Archive for » August, 2006 «
In 1985 (ish), I picked up an album called “Nocturnal Playground” by a guy named Russ Freeman.
Little did I know that 20+ years later I’d still be listening to the Rippingtons, Freeman’s band.
I only mention this because I’m going to see them tonight in Cambridge with our good friends, Liz and Leo.
If there’s anything noteworthy, I’ll post something over the weekend.
I will say that I’m psyched to know that Kim Stone is playing bass again. He’d left for a brief hiatus.
That means nothing, right?
I’ll tell you all about Kim the next time.
Click on the pic to visit the band website.
ps. if you’re reading this LG, bring an extra “key” in case they still can’t find the one they lost the last time we were here.
I wonder if they know “Beautiful Goodbye” yet?
And so another school year begins.
“Bob” has now officially moved from our living room to his new digs on the hill.
It was a crappy, rainy day to move everything but we got ‘er done.
We didn’t even have a last meal planned but I thought a grilled pork tenderloin with my special “grill potatoes” might do the trick.
My recipe for pork is fairly simple:
Butterfly the tenderloin and baste it with olive oil (both sides, please); sprinkle liberally with thyme, freshly cracked pepper and garlic salt.
Heat grill on high for several minutes and place on the grill for 5-7 minutes for each side.
Let it rest for 5 minutes before slicing.
It’s pure epicurean heaven.
Try it. You’ll agree.
The meat comes out so juicy you’ll think something’s wrong.
I persuaded Sarah and her new roommate (who I’ll call Kat) to come back to the house for dinner.
Afterwards, we lit 13 candles for my youngest daughter, Hannah.
My wife picked up a novelty cake that looked like a hamburger adorned with lettuce, tomato, mustard and catsup.
Pretty cool cake; a definite Hannabanana cake.
(Happy Birthday, Hannah!)
This year is different somehow, not the emotional faucetfest of last year.
In my heart, I feel that Sarah is very happy and content with her current situation
(and her roommate).
With your own children, sometimes it just doesn’t get better than that.
I’m also thinking that we won’t see her coming home as much.
(I think that means less laundry for her mother)
But if I start missing her too much, you will find me in our little kitchen cooking something I know she loves.
Maybe that explains why they call the kitchen “the heart of the home”.
So Sarah, be safe, be well and get the job done on the hill and know that the light above the backdoor will always be on.
We love you.
I was contacted last week by my friend Fuzz regarding the writing of a post for Beauty versus the Beast, a blog that looks at various topics from both the female and male perspectives.
The topic was polygamy; big love or too much love?
I wrote a post alongside my good friend Annie.
You probably know her as Writer Chick.
Check the post out HERE and leave us a comment.
Gaad, it’s Monday morning, again?
Last Thursday, the leading article in the “Entertainment” section of many national papers was regarding the upcoming Emmy Awards. I find it profoundly sad that Ferguson’s death got a small little blip, an R.I.P. media pity-pimple.
For all he gave to the Jazz genre you would think someone would have placed a bit more importance on his passing.
I heard a few people mention this and decided to at least post a pic of the trumpeter that could play notes that only dogs could hear.
The dogs are all sleeping tonight.
Here’s to your last high note, Maynard…
I’m not a big guy on poetry because honestly I don’t understand much of it.
The works of Platt, Frost, Whitman and Yeats and many more leave me innocently frozen in my somewhat plebeian understanding of a language I actually speak.
Although I admire these artists for their incredibly complex ideas and manipulations of the English language, I fail miserably with interpretation.
But now and then something strikes me in such a way that I understand.
The words of Charles Coe, a poet, singer, activist and tireless supporter of the arts spoke to me today.
He’s a Boston legend and I can only hope that someday I can actually shake the man’s hand and say, “I am with you brother.”
This is a closing stance to of one of his poems called “Possiblity.”
The new snow covers everything.
It covers dogshit and cigarette butts.
It covers used condoms and losing lottery tickets
and under this impossibly blue sky
on what seems to be the very first morning of the world
the city is an old whore in a white wedding dress
clutching, like a fistful of flowers,
the idea that in spite of everything
we know to be true
about the world and ourselves
we might. somehow,
I don’t even care that they say he’s an all-around wiseass.
I love the way the guy thinks…
How about you?
Our Scoutmaster told us to write to our parents in case you saw the flood on TV and are worried. We are okay. Only one of our tents and 2 sleeping bags got washed away. Luckily, none of us got drowned because we were all up on the mountain looking for Adam when it happened.
Oh yes, please call Adam’s mother and tell her he is okay.
He can’t write because of the cast. I got to ride in one of the search and rescue jeeps.
It was neat. We never would have found Adam in the dark if it hadn’t been for the lightning. Scoutmaster Keith got mad at Adam for going on a hike alone without telling anyone. Adam said he did tell him, but it was during the fire so he probably didn’t hear him.
Did you know that if you put gas on a fire, the gas will blow up?
The wet wood didn’t burn, but one of the tents did and also some of our clothes.
Mathew is going to look weird until his hair grows back. We will be home on Saturday if Scoutmaster Keith gets the bus fixed. It wasn’t his fault about the wreck.
The brakes worked okay when we left. Scoutmaster Keith said that with a bus that old you have to expect something to break down; that’s probably why he can’t get insurance.
We think it’s a neat bus. He doesn’t care if we get it dirty, and if it’s hot, sometimes he lets us ride on the fenders. It gets pretty hot with 45 people in a bus.
He let us take turns riding in the trailer until the highway patrol man stopped and talked to us. Scoutmaster Keith is a neat guy. Don’t worry, he is a good driver.
In fact, he is teaching Jessie how to drive on the mountain roads where there isn’t any traffic. All we ever see up there are logging trucks.
This morning all of the guys were diving off the rocks and swimming out in the lake. Scoutmaster Keith wouldn’t let me because I can’t swim, and Adam was afraid he would sink because of his cast, so he let us take the canoe across the lake.
It was great. You can still see some of the trees under the water from the flood.
Scoutmaster Keith isn’t crabby like some scoutmasters.
He didn’t even get mad about the life jackets.
He has to spend a lot of time working on the bus so we are trying not to cause him any trouble.
Guess what? We have all passed our first aid merit badges.
When Andrew dived into the lake and cut his arm, we got to see how a tourniquet works. Steven and I threw up, but Scoutmaster Keith said it probably was just food poisoning from the leftover chicken. He said they got sick that way with food they ate in prison.
I’m so glad he got out and became our scoutmaster.
He said he sure figured out how to get things done better while he was doing his time.
By the way, what is a pedal-file?
I have to go now.
We are going to town to mail our letters and buy some more beer.
Don’t worry about anything. We are fine.
“Books aren’t written — they’re rewritten.
Including your own.
It is one of the hardest things to accept, especially after the seventh rewrite hasn’t quite done it.”
via Jade Walker
I urge all bloggers to click on the picture above and make your blog a place of honor this year for the many victims of 9/11.
I am honored to have been assigned Amy N. Jarett, a flight attendant on US American Airlines Flight 175.
She lived in North Smithfield, Rhode Island, a town that’s about 30 miles away from me.
So close at one point but now so very far away.
This is such a worthy cause.