I won't have heard a single word you've said this entire time, okay?
Person: Fuck.

I really should write a play, dontcha think?

I have a feeling that Lerla may be the only reader here experienced in the natural force that is CUCA, so I'll leave it to her to either corroborate or deny my perspective, or better yet, loudly offer her own perspective while ignoring mine.

Needless to say, it's been great being home, and I can't be grateful enough to the fam and my mom in particular, but I need to move out! As that move won't be happening for quite a while, this trip I'm taking to Texas and Minny will have to suffice. I can't imagine that I won't come back ready for more Cucabarrages. In related news, MN, could you please get your weather together? Am I really going to have to pack two separate wardrobes for this trip? Wack.

Holler, bitches.

Jengueando!

2008-03-30T14:28:00.002-04:00

Buenos Dias, chirrens.

I'm posting on the road! Amazing that wireless access has made it to the hinterland that is Buffalo, NY, I know, but I'm sitting here in a cafe, drinking a macchiato and writing to youse. Yes, youse. I think today will be a random list, my favorite form of posting!

1. Bioletta is in town, singing a gig with the local orchestra. She reminds me, as do you all, that I have been fortunate enough to meet great people everywhere I've ever gone in my life. Okay, actually, Rochester has so far proven me wrong, but that's more a function of my hermitude, non? (No- not that kind of hermitude!)

2. Whenever I hang with either Bioletta, or Lerla, we get to having fun with Spanish accents and words. When you mix the three of us together, it becomes a hot latin mess. Let me give you a short list of English words that have been appropriated into PR Spanish, with great comedic effect, I think:
- el pleigroun
- el wikén
- lonche (turn this into a verb, you say? OK- lonchear)
- un sandwich (better heard than seen, better eaten than heard, but only by a little bit)
- jenguear/jengueando (if you can decipher this, you get ethcra bonus points. Think That 70s Show. Please submit all entries to the comments section.)

3. While I'm making lists of PR fun shit, here are some nicknames of PRs that I've known:
- Wampa
- Choo-Choo
- Memo
- Wi
- Lole (short for Dolores, and a good nickname I think)
- Turkey (he was half Mexican, though, so I'm not sure if this counts)
- Sibiliqui (this were the syllables she uttered when speaking tongues- I'm dead serious)

4. Last night after the great performance, Bioletta was accosted by a drunken mess of a fan/board member. This lady felt like unloading what was years of personal baggage onto poor Bioletta's lap when clearly priority #1 was getting our grub on. Friggin Stans!

5. My boots are amazing, and still messing up my shins, but less so. If I do say so myself, the entire effect is quite thrilling.

Alright- that's it for now, but we'll be sure to catch up soon. Here's to new boots for all!

I've Got a New Attitude

2008-03-25T19:11:00.004-04:00

Actually, it's more like, "I've got a new pair o'boots!" Ladies and gaydies (and you too, Todd) I happened upon a slammin pair o'boots last night at Marshall's. I know this may cast some shade on my alleged 'gayness,' but I've bought neither clothes nor shoes in what seems like ages. In fact, the last pair of shoes I bought were these cute, cheap sneakers (again at Marshall's) over a year ago in Vagingy. The pent-up shopping frustration combined with my upcoming appearance (in the audience) at Bioletta's Mahlerian Fantasy on Friday exploded into a $65 shopping spree (boots + a cute top). Thank Zoroaster I live right near a Marshall's with a Men's shoe department.

Because I've been so out of the loop in every way for at least six months, I knew I had to do some preliminary research into the fashions those young people are wearing nowadays. Shoes were my first priority (you can't take that from me, cancer) thus, I've been doing some of what we PRs call 'browsing' on the interweb. Zappo's, in particular. While it truly feels like lightyears have passed since I've been fashion aware, I was both pleased and disappointed to find out that not that much has changed since last I checked. Fortunately, men's shoe fashions are far enough behind women's that my current collection was spared from going into the trash-can bonfire I had prepared in the backyard. However, I was hoping to get on some next level shit. These are slightly grotesque and cheap, but they filled my hole for some reason. I think I've started to become interested in fashion that has just enough funk/ugly/nastiness to keep you looking at it over and over again. There are even more grotesque examples- a lot of boots with a silhouette
reminiscent of 18th century shit- high heels and such. Fun- but I don't think I'm quite funky enough to pull those off. If I were Prince, though...

Anyway, I found these great Kenneth Cole zip-ups in black for $40!!! They are sexy, and on top of that, they are slaying my shins! They are rock hard and not fuckin around, but it's all good because you know I'm down for sacrificing to look sexy. (Of course, looking sexy would necessitate me figuring out how to walk in them. Walking down stairs is a particularly funny-looking and painful challenge, but I promise by the time Friday rolls around, I'm going to be all good. Mark my words, chirrens.)

Now that we've waded through the shallows, let's talk about my other non-boot New Attitude- I'm trying to become patient in my familial dealings. Since I've got such a huge family, I'm working in small chunks for now. Many of you know at least a little about my nephew Pappy. Pappy is eight years old (what a good year that was for me) and he is developmentally delayed by a couple of years. He also happens to be one of the bright shining things in my life, and has been since he was a baby. When I'd hold him in my arms, if he was awake, he was all big eyes, smiles and giggles. When asleep, he had this quirky and endearing habit of turning and burying his entire face into my crelbow, as if he couldn't get enough of being held. Pappy loved to love, and he hasn't changed much- he's still a good-natured love lover.

Anyway, because my brother and sister-in-law's schedules are so crazy, they needed help with the kids after school. I happened to be free, and whoomp! there it is. So, for this academic year, I've been playing tutor/snack/giver/fun uncle (funcle)/disciplinarian/etc., and I've learned a lot through my dealings with both kids. Pappy seems to have an extraordinary amount to teach me (read: it's tricky dealing with this kid).

The big theme in our relationship seems to be that balancing expectations and discipline with love and acceptance in your relationships is as difficult as it is important. The fact that Pappy has trouble learning, understanding and retaining the everyday concepts that are critical to becoming a functioning/independent adult fills me with dread/terror/worry/etc., as I know it does everyone else in the family. (I'm scared to even imagine how his parents must worry.) Who will take care of him when we're not around anymore?

Of course, our worrying does no good- but it does add a sense of urgency to our after-school homework/tutoring sessions. I don't even know if 'urgency' is a strong enough word, but y'all smell me, I'm sure. Some things stick- he's really pretty good at telling time on an analogue clock now, and he's actually able to make it through some children's books without stopping to figure out how to say each and every word. Place values? You might as well shoot me in the head. That pretty much complicates any math concepts that involve more than single digits.

I'm trying to remember back to first or second grade, to when we learned about place values, and to be honest, I don't think I ever questioned their purpose or how they functioned- I just accepted that it was something that I had to learn, and WALAH! (That was for you, Maven's Daddy.) If ayone has ideas on how to explain the purpose of place values to an eight year old with limited abilities in the abstract thought and focus departments, I'm all ears, plus, I'll send you a bag of Doritos if it works- but not a Big Grab- just one of the 25 cent ones.

We've also had some issues in the whole social interaction and manners department. Pappy is very compulsive. (I just had to look up the difference between impulsive and compulsive, lollerskates.) He's prone to grabbing without asking, eating like a monster, etc. Of course, these habits become themes in our never-ending Education of Pappy, along with place values and decoding the non-system of English pronunciation.

Of late, I think I've allowed the urgency/worry part of my feelings toward Pappy too much room in our relationship. Two days ago we were eating an after-school snack of shitty clementines. Although he had a napkin spread out right in front of him for the leftover orange parts, Pappy completely ignored the napkin and was leaving orange bits everywhere on the table. The napkin remained pristine and unmolested.

I don't remember why I was so impatient that particular minute, but I slammed my hand on the table and yelled at Pappy, "PUT THE ORANGE ON THE NAPKIN!" This is by no means the first time Pappy has been yelled at- he's constantly getting in trouble for this or that, and as I'll explain in another blog entry, PRs are yellers to begin with. This time was different, though. Usually he's so much in his own world that it takes three or four or five or six repetitions to catch his attention, regardless of volume. (I wish I were exaggerating.) Not this time. He was startled- I think most by the slap on the table- and he quickly gathered the scattered orange peel and half-chewed segments onto the napkin, the shock on his face transforming my anger into sadness.

If I'm so worried about how the rest of the world is going to treat this kid when he's older, why would I ever treat him this way now? Am I going to forget that maybe my most important job is to love and appreciate him for who he is right now? It's amazing how many thoughts you can experience in a split second.

That's not the end of my education for the day, though.

One reason why Pappy is a bright, shiny spot in my life is that he doesn't really hold onto things for very long. While I was just bitching about this in regard to his academic ability, in the interpersonal realm, it is beautiful and refreshing. He is a forgiving person. Consider that my family is full of people who know how to hold an AquaNet strength grudge. Maybe Pappy is part of our familial Karma, and also part of the path toward becoming love-lier people. In a sense, we each are exactly that, no? After telling him that I was sorry for raising my voice, I could sense him shake it off, and knowing he was over it made me feel better. We quickly resumed our usual snack-time goofing off.

One last note in the education of Dom: I'm not sure if I could ever handle the pressure of raising children. Just thinking about all the seemingly insignificant things one could do that might result in psychological complexes down the road was enough to turn me gay. (Yes, the truth comes out, finally- it was the kids, not the boots.)

Our Love is an Open Door

2008-03-21T21:39:00.002-04:00

The title of this post comes from this wonderful freestyle song on the Sirius cable service right now: If You Leave Me Now by Jaya. For those of you in Minnesota and other non-PR having states, freestyle is a particularly complex genre of music for me to discuss: a source of shame, guilty pleasure and disgust, all wrapped up in a silk shirt.

Before we discuss freestyle in any depth, let me give you a few examples of freestyle or freestyle-ish songs that you may recognize:

1. Let the Music Play by Shannon might be the most recognizable freestyle-ish song ever. Funny- I'm pretty sure Shannon was neither PR nor Italian, but somehow she got it right.

2. The Point of No Return by Expose- or was it The Cover Girls? So hard to keep these groups straight, except that Expose had a member named Gioia. Definitely Italian.

3. One particularly insidious and hateful freestyle song was Take Me in Your Arms by Lil Suzy. Where to begin? The spelling of 'Suzy'? Her hair? Her grill? The playground setting? Oh, it's just too damn good to pass up.

In short, the Wikipedia article Lerla and I consulted several months ago referred to freestyle as a genre of music enjoyed by PRs and Italians, featuring heavy synths and syncopated rhythms. The reason we had to look this up on Wikipedia in the first place was so that we could offer her man a sensible explanation for the atrocities he was experiencing as we pranced down memory lane via YouTube and iTunes. For Lerla and myself, our relationship with freestyle is like relationship between the Rev. Jeremiah Wright and Obama: we don't necessarily condone the message (although that is some ridiculous bullshit, and there's not enough time to discuss it here anyway) but we're not ready to denounce or reject it. In fact, we're prone to play it at parties at which other West Siders are in attendance, or when relaxing at home after a heavy Saturday brunch. It really works any time of day or night! It brings me back to gold chains, turtlenecks and high bangs. Actually- why do we play this shit?

Anyway, I must add that a ubiquitous stylistic feature of freestyle is out-of-tune singing. Whether or not that feature is due to cheap production values or cheap musical values, I'm not in a position to say. I suspect that it is a combination of both, but at this point, it would almost be un-freestyle-ish to make a freestyle song where the singing was in-tune and good. (Let the Music Play is partially exempt from this- not because the singing is incredibly in tune or good, but because that song is so good that I refuse to talk shit about it in any way, shape or form.) The out-of-tune singing is actually a feature of backup singers and horns in reggae, and is akin to slang words and incorrect spellings and constructs becoming legitimate in language. Something to celebrate or hate? You decide! (This really demands a musicological study- especially in reggae. Fuckin A- I can come up with paper topics for days unless it's a topic that would actually help me complete my own degree.)

August past, in celebrating my sister-in-law's 40th birthday, the DJ threw in a couple of freestyle sets to placate the 40-something PR crowd. It was shameful for many reasons. First of all, dancing to freestyle is an all-or-nothing proposition. On one end of the spectrum, you have the folks who know how to pull off the almost breakdancing-type moves that require alot of physical ability- something sorely lacking in a room full of 40-something drunk PRs. On the other end of the freestyle spectrum is the good old step-touch. How much step-touching can you realistically suffer before you want to bash your head into the cheap parquet dancefloor? To add insult to injury, the freestyle sets interrupted the salsa and merengue sets to which we were dancing so well. Oh well- step touch it was.

The best/worst part of the freestyle set was when my cousin Jessica's song came on. About ten or fifteen years ago, when freestyle had not yet completely died its necessary death, Jessica recorded a song or two, in the style of Lil Suzy. I don't mean that she wore an inappropriate black knit catsuit with a gold chain belt. I do mean that she sang that shit completely out of tune, may the Easter Bunny bless her loving heart. Jessica was in attendance at that party- lovely girl, really- and what made the whole thing really clutch was that when the DJ put the song on, those of us already on the dance floor had to remain there to show our support for Jessica, and those who were not on the dance floor had to either:

a) completely ignore the entire situation in a brazen fashion- something PRs are good at; or

b) get on the fucking dance floor and fucking dance to this damn song we've fucking danced to at every other fucking party that Jessica is at. (I exaggerate out of hate.)

Thank Easter Bunny the song was only eight minutes long- I don't know if I could have step-touched one second longer!

The last thing I thank Easter Bunny for is for playing that song on the TV. When I logged on, I knew I needed to update badly, but had no idea what to write about, and look- a wonderful entry on horrid/wonderful/shitty music. Just let the juices flow, yo.

In other quicknews: I finally am catheter free! Yesterday, the Russian Jew doctor (I could be making up the Jew part, but I'd be surprised with a name like Veniamin and such hair on the chest) who put that tube into my chest so many weeks ago removed it in a most unceremonious fashion. Unlike the insertion procedure, which involved x-ray machines, drugs, scalpels, and nurses, the removal was a quick, informal affair: he cut the stitches that held the tube in place, yanked it out, and held some pressure over my jugular so that I wouldn't bleed to death. This all took place in a glorified hallway. Ten minutes later I was on my way home. When he inserted the catheter so many weeks ago, he was very vocal about how well-endowed I was in the jugular region. While I complained about this previous ogling of my jugular in an email to BCSM, I have to admit that I did kind of miss the attention my juicy vein brought me the first time around. Oh well- I guess I'll have to find another redeeming feature to flaunt about town.

The significance of the catheter coming out is huge! Showers are now manageable, as I don't have to worry about getting the dressing wet. I can sleep and toss and turn without taking the catheter into account. I don't have to remember to flush the darn thing with blood thinners to prevent clotting. I don't have to worry about picking up an infection through the hole in my chest. I don't mean to disturb you all with the gory details- the point I'm trying to make is that these little victories are huge for me in my quest to feel like a normal person again. I won't be reminded daily that treatment wasn't really that long ago, and I won't feel like some weird Frankenstein with a tube in his chest when he goes to the gay coffeshop and wants to look cute for the menzeez. I should make it clear: I'm grateful, o Great Catheter, for what you did for me. You made treatment possible and blood draws painless. Now please kindly fuck off.

In otherother news, next weekend, I will travel to Buffalo where dearest Bioletta will be performing at Kleinhan's with the Buffalo Philharmonic. Bioletta is my homegrille, and I'm hoping to take her on a tour of the ghettoes where I grew up. I'll try to get her to the gig without getting shot, but I can't make any promises. Also, if the weather cooperates, a walk on the American side of Niagara Falls would be super clutch, and good for the spirits. The sound of rushing water on that scale does a great job of cleaning out the brain, no?

Last, but not least, Cuca made some amazing shrimp pastelillos tonight for dinner. I would have captured the whole process in pictures and posted to the food blog, but she made them before I had any idea of what was taking place! Too bad for you all- fortunately, Lerla was available to crush a few pastelillos, so you'll have to live vicariously through her.

Holla!

Pussycat, no!!!!!!!!!

2008-03-15T09:51:00.002-04:00

A pussy almost got smashed at the movies the other night.

I decided to go catch a free double feature at the Cinema Theater. The reason for the season was LGBT Health Week here in Rochester, and ImageOut- the local LGBT film festival decided to toss us a friggin bone in celebration.

I don't know about the theaters you go to, but the ones I go to do not have mascots. In this case, about twenty minutes into the first film, I felt a faint rub on my legs, and before I could give my phone number to the guy sitting two seats down, a kitty emerged from under my legs. Considering that I haven't been pregnant with kitties in ages, I dismissed the notion that I had just given birth, (chemo makes you sterile anyway) and figured that this cat must be the house kitty. Or some dirty alley cat. Either way, it was a chill animal.

Still, aside from the issues of health code, I wondered mostly about the pussy's own safety. There was no sign indicating the possible leg brushing opportunities, and if this theater hadn't been packed to the gills with gaydies and gentlelezzes, I could imagine some freaked-out patron thinking, "Holy shit, this theater's got huge rats!" and kicking the shit out of that poor kitty. As it stood, that kitty got plenty of gay love. In fact, I started to wonder if The Cinema Theater catered to a mostly gay clientele regardless of LGBT film week: a sign behind the criminally cheap snack stand read: NO, WE DO NOT HAVE FRESH MINT FOR YOUR LEMONADE OR ICED TEA. Yup, I think I was on to something. But damn, a nice minty lemonade (lmaonade) would have hit the damn spot! Another thing to add to the menu of my future movie-theater snack stand business.

One final word: why are LGBT films consistently so bad? Is there not a single gay filmmaker who can see past his self-pity? Does the humor always have to be of the '80s drag queen flavor? Does the geeky teen protagonist always get to kiss the hot, previously-straight jock at the end of the film? Anyway, in case any of y'all find yourself in the same theater with the movies "The Curiosity of Chance" or "Houseboy" run for the exits, and try not to step on any pussy on the way out.

In other news, as my story above illustrates, I've actually ventured into the outside world recently. I've run a few errands, wandered around Best Buy, and reacquainted myself with Wegman's. Good stuff! I still get absurdly tired after about a half-hour of activity, to the point where I have to plan in advance a suitable napping/crashing place, but it's nice not to be stuck in the house anymore. Next up on the menu? My doctor will consult the oracle that is yesterday's CT scans (wow, subject-verb agreement was tricky there, and I'm still not sure it's right) and divine the future for me.

Holla!

Italia Revisited

2008-03-08T09:22:00.012-05:00

Did I ever get to share pictures from my Italian adventure with y'alls? Considering that Rochester is drowning in snow today, and knowing that we're all itchy for warmer times, let's have a flashback to last summer.

Just to recap, I spent four weeks in a tiny town in Le Marches, then I went on a tour, stopping in Milano to visit La Oriani and her wonderful famiglia, then off to Ischia via horrible Napoli, and finally a handicapped visit to amazing Roma. Let's see some pics.

That view greeted me every morning when I opened the doors leading from my bedroom to the balcony. I don't mean to idealize my living conditions: the toilet was shit-caked and the ceilings were low with metal beams perfect for crushing yo' melon. Still, it's hard to be mad when this is your life's wallpaper. Those of you who have been through the Appenini know that nary a mountain goes by without some sort of fortress, castle, village, church, gelateria or hair salon perched on top in a most picturesque manner. This peak is no exception, though it's hard to tell from this pic. There is an old, abandoned fortress on top, accessible to those who brave the steep, often dangerous pseudo-path, and the wild-looking cows that graze on the hillside. While I never got it together to make the climb (I was in over-protective singing mode) apparently there is a short stretch where you have to make use of a rope to lift yourself up a particularly steep and precarious section. Fun! Let's break our neck on an isolated Italian mountain! (No, really, that shit sounds like fun.)

One last note about Novafeltria. I know in my emails I communicated the general attractiveness of Italians, but I just need to say one more time: it seems so highly improbable that so many hotties could exist in a town of just 6,000, but that's how it goes over there, I guess. The guy who made my daily macchiato looked like Nick Lachey's hotter, Italian brother. Plus he gave me pastries erry day. Score!

The picture above isn't stunning, but it does show what used to be a moat, where we had our final performance of Edgardo di Ravenswood, I mean, lucia di lammermoor. It was in this really cute town called Sant'Arcangelo di Romagna, and the crowd that came to see us was in the 1,000 to 2,000 range. Not bad, huh? Our conductor was this really fucked-up eater. Nevermind that his legendary uncle was also his musical mentor, employing him as pianist in coachings with all the golden-age singers. Nevermind that he whipped that lazy Italian orchestra into shape, and there was nary a problem ever hearing any of the singers. The dude knew his shit. Too bad he didn't have table manners. My first glimpse into his disorder was on my first night at the program. Tired and hongry, I dragged myself up to a decent restaurant, and was seated right next to the maestro's table, where we quickly introduced ourselves. "Nice enough guy," I thought, "but he sure is demolishing that plate of grilled fish. That poor, skinny Korean soprano sharing dinner with him couldn't get a chopstick in edgewise!" Whateverwhatever, no biggie, right? Homeboy was just hongry as fuck. But wait, I know he did NOT just start scraping the various crumbs of breading and focaccia left on the table in his Cookie-Monsterish wake into his gullet, without the tiniest hint of shame or remorse? Yes, he did. In fact, he did it while continuing to monopolize the conversation and looking people in the eye like he wished somebody would say something. Homeboy had that tablecloth looking clean and spontangling by the time he got through with it. Of course, out of respect, I tried not to notice too much, and just decided that it would be better if I could avoid eating with this man again.

Well, I tried to avoid trouble, but trouble done followed me. At our final performance in the moat (see pic above) we had limited backstage facilities. Basically, there was a tent set up behind the stage for Edgardo that he so graciously shared with the rest of the principals and the maestro. (The schlumps in the chorus had to hike across town to get into their rags, but this ain't about them.) Anyway, we took our intermission, as usual, after the Act II sextet, and retired to the tent to decompress and maybe have a couple of snacks. In my case, a snack consisted of an amazing Italian banana (they were friggin deliciouser there for some reason, even though they were imported from South America, just like ours) and a bite of Nutella crepe, equally delicious on both sides of the Atlantico. Well, in comes maestro, and this mug pulls out a 20 oz. Heinekin and a styrofoam take-out container with salsiccie (sausages) and a huge fucking roll. Well, the intermission wasn't going to be that long, so homie gets to work. There weren't many seats backstage, so he paced around the tent while alternately shoving sausage, bread and beer down his gullet. I knew he was asking for trouble, because he was talking to us the whole time- pieces of sausage being thrown our way like so many pieces of pork shrapnel; but even more so, he was asking for it because that roll looked dry and crumbly as hell, and it clearly needed more juice and mastication than he was willing to dedicate. Well, I was right, and about halfway through his punishing of the salsiccie, he started to choke on some bread. He turned a little red in the face, but was coughing, so there was no need to Heimlich, but that motherfucker then had the nerve to cough through the rest of that performance. That sausage sure took a beating, though, cause maestro didn't give a fuck if he was dying or not, he finished that plate up like a champ!

Anywayzzzzzzz....the morning after that performance, I packed my shit up early in the morning, got a buzzcut, and took the train to Milano. Unfortunately, I didn't take many good pictures while I was Milano, because I was too busy having a good time. The Orianis are great hosts, and in their lovely apartment, I found the first (and only) fully-functioning, beautiful Italian bathroom of the entire trip. Here is a cheezy pic of Giulia and I at Parco Sempione in the middle of Milan. In the second pic, you'll see this pond in the park, with the Castello Sforzesco in the background. A nice day, although I was beat up from the street up from lugging that damned 80 pound suitcase all over Italy with my hot boots on. You can't roll up to Milano with any old chanclas on, right?

After leaving Milano, I took a train all day long to Napoli. On the train ride, I taught this Italian kid how to play Solitaire- quite a triumph given my broken Italian skills. I also met four Muslim/Italian girls in hijab. I think they may have been first-generation Italians, as they spoke without an accent, but who knows? They were studying in Bologna, a city that will be on my itinerary when I return, and were a fun distraction until they disembarked in Firenze.

Anyway, they say it's always darkest before dawn, and let me tell you, my experience in Napoli and Ischia was some hateful darkness. Again, a good deal of that can be attributed to my 80-pound suitcase. I'll never do that again- fuck whoever wants me to bring a tuxado to Italy. The other hatefulness can be attributed to:

1. The lack of respect for personal space in Southern Italy. This was problematic for me on many fronts. First of all, growing up a ghetto baby, it's hard to let go of the Baroque Bubble that is so ingrained in that culture. Encroaching on my personal space is always an affront. Add to that Napoli's reputation (well-deserved) as a Mecca for pickpockets, and I was in ethcra-defensive mode. I had on the hardest screwface I could muster, and I tried not to stand in one place too long unless I had my back to a wall. (The Napoletano teen I saw on the tram got the screwface not for a space infraction rather, for his huge G-Unit tattoo.)

2. The fucking ferry operator refused to slow down his thick-ass Napoletano accent enough so that I could understand him telling me that I'd have to take a different, less-direct route because the water was too rough to go to the side of the island where I was staying. I said "fuck it," and just went to another window where the lady hooked me up right away. This was indicative of all the experiences I had in Napoli, now that I think of it. People were either incredibly helpful and gracious, or they were downright assholes. There was no in-between, and the assholes clearly had no worries about job security, so they were ethcra brazen with it.

3. Once I got off the ferry, I was in for a few more hours of madness, starting with the half-hour bus ride around the island, from Ischia Porto to Forio, where I was staying. All I can say is that people pack themselves on the bus, and then they see how much they can push and elbow you in hopes of squeezing thirty more people on. I was persona non grata, of course, because my huge-ass suitcase was taking up enough room for ten Italians, but I was learning quickly: you put on your "so-the-fuck-what" face, and that's that. Unless someone has a knife, of course.

4. I've already related this story to y'alls in my original emails, but I just want to quickly recap that after I got off that fucking bus and arrived at my hostel, I was accosted by Il Rubino. This was the guy who bought me a nice book about Ischia, and signed his name in the front cover, complete with a heart over the 'i' in Rubino. Yeah, that motherfucker made me walk all over the goddamned island after all that bullshit above. Let's not mention that this was my first time ever in a hostel, and all I wanted was cleanliness and privacy. Yeah- a hostel was the right place for me. (For the record, I should say that this hostel was actually quite amazing for what it is. Every room has a balcony overlooking the sea, and considering the filthy people that go in and out of those places everyday, it seemed to be decently clean. Plus, it was really cheap.)

That said, all of my hate disappeared later that night on my walk with Il Rubino, when we stopped at this promontory where we waited for a bus to bring us back to the hostel. The moon was out, and the reflection it made in the Bay of Naples was AMAZING. It was this impossibly wide path of moonlight on an otherwise very dark sea. It's hard to describe, and unfortunately, my point-and-shoot and shaky arm were not up to the task, although I'll share the picture anyway. Again, it was pure magic:

Well, I got over my hate that night, and the next morning I woke up with a new attitude. I decided that I was going lie, beg and steal my way out of hanging out with Il Rubino (did I mention that he was physically handicapped? I'm surely going to hell for abandoning him) and do just one thing: go to the beach, just a fifteen minute walk down the hill:

I gots more pictures of this beach (Citara) and they're all fly, but you get the idea. After an hour of enjoying myself on this crowded, tiny, but lovely beach, I finally got a call from Eric, my molester from St. Louis, who was singing at a program on the island. He came down to meet me at the beach and swim a while, and soon enough, I was invited to go to lunch with Carol Vaness. Sweet! (She was teaching at the program he was singing at, and has been a friend of his girlfriend for a few years now.)

The best part of swimming with Eric is that he's such a pussy. He'll get really really angry if you mention the word "shark" while you're in the water with him. He also really hates seaweed and shit like that. Hilarity! (If I'm honest, I should admit that I freaked myself out a bit when I returned to the States, and researched what kind of sharks inhabit the Mediterranean. Yup- they got Great Whites.) Still, Eric cries like a bitch. (Hi boo.)

I'd post pics of me lunching and lounging with La Vaness, but I was too busy enjoying life and being cool to break out a camera. How gauche that would have been for me to ask for a photo with her! If anything, the real camera-worthy star of that day was the pizza I had for lunch. They really know how to do it up down there.

Just a few more pictures of Ischia- there was beautiful shit errywhere:

Alright, I think I've reached a photo limit of some sort here on Blogger, so I'll have to include others in a different post. To be honest, I didn't get many good pictures in Roma because my camera decided to break as did my knee, so I was a camera-less gimp for my stay in the eternal city. Damn shame, too, because that place is off the chain!

I hope these pictures have warmed up your Saturday, or whatever day it is when you read this. Oh, in other news, I'm getting better everyday. I would even consider a foray into the world at large if it weren't for this damn blizzard. Oh well...

2008-03-05T15:37:00.004-05:00

Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!

Sitting on the couch all day is teh suxx. Today, however, I managed to brave the dizzies long enough to get all the acoutrements together for starting another blog. I know what you're thinking:

1. Hate.

2. Does it really take that much effort to gather acoutrements?

3. You can barely update one blog, Dom, what makes you think you need two?

4. Hatehate.

Well, the truth is, writing a blog seems to be a lot less work than publishing a cook book. "Cookbook," you say? The cook book project was borne out of my panic that my mom was the sole source of our most important family dishes. It's not that the rest of us can't cook. The problem is mom was always one of those "you're in my way if you're in the kitchen" type cooks, and so we never fully learned how to make things like pasteles and perniles. Now that we're all a bit older and calmer, I've tricked her into giving me the lowdown. As I mentioned before, my original plan was to print up a cookbook for friends and family- a good Christmas gift, p'haps? In the meantime, it will be a blog, which will serve as the repository and lab for these recipes until I get the cookbooking will.

So, ladies and transvestites, I introduce to you Cuca's Puerto Rican Kitchen.
(cannon explodes)

Feel free to hook yodelfs (yodelves?) up.

2008-03-03T17:18:00.003-05:00

Okay, today a more coherent post, perhaps. Coherenter, even.

There's actually not much to report. It's about 60 degrees here with a beautiful mix of evening sun and clouds. You can hear melting water errywhere. Perfect weather for a walk- everyone seems to be out in my hood. I made it all of two blocks (a two block loop, that is) and then I pooped. And by pooped, I mean I was pooped. Unfortunately, I did not shart.

At my doctor's appointment today, I was told that my brain will be vegetable-like for at least another three months. Wauw. If you had to choose a vegetable for your brain to be like, what would it be? I'll take all suggestions, but please let them be delicious.

In other news, I've decided that starting at 230 pounds, my face begins to get a nice definition. Isn't that generous? That's two little people, even. They're so cute I wanna pick them up and eat them!

Lastly, to the bitchmade fool named Old Coot. Please update your blog. I'd really hate to have to come to Pittsfield and smack you. I need shit to read during the day. OK. Thx. Bai.

2008-03-01T13:24:00.002-05:00

Quick, while I can.

I'm free. They kicked me out of the hospital when the nurse busted me smoking weed in my room at 1 am. Sike, naw, f'realdo. I was discharged from Strong on Wednesday, about 1 day ahead of schedule. I've always been better than average.

Of course, you all should have known this a long time ago, and I would have been writing and all that, except for the whole thing where shitty days + inability to communicate or focus = no blog entries. Add to the general malaise the whole "let's get me off the steady morphine drip all of a sudden" and I was not a happy camper for the last week.

Not that all was lost. I finally have a proto-immune system. It's the little things, folks. In fact, I should be on the low end of 'normal' right about now, although a straight, upward path is not guaranteed by any means.

The other good news, of course, is that I'm home. All I have to do now is get rid of the night sweats and find a new brain, and I'll be back to normal. As for larger questions of normalcy, I won't know for a little while yet whether I'm completely cancer free. Of course, I'll holla when I know.

Alright, no more focus. Bai.

2008-02-20T20:20:00.004-05:00

Two mornings ago, I looked in the mirror, and realized I have a Face of Meth. Between the acne, under-eye bags, bloodshot eye, Tyrone Biggum and Tyrone Biggums lips, I had to laugh at myself, and then cry. Only, laughter and crying would have been too painful in my mouth, so I probably just grunted and called it a morning.

If you've been wondering about the paucity of entries lately, it is in fact due to drugs, but of the non-crystal meth type. Mucositis has settled in folks, and when I told the nurse on Sunday that I was feeling a bit uncomfortable, he immediately asked if I would like some morphine.

*Record scratches*

Hmmmm.....does that sound as over-the-top to you as it did me? I was sure we'd start out with the softer stuff, you know, a Flintstones vitamin, or some Motrin. I told him as much, and he then offered me Tylenol, which, me being a n00b, I thought was perfectly sufficient.

Well, there was a reason he offered me morphine, and he had to shoot me up a couple of hours later after the discomfort became unmanageable. Tylenol ain't got shit on these mouth sores!!! Not being a fan of opioids to begin with (my limited experience with them is that they make me feel pretty weird) the first couple of days were quite frustrating and emotional for me. First of all, who wants to emerge from stem cell transplant with a morphine habit? (I felt like that rich New York wife from Deadwood.) Also, maybe I'm naive, but it seems crazy that the step from Tylenol to hard-core shit is so small.

Fast forward to today. We've experimented with dosages and combinations. For me, I get shot up with morphine and take an oral oxycodone, and unless I try to swallow- I'm a normal person- that is, if you consider nodding-off 'normal'. How grunge-y of me!!! I'm even becoming a slightly more functional junky- occasionally I don't nod off immediately after they hang the drip.

So, that's the news, folks. I'm a fucking druggie. The nurses assure me that pain management is critical to general well-being, so now would be the time to mail me your heroin cookies with crack icing. No nuts, please- they're far too gritty on the throat.

In our good news for the day- tomorrow will be the last day of the second week here. Exciting! For the last two days, the two gauges of immune function (white blood cells and absolute neutrophils) have been steady at zero. Scary stuff, but we should see them start to multiply by this weekend, Kurt Cobain willing.

Anyway- I'm going to go nod off now. Oh- for those of you who've tried to call me this week, I'm so sorry, but the whole speaking thing isn't working for me right now, either, so holleration through the Webz is gonna be our best bet.

2008-02-17T07:31:00.002-05:00

I have greatly pleased the Goddess of Folliculitis! My steady offerings and fervent prayers have been headed! My face is a pizza- a busted painful pizza- and not one of them good Napolitana ones, either. (God I could go for one of those today.)

Hopefully the nurses will give me some Botox today. I'm pretty sure that was a joke, but who knows? Last night I told them I was a bit uncomfortable, and they offered me this drug that is eighty times as powerful as morphine, according to Wikipedia. I wasn't sure I needed to go all the way there yet- I'm not trying to leave this place with a habit just because my butt was sore! (Shuddup Bill.) Anyway- we settled on Tylenol, and I slept pretty well last night.

One reason for my good sleep was because this young, gangly nurse named Alex was on my shift, and she is is very conscientious of not waking patients unnecessarily. Still, I should save her the trouble and tell her that the second anyone puts their force field near my first door, I immediately wake up. I won't tell her, though, because I'd rather miss seeing her tiptoe around my room, which I find hilarious, cute and thoughtful- very much like Shaggy and Scooby in dangerous situations.

As for time here- it goes by, but yesterday was a tricky day. The second week is usually the nadir of a transplant, and I'm moving along right on schedule. Yesterday's labs confirmed a plummet in my blood counts, and this is when malaise and caution become the keywords. This is all to say that yesterday, the only thing I could tolerate were cooking shows and blogs. Phone calls and visits were just not doable, so I had to convince mom and sis that yes, leaving me alone for any amount of time would actually be a good thing. I think they're slowly learning, although it is not in the nature of the women of my family to a) leave things alone, and b) take time to relax for themselves.

Anyschlong, for those of you who either missed it, or who suffer from different programming, Lidia made two dishes yesterday featuring polenta: one with a fancy pork-n-beans, and the other with a gratin of radicchio- AMAZING!!!!! Please feel free to eat some in my honor.

Also, I wanted to share some of the great random blogs I've found online, because we can never have enough shit on which to waste our time. (How Churchillian of me, omgz!)

Some great random food blogs:

Delicious Days is a site that I believe started out as a regular blog, and now has blowuptuated into something way more official. For the most part, I prefer smaller, homier sites, but these people ain't playing- their food looks amazing and inspiring. They live in Munich, and they eat well.

immaeatchu- I knew I had to check this out based solely on the name. Homegirl will eatchu, too, provided you live in LA, and are amazing. Lots of Korean influence, as she is Korean- YUM-OH! (Rachel Ray.)

Finding good blogs on Latino food has been tricky, to be honest. Either the presentation sucks, or the recipes do, or frequently both. That said, Cooking Diva seems to have a decent site, much as I hate to give praise to anyone with "diva" in their name. It's old, people. I've also been on the hunt for

While I have been hitting the food blogs HARD, there are two sites that kept me up reading last night, and should do the same for you:

The Daily Coyote: what would you do if you found a 10-day old orphaned coyote in Wyoming? Here's what homegrille did.

Chasing Summer is not a blog, but a thread on a message board for motorcycle enthusiasts. (I'm sure I oversimplified that, but, whatever.) Anyway, this is what happens when you and your friend dream of riding bikes from Alaska to Patagonia, and then life steps in and grants your wish. It's on a message board, so the format leaves something to be desired, but the story and pictures are well worth it. Inspiration for your ass!

Oh, before I forget to write this down somewhere, last night I kept having dreams in which I was able to transform disastrous and even near-death experiences into good stuff. The one I remember most clearly goes like this: I was in a field dotted with trees and boulders, and there were people scrambling everywhere because there was a huge, god-like wild boar/elephant/oliphant on the run. (I'm talking Princess Mononoke-type huge, where the mythical beasts are 10 times bigger). Somehow, I got myself noticed by the god-monster, and it decided to charge. I successfully dodged the first passes, ducking behind trees and bushes, but on this last charge, it was clear to me that nothing was going to work. Just before the beast reached me, I got up and bowed to it- complete with European flourish. Where the inspiration for that move came, neither I nor my dreaming self know. Apparently, that was all the beast-king wanted, because it was all good after that- I'm pretty sure there was even some kind of jubilant opera chorus going on afterward, and he went away satisfied and peaceful. (I know- the opera chorus thing cheapens the whole affair in an already cliche dream, but the whole bowing thing was very cool.)

Holla!

2008-02-14T16:51:00.000-05:00

Ballentyme's Day Ethcravaganza

Yeah- that title might be a bit much for what will be an anemic post. Still, another milestone has been passed: as of 1pm EST, I have new stem cells. Actually, they're old stem cells, but freshened through cryogenics and preservatives that smell like garlic creamed corn. (I'm not kidding.)

The past couple of days have been a bit up and down. The last chemo was a whopper- it knocked me on my ass all day, but it's alright, because yesterday I got to recuperate. The hard part is this chemo brain fog that renders most activities (aside from sleeping) very difficult to do. Piles of books and movies are sitting somewhat untouched (I did hit up that 30 Rock, though, KAW- challa!) and the zillions of freeware games I've downloaded onto my MBP are languishing.

I think tonight I'll put an end to that. Today's stem cell infusion was rather anti-climactic- which is great news in chemo-land. They knocked me out with some benadryl and ativan, and an hour later I was a new-born vampire. Sexy, no? (I just had a vision of me flying out of this hospital window tonight at midnight in a black cape and nothing else. Fierce!)

Even though I'm done with the chems and stuff, apparently the yucky stuff lies a couple of days ahead. The nurses keep telling me that it will take me anywhere from three to six months to get back to normal- whatever that means. Ain't that shitty? I'm ready to get shit poppin, on the real. Is it unreasonable for me to want to audition for Chicago in May?

Of course, this leads me to the big question that must not be ignored: Are these things (cancers, boils, missed opportunities, etc.) bumps in a straight road, or are they signposts leading you elsewhere?

And for my last deep thought, I learned today that my blood type is: Be Positive.

Peace

2008-02-12T10:09:00.000-05:00

Waddup.

Today is a momentous day. In about two hours, I will receive my last dose of chemotherapy forever. Not a bad milestone to pass, I think. Feel free to send extra-strength juju that this one will do the trick, nawmean? If you'd like, you may even sacrifice a chicken- even a tofu one, for the vegetarians.

Otherwise, not much to report. Sleeping well. Bloated and red. Can't wait to see you all.

Latros-

Dom

2008-02-11T14:18:00.000-05:00

Yo Sans!

Just a quickie update here for the homies:

1. I only have one more chemo treatment to go through, and that will be tomorrow. Hopefully we'll skip over the whole heart palpitations thing I had going on with the last two chemos. Time sure is flying by!

2. My new birfday is Valentyme's Day, if you didn't know. That will be the day that my frozen stem cells will be thrown into my system. I'll have to buy them a bear and chocolate and edible panties, methinks.

3. Upon recommendation from C-MO, I've also enlisted the help of Skype in the fight for video conferencing, as iChat is kind of a bugger for those without the latest and greatest OSX for Mac.
So, if you'd like to see my bloated face on Skype for free, my username is DominickRodriguez. Easy enough, no?

Back to Deadwood for now...

2008-02-09T07:52:00.000-05:00

Yesterday at noon o' clock I checked into Strong Memorial Hospital to begin my Autologous Stem Cell Transplant.

Strange that I haven't blogged in so long, when obviously great things were happening for me, and now, in the midst of what seems to be disaster, I pick up the pen again. I do know that I'm in the middle of something huge, momentous, life-changing, though, and I want to honor it by taking in and remembering even the little details along the way.

Furthermore, who is to say that being diagnosed with stage 4 cancer at 30 years old is a disaster? Certainly, there will be some discomfort involved to say the least, but should I question the wisdom of my life's path? Isn't facing mortality at such a young age a gift if you can come away from it alive? So, I want to remember and affirm that I am supposed to be here, despite what the old man sitting next to me at the cancer center told me. Conventional wisdom says I shouldn't be here. So much for conventional wisdom.

Now for details.

1. Day 1: Not terrible at all. As I mentioned, they had me come in at noon, although 2 would have been better so that we wouldn't have been waiting around for them to clean my room up. My plans of going to the Apple Store and Best Buy were sidetracked, so maybe a hot UPS guy will deliver my desires to me instead. Actually, hot UPS guy will have to hand them off to hot nurse guy to give to me, I'm pretty sure, as they won't let just anyone in my room.

The whole checking into the hospital thing was eerily similar to my first move into the dorms at Ithaca. Nervous, young, loaded with bags of clothes and Cds, I had to navigate new people, places, and the feeling of leaving something behind. Thinking of this room as a dorm room takes the edge off being in the hospital, as have the nurses, who are pretty cool so far. There was one young nurse yesterday who seemed like she had the potential for good conversating (lollerskates) so hopefully she'll be visiting me often. My social worker Mike is also good to shoot the shit with. He looks like a hedgehog, but is attractive through sheer confidence. Or whatever it is he has.

Last night, they hooked me up to the IV pole to give me my first chemo. This one is called BCNU, or carmustine. It's mixed with a little bit of alcohol, strangely enough, and considering that it's going straight into my jugular (thank you central venous cathet) I was feeling a bit buzzy last night. Combined with the IV benadryl, I was out cold by 8:30.

Of course, that lasted all of 1/2 a dream. They wake you up here every four hours at least to take your vitals, suck your blood, measure your piss (yup, I get to piss in a plastic jug) and all of that fun stuff. Is it now that I should mention my deep respect for nurses and techs? Doing this job while minimizing the patient's self-consciousness and your own queasiness is a gift, and they got it. (Culo cagao. Ooooh!!! That reminds me- there an ass-washing spritz here in the bathroom, which is hilarious to me. Or should I be scared that they're expecting a time to come when I'll need to use it? I should LOL while I can, huh? Here is the delicately worded label:

Please notice, if you can on the "Personal Cleanser" label, it is a No-rinse, one-step cleaning for perineum or body. We all know that's for your ass. Plus your perineum. As for body? Isn't that just there to make folks feel better about ass spray? I'm in your perineum, eating your poopz!)

Valtrex
Fluconazole
Actigall
Protonix
Fragmin (Heparin shot)
Emend anti-nausea
Decadron steroid
Kytril
IV Magnesium

(Sorry- I just got a visit from the lovely Adrianna, my nurse for this morning, and she rattled off the list of meds I swaller in the morning and I figured this was as good a place as any to take notes. Valtrex- sounds like a pretty name for an intergalactic girl, dunnit?)

Back to my nurse. She's cute and blond. All I could think about was the whole situation in The World According to Garp where a nurse uses a comatose patient's huge penis to impregnate herself with a huge penised baby. Pretty cool- although most guys would prefer to be awake during the fantastic voyage. Btw- why do both John Irving books I've read (Garp and Owen Meany- there may be more, but I forget) feature characters with huge schlongs? What does it all mean?

On Thursday night, as we were sitting 'round the dinner table with the brother's family, I was trying to figure out a computer situation for my hospital stay. The dinosauric PC laptops in my mom's house were not going to cut it. DVD functionality and RAM were almost non-existant. Also, they did not support this great feature on my new Netflix account where you can watch movies instantly over a broadband connection. So, we did an amazing thing...

Twenty minutes later at the Apple Store, I was picking out a loaner laptop. David said he would be buying one for the kids in the future anyway, so he'd just buy it now, and let me use it for however long I needed. I can haz cumputer.

So we're in there, and I'm checking out the laptops- clearly coveting a MacBook Pro with a MacBook Air strapped onto the top just to make it more better, but showing modesty and asking about the lowly MacBooks. David wanders over, and says that in reality, he thinks he should buy a desktop for the kids, in which case, I should just pick out a laptop for myself. CLUTCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Finally, we decide on a top of the line MacBook (white- I ain't paying for black paint, sexy as it is) and get cashed out with a lovely discount thanks to Aida's school enrollement. (Shout out to the University of Rochester Medical Center for my stem cells and computer!) When the sales rep noted that we had saved $100 on the computer thanks to Aida, David said, "I thought it was supposed to be $200?"

"No- that was for the MacBook Pros. MacBooks get $100 off."

"Well shit, if it's only going to boil down to a $300 difference between the two, maybe we should just get a MacBook Pro."

cues Beyonce's "Upgrade You"

Inside voice- "Yes, my precioussssssssssssssss!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Outside voice: "Sure, dude- if that's what you want to do."

And so after exactly 1 minute of MackBook ownership, I had to relinquish it, only to receive the much greater gift sitting in my lap currently. I hearts the MacBook Pro.

(Which reminds me, have you all seen the clips of Lily Tomlin freaking at the director on the set of I Heart Huckabees? If not, go to Youtube and check it out. If only I could have gotten away with that at Virginia Opera.)

So yeah, I'm pretty much a pimp. And by me being a pimp, I mean, I have a great brother. Actually, I have both great brothers and sisters. Getting to see the tender sides of these people when our relationships have often been guarded and distant (in my case geographically and otherwise) has been wonderful.

Alright, I think I'll be making a beat today on my new 'Pro. Suggestions for names of the new baby are welcome, by the way. As for Netflix Watch Now capability, that argument held no weight to begin with, intent as I was on getting a Mac, because support for OS X has yet to be released. Of course, I could just install Windoze on this thing too, but first of all, why would I profane a machine like this with such doodoo, and second of all, I have about 3 discs of the first season of Deadwood coming with my mama today, so having stuff to watch is the least of my worries.

One last computer thing- this laptop has a built-in camera, which means that for those of you with either AIM or .Mac accounts and a webcam, we can have video chats and conference chats. Amazing, no? So, my .Mac info is domper@mac.com. I'm not sure if you need to have iChat for this to work, but I also have Adium, which basically hooks up with all of the chat clients, so that shouldn't be a problem. Send me your infoz, and we'll see what happens.

Alright, I've got to get going. I've got a lot of nothing to do, 'nawmean? More tales from the Bone Marrow Transplant Unit later.

2006-10-16T22:27:00.000-04:00

A Friendly Notice to Non-Puerto Rican Opera Singers

Gentle Bitches,

Poundpapi would like to personally apologize for the wackiness of fonts around here lately. He knew something was up after the last post took a day to finally show up on the blog. Tender as he is about the visual discontinuity of the last post, he will do his best to hook you up with tender morsels.

Our first performance in Fairfax started out like any other show. The guys' dressing room was loud with dirty talk and my continued threats of a panty raid. Nothing new here. We bitched, moaned, sang and acted (some of us did, at least). Great. One act down, three to go.

However, during Act II, it became clear that my night could get more interesting. As I listened to the famous Flower Song in the dressing room, it sounded like Don Jose was not singing as well as he should have. At first I thought, "The monitors in this new hall are weird," but the Assistant Conductor came up to be during the intermission and told me he was worried whether the tenor would make it or not. At this point, we assumed he was getting sick. So for the last two acts, I was in "the Zone" knowing that at any moment I could be called upon to go on as a sub, either singing from the wings or actually walking the role if the situation was dire enough. Act III was neither stellar nor horrible. Act IV, however, was a different story! Almost from the beginning it sounded like Jose was losing his voice. Some notes lacked any phonation at all. It was friggin' scary! I stood in the wings, bracing myself, wondering if I knew the blocking well enough to go on. Fortunately, he had made it most of the way through the opera, and only had about seven more minutes to go, so they would most likely let him finish, and put me on for the next show if he was indeed sick. It was so uncomfortable listening to him struggle to get through the final duet, but I wasn't worried for him as much as I was for myself.

Anyway, after the show was over, I was speaking to my friend Sonic, who was able to shed a little light on the situation:

For those of you non-Boricuas, a chicharron is a good ol'fashioned pork rind, whoa! When homemade, they are crunchy and meaty and salty pork goodness. However, those of you evil enough in your past lives to have deserved mothers who don't cook chicharrones may only be familiar with their less glamorous, less delicious convenience-store cousins sold in plastic bags like filthy potato chips. Mind you, they're still delicious enough for me to buy a bag every seven years. (Last week was obviously my seven-year anniversary, cause I sho'nuff bought a bag of them spicy jawns. 1 ) However, that is neither here nor there.

Let us say that you are an opera singer en route to a performance. Carmen, for instance. Your role is a large one, and vocally taxing, so you take every precaution to make sure your performance goes off without a hitch: you've been drinking water, not speaking, sleeping well, doing lines of Prilosec, etc. Or so you thought! On the trip to the performance, one of your colleagues innocently opens a bag of pork rinds up, and offers you one. Being from the South, you can't resist porky goodness! In goes a rind- and a satisfying crunch-crisp sound escapes from your mouth as you reach into the bag for more. Pork rinds by the handfuls, dammit! It's all good and well, until you gasp for pork-scented air because the delicious rinds have caused you to forget to breathe, and poof! tiny pork styrofoam particles have lodged themselves in your larynx and lungs. Listen, folks- choking is guaranteed to accompany every convenience-store-pork-rind orgy, much like them purple icee pops so close to my heart. Your body's natural reaction to pork in the lungs is four fold:

Step 1: CELEBRATE!!!!
Step 2: Cough as a sign of enjoyment.
Step 3: Surround pork-ticles (pork particles) with mucous; and
Step 4: Allow the mucous-covered pork to escape the lung party via your larynx, preferably while singing.

By this time, your vocal folds are perfectly primed to sing an operatic role. Let's just say that both Don Jose and Micaela (who also partook and choked) were pissed at themselves for being so naive, but not as pissed as they were with the Polish bass who, legitimately dared to make fun of Rindgate after the night of terror was over. Come on, people, Pork Rinds are inherently funny, and allowing them to endanger you in any way is the equivalent of slipping on a banana peel, thereby requiring mockery.

So, in summary: on performance days, only moist foods (such as panty cakes) are permissable, lest you lodge a pork rind in your alveoli!

1. "Jawn" is Philly-derived slang for "joint". Of course, you potheads thought I meant "joint" as in a marijuana cigarette, but you would be wrong! In this case, "joint" is a pronoun, and a substitute for just about anything you'd like.

2006-10-12T22:40:00.001-04:00

Ten Things

1. The fact that George Allen (R-Vagingy) is still competitive in the race for his seat in the Senate cements the fact that Vagingy is too conservative for my tastes. Of course, I'm referring to the incident where Allen publically referred to an East Indian aide of his opponent's as a macaca. While the whole macaca issue bothers me, it only reflects a deeper malaise in Vagingy culture: in a place where it's befitting of a senator to throw out racial slurs (other witnesses to Allen's hate-oration have recently emerged) one is damned to search for good cheeses in vain. Yes folks, cheese is what this is about for Poundpapi. Even in the small, yuppie neighborhood grocery stores and specialty shop (no plural here) your beloved Poundpapi is damned to hear people rave over vacuum-sealed packages of garlic-herb gouda. You'd never catch me serving that bullshit to people I love! If your cheese needs garlic to make it taste good, well, let's just say I pity the fool! Cheese snobs stand up!Whoa!

2. I guess you could say I'm ready to be done with the city of Norfolk. I can't really say it's lovely. The only noteworthy food experience I've had here was at a place called Luna Maya. Run by Ecuadorians who I believe are forced to serve a mainly Mexican menu because Norfolk palates are immature and inexperienced. (Whoa!) That said, their beef tamales were OUT OF THIS WORLD!!! The key to a good tamale, in my un-Mexican opinion, is a flavorful, moist masa. Luna Maya's did not disappoint, and in fact, opened up a whole new world of masa possibilities to my virign tongue! Their masa was unlike any other I'd had- it had whole, sweet kernels of corn, in addition to the ground cornmeal found in most masas. The result was a masa sweeter and moister than I've had before- a perfect foil to the smokiness of the beef. Whoa!

3. You may be wondering why each of these items has ended with a 'Whoa!' No, I'm not emulating Joey Lawrence in hopes of luring him to my fortress of solitude. These 'whoas' have been inspired by an amazing book I'm reading right now called, "A Confederacy of Dunces". I urge you all to get it ASAP, and tell me if you agree that the kind of social ineptitude displayed by the main character reminds you of one Napolean Dynamite. John Kennedy Toole is also great at writing dialect, as far as I can tell, and as the story is set in New Orleans, there is plenty of fun to be had in that department. As for the 'whoas', there is a character in this book who cannot utter a single sentence unpuncuated by 'whoa!' or some other exclamation. At first it was confusing, but now it's hilarious.

4. I'm sick of most of my jeans, but I got no money, and I think clothing designers assume fat people want to wear ugly clothes. More tapered, pleated light-rinse jeans for me!!!! Whoa!

5. Did I mention how lovely my housers' abode is? And how dirty it is? Cat piss smells, yo! Whoa!

6. Speaking of cat piss, I have a great new friend in this house, and his name is Jamie. Whoa! He is a cute kitty, white with large black spots, and he follows me around the house most of the day, scratching at doors so I'll let him in to chill with me. The best part is that while he's happy to receive affection at any time, he doesn't force it on you like so many annoying pussies. Whoa!

7. Last weekend, Vagingy experienced a Nor'easter, my first ever. I guess you could categorize it as a Hurricane-Lite. The point of this item being that when I looked out of my third floor window on Saturday morning, all I could see was water. The harbor flooded all the way to the front steps of my house! Luckily I had the day off, and rescued my car just in the nick of time. Whoa!

8. If you haven't yet purchased The Roots new album Game Theory, and you have any love for hip-hop, you should be ashamed of yourselves. I bought it around September 7th or so, and until early this week, it was the only music played in my car. It still sees heavy rotation, as the recent albums by OutKast and Lupe Fiasco have not captured my ear as much as they should have. What stands out most about Game Theory to me is how right all the music sounds together. The attention to track sequencing and overall asthetic of the album is inspiring! This is serious music, folks! If anything, check out the link above to hear some samples of my favorite album right now. Whoa!

9. Jackass Part 2 rocked. I would like to take this moment to tell Chris "Party Boy" Pontius that he should be my boyfriend. Whoa!

10. Ta-dow is a fool, expecting a blog entry from me yesterday. What I look like writing on a Wednesday? Whoa!

2006-09-17T00:27:00.000-04:00

Anyone one who knows me well will tell you that I am foolish, in the most delightful of ways. One manifestation of my foolishness is that reading has become very difficult for me because I always fall asleep when reading. It’s pretty sad, for obvious reasons, but also because I truly enjoy a good story. My problem is that even if I begin a reading session sitting up, I move into a horizontal position before long, and unless dick is nearby, I’m sure to fall asleep within 15 minutes. Last summer I discovered a great solution that could kill two birds with one stone: I was reading on the banks of one of the lakes in Minneapolis, and decided that I would rather walk than sit, and continued reading while walking. It was great! There is no chance of falling asleep while walking (I shouldn’t say ‘no chance’) and I exercised in a most pleasing manner.

The point of this revelation on my reading habits is so that I can share some fun information with y’alls. My patron family (lovely people) have a great collection of books all over the house, including four built-in bookshelves full in my third-floor bedroom. Lots of good stuff in there, including a cute book Stalking the Wild Asparagus. (It’s a book about identifying and preparing wild foods, and I’ve always thought my wilderness/survival skills were lacking, so I zipped through that book quickly, even while spread out on my twin bed.) The real prizes, in my eyes, are two volumes of The People’s Almanac.

I am an information junky. When I was young, I could entertain myself for hours reading our collection of The Young Person’s Encyclopedia. I especially loved looking at the atlas included as a separate volume. Whenever it was dooky thirty, I’d just take a volume into the baño with me, and spend some quality time increasing the likelihood that I would be a fierce competitor on Jeopardy. Nowadays, Wikipedia and the rest of the interweb have occasionally brought out the addict in me. The more information is available to me, the more I realize how much more there is to know, and it makes me despair.

Anyway, I was immediately attracted to these three-inch thick books waiting for me to sex them up during pre-bedtime information orgies. Almanacs, in particular are perfect reading material for me because they basically contain a bit of information on just about everything. There’s no rhyme or reason to their contents and I love it. I love it so much, in fact, that I have been inspired to share an entry with you:

1450 Louis XI of France commanded the abbot of Baigne to invent a preposterous musical instrument for the amusement of His majesty’s friends. After mulling over the possibilities , the abbot gathered together a her of hogs, ranging from nursing piglets to full-fledged swine. Under a velvet tent he lined them up with low-voiced porkers on the left, the middle range sows in the middle, and the soprano piglets on the right. Then the abbot constructed a modified organ keyboard, attaching the keys to a complex apparatus terminating in a series of small spikes, one poised over the rump of each pig. The courtiers were gathered together and the abbot played his keyboard, cause the spikes to prick the pigs in sequence. The pigs naturally let out a piercing squeal, each in its own particular voice range. The tunes were actually recognizable and the concert was adjudged a success by all.

I was both titillated and upset by that entry because while a Puerto Rican musician would love nothing more than an instrument made of pig, it predates a similar instrument I had plans to create, named the “Meowlodian”. It’s pretty self-explanatory, but for the idiots, here goes: you take a bunch of cats, arrange them neatly according to size, kittens on the right, Maine coons on the left. They sit on a curved platform with their tails hanging down. The player (dressed in a tuxedo) is seated on a swiveling stool in the center of the arc created by the kitty platform, and he yanks a kitty’s tail to produce the appropriately pitched ‘meow’. Dearest Jeff Madison added a contrabass kitty element, where the largest cat would just stand on the floor next to the Meowlodian, and when the lowest pitches were called for, you could achieve it by stroking the kitty’s back in the wrong direction.

In the end, I’ve learned two things from this anecdote: first, the Meowlodian would work, as evidenced by the success of the ‘Porkgan”, and second; unfortunately there was someone as brilliant as I am living five-and-a-half centuries ago. That fucker!

2006-09-11T17:49:00.000-04:00

I Will Cover You

This will be a quickie, as I'll be expected in rehearsal shortly. I just didn't want you, my gentle bitches, to be able to say I fell off after only 4 (but amazing) entries. Still, life has been quite demanding lately.

Par example, for those of you who don't know, I'm currently living the good life in Virginia, or Vagingy, as Grenouille, my evil sister called it. (Footnote 1) The opera company found me a great family to stay with, in a beautiful old home on a small harbor right in the city of Norfolk. They're doctors who are never home, and they've given me the entire third floor of their house (complete with a nice private bath) in which to freeball. Those of you who are singers know that home-stays can be a dicey proposition, but this one is almost perfect. (Footnote 2) They even have a baby grand piano for me to use. Still, there was a surprise waiting for me when I woke up this morning and looked out of my bedroom window to survey the lovely harbor: my car was about to be swept away by a tsunami. By 'tsunami' I mean an abnormally high tide that flooded our street. I had to go out looking like a goddamn hobo in my flip flops and crazy hair, and move the car to higher ground. Luckily I caught it before the water reached the door crevice, but the flood trapped me in the house for about two hours since we live on a dead end street, and even deeper water guarded the only way out. So I had a legitimate reason to miss a bullshit rehearsal, thank Vishnu. All I'm saying is that if another hurricane rolls through VA while I'm here, I'm about to get the fuck out of dodge!

Speaking of bullshit rehearsal, that has basically been the story of my life here. I never knew how unbearable working in a non-union house could be. If they have no respect for the artists' time, get ready to hate. This is my life: long rehearsals with minimum breaks, a director who has no idea what the hell she wants to do, and the guy I'm covering is basically a noob who doesn't know the first thing about stagecraft. I get to watch about 9 hours of this torture daily. I literally felt my brain melting a couple of times.

Still, there are a few bright spots. I get coachings now and then, with the eccentric conductor/artistic administrator here. He has good information, and now he just needs to learn to keep his smelly hands off my fucking face. Also, it has become clear to me that I am good enough to be singing leads at this house, which, while a bit frustrating in the present, gives me a good feeling about future seasons here. Even if they don't pay shit, it would be nice to have a good role at a B company on my resume sometime soon.

One bright spot that I had been counting on has been noticeably absent the entire time I've been here: no sailors! Norfolk is home to the world's largest naval base, and I thought I'd see throngs of strapping lads in tight white pants sprinkled all over the city, all clamoring for my attention and affections. Not so! I've yet to see one sailor in uniform! What, are they all on fucking ships in the middle of the ocean?!?!? What's the point of being a sailor if you're just going to waste all your time on a damn ship? Someone help me with this!

So, I'll try to be more faithful with my blogging, although my daily activities often leave me with barely enough brain power to brush my teeth each night before I crash. Light a candle for me next time you're at church.

Finally, in honor of Lerla, I'd just like to tell you this: why don'tcha come on ova heah and give me a tonguekiss?

1. Grenouille works in an environment in which she has alot of telephone contact with people from around the country. Recently we (my brothers, sisters, Lerla and I) were have a fun dinner together, and in the course of conversation, we were talking about my upcoming departure for VA.

Grenouille: "Those people from the south get on my fucking nerves! They are so damn stupid! They don't even know how to say the names of their own states! Some stupid bitch told me she was from 'Vagingy'! Those people are so fucking stupid, I could go down there tomorrow and be the fucking President of the South. Fucking idiots!"

We all cried.

2. I say 'almost perfect' for one small reason. How the fuck can you have a five-day-a-week housekeeper, but the house is still somewhat dirty? Cat hair errywhere? Crumbs on the counter? Dirty kitchen floor? That's the kind of shit you'd find in my house, without any housekeeper. This bitch is here every weekday, and I bet she's just eating chocolate-covered strawberries and watching Passions. Fuck that, if I have a daily cleaner, I better come home to some spontangling shit, you hear me?!?! I best could eat soup out the terlet to no ill effect- ya heard?!? Why am I getting so southern right now?

2006-08-27T21:47:00.000-04:00

Coping Mechanisms: Part I

(Lerla and I crunk at New Year's Eve. Notice our lovely capias. Don't be jealous- you can make your own for special occasions, too.)

A few weeks ago, I found myself in Buffalo hanging out in Lerla’s living room. I’m sure we were either watching or talking about our favorite show: The Flava of Love. In between all of our Flava-rizing, I got a taste for a Banana Fudge-o. (1) Fortunately, Lerla lives in Kim’s old hood, so it didn’t take too much deliberation before we decided to jump in the whip (2) and head on over to Moe’s. Moe’s is the corner store at the intersection of 19th St. and Massachusetts where one can buy freezie pops (the grape ones make me cough) and empty dime bags and scales- a very handy and typical corner store. (3) The ride from Lerla’s to Moe’s is maybe 8 blocks, and considering it was a Sunday afternoon, should have been uneventful. However, events happened. Driving down Plymouth Avenue, a lovely one-way street in my old hood, Lerla and I heard what seemed to be two firecrackers go off. We looked at each other and knew something was up, a suspicion confirmed by the two boys riding a single bike headed right past my car. “Get out of here!” was what I could make out between the boys’ giggles. Lerla and I started to laugh pretty hard as well, all while driving toward the sound of the gunshots. There was a thirty-something woman with wild hair running down the sidewalk away from the shootings while looking over her shoulder, laughing all the while. I had to briefly pull over to the side of the street, because the two cop cars were speeding toward me down the one-laner. Luckily they pulled over at a house before they got to me and jumped out of their cars quickly. I didn’t notice them laughing. I did, however, hear them yelling, “Get down!” a few times as I was driving gingerly around their squad cars. It’s alright, because Lerla and I did enough laughing to compensate for the boys in blue.

Unfortunately, our laughter did not last long. Unscathed by bullet or knife, we arrived at Moe’s, only to be wounded in a much more insidious way. We scoured the freezer case for a treat: yup- the old ice-cream sandwiches with the Oreo-type brown cookies were there, as were the biggie-sized freezies. Banana Fudge-o? Noticeably absent. It breaks my heart to know that anyone would knowingly restrict access to such a delicious treat. I mean, if other stores never knew what it was like to sell a Banana Fudge-o, then they can claim ignorance. But Moe’s ate from the Tree of Banana Fudge-o, and knowingly chose to be punk bitches. Moe, if you’re reading this, I want you to know that I’ll never again buy drug-dealing supplies from you, cause you’re a buster! Buhleedat!!!!! And if anyone out there in the universe can get me a banana fudge-o, holler at me, and I’ll suck your e-dick.

1. For those of you unlucky enough to have tasted this delightful frozen treat, picture this: a Fudgesicle, but instead of chocolate flavoring, banana. A nice, creamy banana pop, basically. And while the word ‘fudge’ is in the name, it is purely a textural reference with no bearing on the flavor. They cost 25 cents at Moe’s, the corner store down the street from Kim’s house, and they were a favorite of the high school crew during our SESsions in Kim’s backyard. (SES stands for ‘smoke, eat, sleep’ and was the basis for our curriculum at City Honors School, recently ranked #4 in the nation in U.S. News and World Report.)

2. Whip: (noun) slang for car. See also ride, hoopty.

3. If I had pick only one story to describe the neighborhood to you, I would be hard pressed. Is it the time Kim was near the corner of 18th and Massachusetts and almost gunned down in a drive-by while I hit the deck on the porch of the house she was walking to? Or how about this one- a few of us are walking down the street past the heroin dealer’s house, and a random guy approaches us and asks us for a light. Somebody had one and gave it to him, at which point he lit up a blunt and smoked us out right on the street. (Thank you mystery man.) I’m not sure which to pick, and if I could, I’d set up a poll, but I think y’all get the idea.

2006-08-24T20:32:00.000-04:00

Digging Life's Booger Out

Who knew this blog would be all about excavation? I didn't. Considering Charlie's Anal Woes (hereafter, referred to as "C.A.W.") and the last few days I've had, I'm a professional digger. Not that I dug out his butt sacs. I have, however, acknowledged that they needed digging. If only Grenouille were here. (See tangent #1.)
Regarding the excavatory nature of my blog, what I mean is this: I've been digging crap out of the anal sacs of my brother's house. He and his family live here in Ra-cha-cha, and since I have nothing to do all day but memorize crappy recitatives with the aid of a three-and-a-half octave children's keyboard, (tangent #2) I offered to help his wife with some seriously belated spring cleaning and landscaping. Her knee had been freshly operated on this past spring, so she was understandably behind. I'm not an anal retentive housekeeper like my mother at all, but I must confess a certain sense of satisfaction comes with getting the funk out of your (or someone else's) trunk. Also, I really enjoy categorizing, and the fact that none of this stuff was mine made me a perfect and objective assistant. So, gentle bitches, for the last three days, I've been working my way through their large home, throwing away lots of shit, moving shit to other locations until a future spring cleaning forces another move, and also getting to know my sister-in-law and niece and nephew better. My nephew wore this shirt yesterday, and I think it's hilarious:

Yes, my nephew is crazy (see tongue) and you can expect an entry on him in the future.
Said sister-in-law comes from a very Catholic family, and if her mami saw some of the things we were throwing away, Santa Maria! she would definitely cry tears of Catholic blood. Holy water in a cheap plastic bottle? Away with it! Beautiful art of the Madonna and the Christ Child? Excavate that shit!
(The picture above is only intended to give you an idea of what we were dealing with, and is slightly more beautiful than the one we actually threw out. However, its frame doesn't even come close to matching the splendor of the original's gold metallic frame.) For a second, I thought that we should save the Holy Water for a possible vampire attack, but I didn't want to be laughed at. So I just snuck it out of the trash bag when S.I.L. wasn't looking. Guess I'll be having the last laugh!
After three days of excavating, I'm ready for a break, so I'm headed to the B-Lo tomorrow for a weekend of hollering. Tomorrow we'll cook out in my honor. I shall wear a crown. On Saturday, there is a free concert at LaSalle Park with an amazing salsa band. Apparently, in 1950, a female smew was spotted in the Buffalo Harbor, near that park. Pretty nifty, huh?!

TANGENT #1: "Grenouille" (French for 'frog') is my online nom de guerre for one of my sisters. She was named Grenouille by our grandmother because she is the smallest of all my grandmother's grandchildren, like a little frog. None of that matters now. What does matter is that Grenouille is a master excavator. She loves to pop other people's pimples. I still have vivid memories of being three or four, and having her claws digging through my nose and ears as she bathed me. (She's about 12 years my senior.) I'm not sure what it is, but if there's some juicy bit hiding in a crevice within her sight, she's definitely trying to fuck it up. What makes it even funnier is that she's my evil sister (I say that as if we all have one) . Her evilness is evident with one look at her facial expression during excavation. She's fucking it up, whatever it is. Look for future entry on her evil, sensational ass.

TANGENT #2: You have no idea (or maybe you do) how scary/funny/annoying it is to be learning recitatives in a house by your self, when your meaty fingers just graze the "START/STOP" button on your niece's keyboard, and out of nowhere the samba version of "O Danny Boy" starts blaring at full volume. I need a practice room with a real motherfucking piano, AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2006-08-17T12:01:00.000-04:00

The world is hating on me. Isn't it always the best entries that get accidentally deleted before you can publish them? Must be karma, and here's why:

The farting dog is not on my lap anymore. I know this because the Bible tells me so. I also know this from the lack of dog fart aroma in my vicinity. Actually, it's kind of inaccurate to refer to him as the farting dog, because that was a one-day thing. Charlie is the dog's real name, and I've never known him to sully a lap with brown air before, barring the occasional non-smelly silent fart, which really doesn't qualify as a fart in the first place. However, charlies gastro-intestinal woes are not over, and this time, it's really funny.

BTW, here's Charlie:

Yesterday, as I was catching up on other blogs, I heard a strange sound coming from behind me, on the floor. I turn to see a large, black rat...no wait, it was cute little Charlie with his hind legs up in the air, and his asshole scraping against the green carpet in front of the sofa. YAY! Inflamed anal sacs for everyone! (The ladies in the audience at the Oprah show go crazy. "You get a pair, you get a pair, you get a pair....you're all getting a pair!!") For those of you unfamiliar with inflamed doggy anal sacs, my scientific explanation goes something like this: it's when your ass lips blow up on you and itch like a mofo.

Anyway, as if doggy-ass-scratching isn't funny enough, Charlie and I managed to have even more fun with it! Here's how you can do it with your pooch:

1. Start with one self-conscious dog.
2. Add an asshole dog watcher into the mix.
3. Hope that the dogs anal sacs will become itchy (this is bad karma right here, so you have to kind of weigh whether or not you can shoulder this burden).
4. Put #1 and #2 together in a house with only hardwood floors, and one solitary rug.
5. Wait for #1 to begin the ass-dragging ritual.
6. Quickly, turn your attention toward the dog, and make eye contact. The eye contact is crucial here!
7. The dog should freeze in the dragging position, hind legs straight up in the air.
8. Maintain uncomfortable eye contact until the dog gives you a few aggressive sneezes. You know, the "Do you mutherfuckin mind? I'm trying to drag my ass across this here carpet!" kind of aggressive sneeze.
9. Look away but keep the dog in your peripheral vision, so that when the ritual begins again, you can shame him/her into freezing again. If you get good at this, you may get the dog to bark at you, or even bare his/her teeth!

Let me know how you all fare with this fun trick, and I may even try to catch some video of this fantastic event and post it here. Cheers.

2006-08-17T11:26:00.000-04:00

Observations from the wilderness of Western New York:

1. My mom is an animal hater who takes every opportunity to sneak pieces of chicken and steak to my brother's dog. Then the dog takes every opportunity to sit on my lap and fart. Damn.

2. My sister-in-law doesn't like people with long underarm hair reaching over her food. She learned that in Mexico while sharing a dinner table with some German tourists.

3. I'm 29 and living with my mother. She driveth me crazy. Just two more weeks.

4. Shit is beautiful out here. Rolling hills and errythang. However, the natives are stupid, and I forgot that. You learn alot from reading the Yahoo personals page. While the landscape in WNY is way better than that in MN, I'd say the folks here are exactly 39% dumber than their Viking counterparts. Damn shame.

5. Wegman's is possibly the greatest grocery store ever, and being in Rochester, the home of Wegman's, I have access to the best of the best. They have a friggin raw oyster bar at this bitch! BALLIN!

6. Flava of Love has the most triflin bitches on it ever. Thus, it is the best show ever! In my favorite episode, a contestant shat herself on camera, leaving a dookie trail on the floor and all the way up the stairs to the bathroom. She obviously didn't know what time it was.

More later.