My eight year old son spent almost two hours writing and illustrating a story today. Yes, kids write stories every day, but I have reason to be particularly thrilled with this one.
Eliot has pretty severe ADHD and until recently he hated reading and was none too fond of writing either. Organic, earth-mama that I am, I have spent the last two or three years trying to keep my son off the stimulant meds that all his doctors and therapists and teachers were telling me he needed. I wasn't going to be one of those moms who caved in and ran to the doctor for Ritalin the minute her kid acted up a little. But after he wound up in a psychiatrist hospital a couple weeks ago, it seemed high time to start caving. He's been on a time-released stimulate med (that's code for "amphetamine") called Vyvanse for about two weeks and he is a child transformed. No longer lashing out at everyone including himself. Happier then I've seen him in many, many months. Liking school again. Willing and able to read and write. He's still not exactly a poster child for perfect behavior, but then, neither am I. But I am now officially an idiot for trying to keep my son off the medicine which appears to be exactly what he needs to be a happy and functional human being. And I've never been more overjoyed to be an idiot in my many long years of doing idiotic things. Here's my boy's story:
The
Chicken Adventures of Golden
Eliot's Stories
Chapter
1:
There was a chicken named Golden.
She was in a store with other
chickens. She was bored.
Then a boy named Eliot said, “I want one
of those chickens,” he said.
He got one of them
And
he got Golden. He loved Golden.
He named Golden, “Golden.”
He
gave her treats
She loved Eliot. She played with Eliot. Golden had
friends too.
She ran to Eliot when he walked in the backyard.
Eliot
carried Golden to the corner of the block
and took Golden to a pet
show and tell.
They were on the newspaper.
They
were best friends. Golden laid the first egg.
Chapter
2:
Golden got lost. Eliot was
sad. Golden was on a...
adventure. Golden was captured.
Somebody stole
animals. His name is Animal Man.
He was doing animal experiments on
turning himself...
into animals and mixed up animals.
When it was
dark, Golden got a plan with the other animals.
They made a plan.
When it was morning time...
the
animals started the plan.
Golden honked. He [Animal Man] walked
backwards.
The monkey grabbed the keys and unlocked the cages.
Chapter
3: Golden eventually got home.
Golden was happy. Eliot was too.
The
end.
Well. I was just finishing this up and was about to publish this blog entry at 9:30pm, when my boy called down the stairs and said he couldn't sleep. He's been in his bed and quiet since 8pm. He asked me to come up and see what he had written. There were five more pages in his book and he read them all to me. I'll just include the first two for now because they were absolutely amazing. This kid never talks about his feelings. But he wrote this:
The Adventures of school Chapter 1 bad times Eliot was bad. Really bad. He was sent to the principal's office 4 times. He was the baddest kid in the school.
[The picture shows Eliot being restrained by a teacher.]
Chapter 2 good times Eliot eventually Eliot was the best kid. He never went to the principal's office. He was happy as can be. He went full days in school. The end.
[The picture shows Eliot sitting in his school beanbag chair, smiling and waving.]
Wow. And I thought it was going to be a story about chickens. Ain't no chickens here. Talk about happy endings. :)
Dear Blog,
I apologize. I have abandoned you again. I have no good reasons, just a lot of crummy excuses: I'm busy with this or that; I'm a procrastinator; I'm afraid what I have to say isn't important enough or interesting enough; I'm spending more time thinking about whether or not this well be read and how people will react to it than I am to the words stuck in my brain that want out.
It's a problem. When I neglect my writing my blood grows sluggish with unwritten words, unexpressed thoughts. I feel like if I were able to consistently skim off the surface layer of words-- the algae blooms of my mind-- I might be able to get to a clear vantage point, a path to the deeper stuff below where the brilliant tropical fish weave just so through the beautiful coral. But no. I'm all lake scum and minnows and turtles forever sunning on the same logs. Alas.
But I'm here now. Forever stopping and starting, meandering, trying again. Speaking of which, this morning a friend posted a link to this Buddhist thingy called Starting Over, and it's coming in handy right at this particular very second.
Readin' and Writin' and Suchlike
Lots of books about market gardening and chicken rearing and how to build chicken coops. I intend to purchase four baby chicks next weekend. So that oughta give me something to write about, huh?
Also, currently readingAstray, a fascinating book of historical fictions by Emma Donoghue. And an equally fascinating book of I-don't-know-what-to-call-it, by David Shields. Title: Reality Hunger: A Manifesto.
My ever so wonderful writing group met last night and I brought an unfinished piece that I suspect is going to turn into something much longer, about my retiring from midwifery. I have quite a lot to say about it, as it turns out, and it appears I am finally ready to start saying it. Stay tuned. Good Eats The Beachland Ballroom kitchen, run by super-chef Brian Doyle, had a soft opening this afternoon to test out a new lunch menu. My friend Amy and I went, and hot damn, was it ever good. Highly recommended by us: Sweet potato tater-tots with curry aioli, Fresh "pealafel" bites with garlic-tahini sauce (it’s falafel made with peas instead of garbanzos), Brian’s Asian salad tossed with
Thai vinaigrette (made with cabbage, lettuces, carrots, peppers, cilantro, and bok choy), North Coast Turkey Sandwich with Slovenian style locally produced bacon,
smoked turkey, tomato, avocado, poached free range egg and
Gruyere cheese sauce. There was more too, and all of it was delicious. And since it was a soft opening, half-price! Score! But I'll happily be back to pay full price later.
My Adorable Child
...makes me wish I was rich. The school I want to get him into is $18,000 a year. The summer camp I'd like to send him to is just under $5000. And his last dental visit turned up six cavities which will require a special pedio-dentist visit, likely to be out of network and out of my price range. How did this kid end up with six cavities? He gets less sugar than almost any other child on the planet. The poor child has always been forced to drink water instead of juice. WTF?
Today is Buzzy Linhart's 70th birthday. I dated Buzzy
for a year or so in 1979-1980. Then he moved out of state and we
eventually fell out of touch, but I've been thinking about him
lately and have reconnected with him and the reason is this: I want
Buzzy to know what a profoundly positive effect he has had on my
life. From people he introduced me to, to experiences we shared, to his songs which have become part of the ingrained soundtrack of my life, to my
actual physical health, I owe so much to this man. If you don't know
who Buzzy is, you should. Read on, and you will.
Who is Buzzy Linhart? (Hint: That's guy above is not him, but if you watch this you'll see him)
Trailer for Famous: The Buzzy Linhart Story
You can also go HERE to watch the entire movie for free!
When I was 17 or so I appropriated my older brother's Buzzy
Linhart record, Pussycats Can Go Far, and by the time it
finished playing I decided that this was the man I would
marry someday. His open, smiling face on the cover, his blatantly
joyous voice, his transcendent vibraphone and tumultuous guitar
playing, his charming, disarming, utterly unique style...I wanted to
be part of all that.
Some months later my friend Jeanne and I, having procured fake IDs
(age: 21!) at a photo kiosk in Terminal Tower, went to see Buzzy perform at the
Cellar Door in Cleveland Heights. Many of the details are lost to me now, but I did meet him that night, and we started
dating when I was 19. He was in his mid 30's.
Some sketches I made of Buzzy, circa 1979
When my mom expressed concern over our age difference, Buzzy
instantly volunteered to come meet her. He sat in the living room
being his witty and endearing self, chatting amiably about this and
that, talking in goofy voices, and eventually pulling out his guitar
and singing her a couple of songs. There were no further complaints
from mom.
Yes, he was twice my age, but quite honestly, I think we had a
mutually beneficial relationship. He got to date a cute young thing
who adored him; I got to date a musical idol and have many a fun
adventure. He was always honest with me. I knew he was dating other
girls and at that point in my life, that was fine with me. I got over wanting to
marry him and settled for having a helluva good time whenever we hung
out. While he clearly had his faults, I don't recall a single harsh
word between us. We enjoyed each other for who we were.
And as a then-19 year old, dating Buzzy had a pretty awesome
coolness factor. He had had a huge presence in the NYC folk and rock
scene in the 1960s and early 70s and played with artists as diverse
as Fred Neil, Richie Havens, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Eric Clapton, and many more. He told
me stories about hanging out with Jimi Hendrix and playing on one of his albums. He had shared an apartment
in the Village with John Sebastian of the Loving Spoonful. He
co-wrote the song Friends, which became known as Bette Midler's signature song and later was the theme music for
Sesame Street. He dated Carly Simon. He played a naked hitchhiker (Full frontal male nudity; shocking!)
in the 1974 movie Groove Tube. And I saw him play enough times to know for myself
what an insanely talented and an incredibly charismatic performer he
was. I never tired of hearing him sing and play.
Buzzy rocks out in NYC, 1969
Plus he was just plain fun to be with. He would often break into
these crazy cartoonish voices and imitations and goofy made-up-on-the-spot song lyrics. He took me to hear and meet countless local and several nationally known
musicians. I often heard his own band at the time, Buzzy Linhart and
The Buzzards. This band, when they eventually parted ways with Buzzy,
became The Generators, a pretty popular local rock band who owed their very existence to Buzzy. He took me
to watch a recording session he did with folk and comedy troubadours
Willio and
Phillo. They made a mock commercial for dolphin food and Buzzy
played the voice of the dolphin. Another time he had me, along with
his sister Abby, sing backup vocals for one of his own recordings of
a song called Resurrection Rag.
Like many musicians of his generation, Buzzy had done his fair
share of drug use and abuse, but at the time I met him he was on a
pretty extreme health kick and was not doing drugs at all. I was a
vegetarian when I met Buzzy and, though pretty health conscious
myself, I was duly impressed when I watched him thoroughly rinse his
organic brown rice in the sink and then do a final rinse with spring
water to remove any last trace of chlorine and fluoride. This guy was
hardcore. Later he convinced me that adding meat back into my diet
would be in my best interest and took me to earth by april, where we
dined on Red Snapper Amandine. It was delicious and I felt a rush of
energy eating it. I eventually added other meats back in, and he was
right; I felt better. I wonder if I'd be eating Paleo now-- a diet
which has given me vast improvement in my health and well being--
were it not for his influence back then.
One of the most memorable adventures we shared was when
Paul Simon came to town to film One
Trick Pony. Buzzy and Paul had hung around many of the same NYC
clubs and coffee houses in the 1960s and '70s, so they knew each
other fairly well. So Paul Simon came to see Buzzy play at the old
Agora Theater on E 24th some months before he came to shoot the
movie, and I got to meet him then. And when the filming started,
Buzzy and I were extras and hung out on location at the Agora for
about a week, and then for an additional day of filming at Baldwin Wallace College. And
we got paid for it too! During the course of the filming I got to pal
around with Paul and Buzzy a lot. I also played pinball with Tony
Levin and Richard Tee,
chatted with Steve Gadd,
met John Sebastian and Tiny Tim, and hung out with Buzzy in the B-52s
trailer. And I got to be Mare
Winningham's stand-in for a day too. She was very friendly. Told me
if I was ever in LA to come visit her.
Paul Simon, Me, and Buzzy Linhart onstage at the Agora, 1979.
Paul Simon was sweet and unassuming. Just about every time he's
come though town since then, I've gone backstage to say hi. I took
my friends Sue and Ray to meet him when the Graceland tour came to the
Coliseum, and most recently, I took my pal Rachel to see him on his 2011 tour at EJ Thomas Hall in Akron. She snapped a few pics for me.
Of course, none of this hobnobbing with one of the most famous
musicians in the whole wide world would have been possible without my
own personal musical ambassador, Buzzy Linhart.
And I have Buzzy to thank for introducing me to the chiropractors
at the Geneva Chiropractic Clinic. In fact, my very first treatment
was when Buzzy arranged to have Dr Daniel Duffy, the founder of the
GCC clinic, come to the set during the filming of One Trick Pony and
treat the cast and crew. He spent the afternoon treating one person
after the next, including Paul Simon himself. At the end when he was
about to close up shop, Buzzy asked if he could take one more
patient, and that was me. Although only 19, I had been having chronic
lower back pain for several years. Dr Duffy put me on the table, did
a few magical adjustments, and bingo, the pain was gone and never
came back. He winked at me and said, “That one's a freebie.”
I've been going back to the GCC ever since and they have been a major
source of both health care and information. I have referred many
clients to them over the years who have had equally good results. And
this is all due to Buzzy's influence.
From my record collection
I talked to Buzzy for over an hour last night. He played a couple of his
songs over the phone for me, including the Resurrection Rag song that I sang backup vocals on. He frequently interrupted our chat with
instructions given to his friend Larry who was helping prepare his
dinner. He broke into funny voices. He told me tales of pain, hardship and woe, instantly
followed by assertions that everything was sure to work out okay.
Sadly, Buzzy himself is not in the best of health now. And he has never quite reached the
level of fame and fortune that he might have enjoyed. He, like most
of us, is an imperfect soul; and like most of us, he has sometimes
worked against himself and fallen short of his own goals. But he has
touched literally hundreds of thousands of lives with his music, and
those of us who have been lucky enough to know him personally have
been blessed and impressed with his many talents, his warmth, his
drive to improve himself, his all-out goofy and fun-loving spirit,
his generosity and his willingness to give all of himself. And if that
isn't fame and fortune, I don't know what is.
1974 There It Goes Again
"As soon as anything is that bad, you might as well just rejoice
and be happy you still got your hands and feet."
***
Dear Buzzy-- Happy Birthday! I hope you have a delicious day and a
delightful year, surrounded with warmth, laughter and love. And
remember: the check is in the mail, the rainbow is just around the
bend, you are brightest star in the story of your life, and the Love
is STILL growing. Sing joy!
***
Here is a set of songs on Spotify, put together by Buzzy's son, Xeno David.
When MikeDeCapite's new chapbook Creamsicle Blue came out last year, I
promptly ordered a copy. I'm a big fan of his writing. Mike grew up in
Cleveland and his wonderfully atmospheric novel, Through the Windshield, is set primarily in Tremont. I was living
in Tremont when I read it and I felt like I was riding in the
backseat for the whole journey. I had not yet met Mike when I ordered
Creamsicle Blue, but we have a lot of mutual friends and he had
generously accepted my Facebook friend request.
After I ordered the
book, I was surprised and pleased to get a personal email back from him,
asking if I would like it inscribed in any particular way. Well boy
howdy, give me an opening like that, and I'm liable to run with it.
And run, I did. “Indeed,” I wrote him, “Please inscribe it, 'To
my darling Blayne, Love of my life,' or something like that. Point
being,” I said, “...something to make the book club ladies
jealous.”
When the book
arrived, I was not the least bit disappointed to see the following:
For Blayne- I'll never forget you, although you
cast me aside.
I still have your hatpin, by the way. And your tire
iron, and your turtle food.
Mike 1/3/12
O, happy day! And I
immediately thought that it might be fun to make up a back story to
go with this inscription, but I was busy, and the idea was shelved.
Until this past month, when the prompt for my writing group was “Off
the Shelf.” So I wrote it. And I sent it to Mike and he said-- and this
is a direct quote, mind you, “How great. I
love it.”
I
have now met Mike in person (exactly once) but I'm going to include
the following disclaimer: While the two main characters in this story
are actual human beings, the events and incidents are either
the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious
manner. Any resemblance to actual events is 98.42% coincidental. No
turtles were harmed in the writing of this story. To the best of my
knowledge, my grandmother was not a Nazi. This story is not intended
as a substitute for the medical advice of physicians.
Okay,
without further ado...
2/18/13
Mike-
Thanks for sending me your new booklet.
It was really nice. Sorry it's taken me so long to write back. You
know what a procrastinator I am, plus I had to kind of...think things
over. I didn't really expect to hear from you again at all, given
what happened when we last saw each other. And I don't know where you
come off with this “cast me aside” business, given that you were
doing more than your fair share of casting yourself. Oh, and speaking
of casting, I want that tire iron back! Did you go back for it that
day, or did you wait till it stopped raining? Frankly, I'm surprised
you went back for it at all and even more surprised that you found
it. You flung it pretty far into the woods.
I actually had a flat tire about two
weeks before I got this booklet from you, and I had to call AAA and
wait a fucking hour and a half for them for want of that damn tire
iron. So the timing of your letter was interesting, to say the least.
The minute I opened the trunk and saw that the tire iron was missing,
the memory of that day and all that followed (or didn't, as the case
may be) came pouring back. And at first I was really steamed all over
again. Jesus, if you could have seen the look on your face when you
winged that thing. “Next time, change your own damn tire,” you
yelled. Which is fucking hilarious, given that you know perfectly
well that I tried to do it myself and you pushed me
aside and said it was “man's work.” I know this was supposed to
be your ironical feminist-hipster stance and you were probably just
trying to help, but still. I could have had that tire changed in ten
minutes flat, and without stripping the goddamn lug nut. And I
think you really did have some macho pride and didn't want the
guys driving past see you stand idly by while I, a mere girl,
did all the work. Stupid male egos. Face it, I was always better at
mechanical stuff than you.
But the whole thing actually strikes me
as kind of funny now. Remember at the service plaza before we got the
flat tire, that bride and groom in line in front of us at the Burger
King? I think we totally ruined their wedding day, what with your
being “inspired” (haha) at the sight of them to drop to one knee
and propose to me on the spot, and my refusal on account of you
didn't have a ring. That guy looked like he was ready to slug us both
for mocking him. If I hadn't started up with the crocodile tears, I
think he would have. On the other hand, they were eating turnpike
cheeseburgers, dressed up in a cheap white gown and veil and an
ill-fitting rental tux, so what's to ruin, right? I still wonder what
their story was. I've occasionally thought that I should make up a
back story for them. But actually, you should do it. You're the real
writer. Do it and send it to me, okay? Seriously, it would be funny.
This is getting ridiculously long.
Listen, you can keep the hatpin, or sell it on ebay, or whatever.
That thing creeped me out anyhow. Why on earth my grandmother had a
hatpin with a swastika on it, I'll never know. I've wondered if she
was secretly a Nazi but I have no evidence for it other than that
crazy hatpin. Did I ever tell you about what happened when she joined
the Fairfield Transcendental Meditation group? Funny story; maybe
I'll tell you someday. She was a quirky lady, my grandma. She always
liked you.
I assume the fact that you still have
turtle food means that Raphael died, huh? That's sad. I should have
come back for him but, well, you know. I always thought of him as
your turtle anyhow, even though I bought him. Why would you keep the
food? WTF? You're a weird guy Mike, you know that?
And yet...(That's from your book, get
it? )...I'm glad you got back in touch with me, really I am. We did
have our problems, we were no match made in heaven, but what the
hell. We had some fun too, didn't we? This new little book is
actually pretty cool; it almost reads like poetry. You were thinking
about me when you wrote that part at the beginning, weren't you? Is
that why you sent it to me? It sounds like you've been doing some
serious soul searching and maybe you've let go of some of that angst
you've been hauling around. So you have a steady girlfriend now, huh?
I'm glad for you. I hope everything is going well. How's life in the
Big City? I've been dating this guy Micky off and on for the past
year and a half. You remember Micky? Used to hang out at Edison's
with Chuck and Alex and those guys? Well, right now were off. But he
sent me a bouquet of pink daisies on Valentine's day, so...maybe.
Well, I hope you're still working on
getting that novel published. You been working on that thing
for...well, since me anyhow, and that was...how long ago now?
A long time. Lot of water under that bridge.
I hope this means we can both let go of
the past now. I'm going to unblock you on Facebook, so if you want to
send me a request I'll accept it, okay? Friends?
Oh, and Mike? I'll never forget you
either. How could I? Your name is tattooed on my left baby toe.
Blayne
P.S. I have a blue notebook of yours
with your notes from that lecture we went to by that weird German guy
about music and syntax or some crazy-ass shit. The notes don't make
any sense to me, but neither did the lecture. He did have the
greatest accent in the world though; that I remember. If you want,
I'll mail it to you. Also, your 20 pound barbells, but the hell if
I'm shipping those suckers.
P.P.S. I'm enclosing $5 toward shipping
for the tire iron. Really, I want it back.
I went to The Lit on Friday, and Andy showed his 1990's Decade in Review highlight video that night in honor of the 20th anniversary of artwalk. And yes, I'm in it. Ah, memories. I hung out at the Literary Cafe a lot when I lived in Tremont in the late '90s. I adore that place. This is a slightly reworked version of something I wrote back then. I wrote a sceenplay version of this too, but we never did get around to filming it. Part 2 will follow here sometime soon.
TRUE STORIES AND TALL TALES FROM THE L CAFE
From Book One: 1999
Mob Hits spilled from the speakers like blood from an open wound, sweet and syrupy as a cold Italian ice, yet bullet ridden with existential angst. The petite blond behind the bar asked for my order. "I'll have a Bud," I said, innocently enough. "We don't serve Budweiser,” she stated flatly. The dame smiled sweetly, yet I detected a twitch of bemused sarcasm. A second bartender furrowed his brow and watched from the far end of the bar, also smiling demurely, yet with a sinister, crooked-toothed air that seemed to whisper, I've got a whoopee cushion with your name on it, Bub, and I'm not afraid to use it. "Make it a Rolling Rock," I said quickly, not wanting any trouble.
A ubiquitous man, tall and beige, was hunched over a ubiquitous sketch pad, pencil in hand. He must be one of those bohemian arteest types I hear this part of Cleveland is famous for, I noted, proud of my finely honed perceptual abilities. A boy-faced man strapped to an accordion ambled up to the bar, ordered a brewski and asked to have it put on his tab. A Tab? Did I hear that right? I wondered if I had slipped through a portal to the past. "Hey,” I asked him, in my best jovial, backslapping voice, “How's the polka business?" He turned to me slowly, expression deadpan. "The accordion . . . " he intoned ominously, "is not just for polka anymore." He wandered off, stabbing at the instrument’s buttons while squeezing out the opening notes of Mac The Knife. I was beginning to suspect that this was no ordinary roadside tavern. This was not going to be an easy job.
The door swung open and an abbreviated, golden-flounced woman wafted in like a moonbeam looking for a starring role in a haiku. She must have been a regular, judging by the warm reception she received at the bar. As she took her seat, I noticed she carried a most unusual handbag. "Excuse me," I inquired politely, "But is that purse made out of a coconut?" The room went silent. She glared at me and gnashed her teeth. "If one more person asks me that . . . " Her voice trailed off as several patrons surrounded her, speaking in soothing tones. I backed slowly away. It appeared I had managed to offend every person I had spoken to thus far. Yet I was determined to stay on the case. I was just going to have to try a little harder. Somewhere within this enigma called the L Cafe, lay a dark secret, mysterious and slippery as an uncooked egg . . . and I was determined to crack it.
FIN
A screen cap of Google street view of the Lit, with a couple filters applied
I thought it might be fun to add a little variety here by posting some older stuff occasionally, most of which has never been seen by anyone outside of myself and perhaps a few of my writers group cronies. This one is from the late '90's when I ran the Poetry Porch during Tremont Art Walk over the course of three summers. It's a 100% true story.
***
So while every sane person is out at
the beach or having a picnic or some such, I'm roving about Tremont with a staple gun, posting
"Poetry Porch" flyers in the 90 degree heat. I've plastered about three fourths of the hood when a boy, perhaps eight years old, drives up on his bike. "You
the one puttin' those up?" He points to the telephone pole I
just hit.
"You mean the flyers?" I ask.
"Yeah. What's those about?"
"They're for a poetry reading."
"'Cause me and my friend are
tearing them all down." Sure enough, as we speak another
somewhat smaller boy is across the street picking at the comers of
the flyer I just posted. We watch as he rips it down and crumples up.
He is smiling.
"What the hell are you doing that
for?!!"
"'Cause we like to." His
eager expression reminds me of a puppy explaining that he likes
chasing sticks.
"Man, you're crazy!” He just
looks at me blankly.
“Hey, this is for the Black Poetic
Society!" I try, hoping to appeal to the small African-American
in him.
"I hate poetry."
"You should come and listen. You
might like it."
"Nah."
"Well cut it out!"
"It's okay, you can put more up."
He seems rather proud of himself, as if he honestly believes he's
come up with a good and rational solution to my problem. Then he
rides off and I watch the two of them casually roll down to the next
phone pole and reach for the flyer. I turn away, shaking my head in
disbelief.
I finish posting the rest of the flyers
on tiptoes, as far up as I can reach.
***
We now return you to our regular featured programing...
Wrote some fun letters to an old high school buddy, but not much else.
Good Eats
Still working through that big crock pot full'o porky goodness. Tonight, accompanied by a nice salad. And I've been snacking on macadamia nuts today, which I haven't bought in a good long time because those suckers are 17 bucks a pound. But my, oh my, they are tasty. I'm doing a Whole30 this month which means I'm back to hardcore Paleo: no grains, no legumes, no dairy, no sweets, no cheating. And no alcohol. So if I seem a little bitchy* this month, that might explain it.
*-er than usual.
My Adorable Child
...can ice skate like nobody's business. He's been in figure skating lessons for a while and is now taking speed skating too. He breezed through Basic 1, 2, and 3, and won his first practice speed skating race. He's gotten so comfortable on the ice. It's really fun to watch. But don't take my word for it, check this kid out.
Oops, I did it again. Hit "new post" without a clue as to what I would write. (Pause wherein I decide to take a walk around the block, come home and make a snack of hot tea and almonds.)
It's that time of year when skunks, waking too early from their winter naps and able to find neither coffee nor danishes, commit suicide under the tires of slow moving vehicles on snow covered suburban streets, releasing that all-too-familiar odor that reminds us that Spring! is just around the corner yet still entirely too far away to make us want to do anything at all other than sit around in our pajamas, drinking coffee and eating danishes. Well, except for me. I'm having tea and almonds.
Readin' and Writin' and Suchlike:
Still reading Breathing Lessons, a chapter or two a night. No writing of note, but I did take in a pleasant poetry reading on Friday at Visible Voice in Tremont, featuring Steve Goldberg, Bree, Miles Budimir and a bevy of open mic notables. It reminded me that I need to do this more often. A good poetry reading serves me as well as any house of worship in the serving up of transformative experiences. Good Eats Speaking of transformative experiences, on Saturday evening, a Very Nice Gentleman and I went to dinner at Brasa Grill, at his suggestion. His thought that Brasa would be a fine experience for a Paleo Gal like me. And indeed it was. We had a quick bite from the salad bar, then on to the main event in which servers bring 'round swords laden with a variety of meats in a seemingly endless cavalcade of meaty meatness. The offerings that I recall, and doubtless I'm forgetting some, included leg of lamb, sirloin (both top and bottom), chicken, bacon wrapped chicken, bacon wrapped filet, pork ribs, sausages, and ham. Now I am a fan and an amateur practitioner of both hedonism and gluttony, but there came a point in the evening when both VNG and I became a teensy bit overwhelmed by the parade of glistening brown skewers. And suddenly we were both overtaken by a passionate, desperate, longing...for vegetables. So we went back and filled our plates with fresh leaves and green beans. No dessert necessary, thank you very much. We then took a little jaunt to the new Transformer Station art gallery and smirked on the way in about how, according to the publicity, the place was going to transform the Cleveland art scene. But you know what? It was a damn fine show and and really inviting space. And as we wandered though the first room I was thinking how they had chosen the perfect strange ambient music for the whole affair, and come to find out when we reached the second room that it was being created live by an old friend, noise artiste Bob Drake. Très chouette.
After that, more things happened. But I've already wandered far astray from my food theme, so. Whatever. MY BLOG, MY RULES. Dammit.
Dinner tonight was (and yes, there have been some other, unwritten pauses in the making of this post) Slow Cooker Kalua Pork (Yum!), Paleo rice (shhh, it's really cauliflower) and kale chips, which, since I cooked up my first batch of it today, was made with homemade ghee rather than olive oil. I season mine with balsamic vinegar and smoked salt. I've become a nut for smoked salt. Greatest seasoning since horseradish in a jar.
Meat gooood.
After last night's meatapalooza, I needed to take a little break, so while my pork simmered away all day in the crockpot, I avoided meat until dinner, other than a couple slices of bacon at breakfast and some chicken for lunch.
My Adorable Child
...will be discussed at great length in my next blog post, no doubt. For now I'll mention that he was fired from OT for failure to apply himself or to improve his behavior despite diligent application of said OT. Tomorrow I will discuss this with his therapist. How does one motivate a child to transform his behavior when the child does not see any problems and enjoys acting like a lunatic? This is what I'm up against, folks.
