Just holding my place in the universe of Live Journal.

Posting a brief entry to ensure my words don't fade away into that long day's journey into night.

Wishing you all well.

p.s. to Doc, docstymie: Thanks for the gentle nudge. It would take a truck dumped on my head to help open the ol' brain veins and let the words out. This is all I've got. For Now.

CARRIE JONES FOR MAINE'S STATE LEGISLATURE

The fairest spot on earth is Maine
Oh lucky is the state
to serve as Carrie Jones' home
in District #38

To serve her neighbors, serve them well,
Lift every voice to say
"Maine is Mine. Make our Maine Shine"
Vote JONES Election Day!

When Memories Will Be Made
Like lighthouses that guide the water
Carrie Jones will pave paths for The People
For their hopes and dreams to matter
For their voices to be heard
Carrie Jones: Trust the Word

I proudly support CARRIE JONES for the MAINE STATE LEGISLATURE. Get to know her through her words, her stories, her actions. Her dreams are yours. Make them come true!


Carrie Jones. She will CARRIE Maine to BETTER DAYS!




Make Maine Shine!

Inspiring "CARRIE JONES" Logo Art courtesy of TORI @ britlitfantwin

I met with my writing circle (Can three of anything be a group?) this morning. My beloved writer/friend M shared the final page proofs of her upcoming picture book-- her first-- due out this September with Chronicle. I now understand why editors say leave the art to the artist. That the art brings another level of the story to the page. I knew the artist was well-known and I was prepared for his style. In a way, I was nervous for my friend because she was worried her vision would not mesh with his.

Hold the presses. Stop the worrying.

Her picture book is absolutely, overwhelmingly beautiful and perfect. A work of ART in every sense of the WORD. (And I mean it. Even the words in the text are ART.) We wept as we studied the page proofs at our meeting this morning. It is that good. That Great. We should all find such treasure at the end of the rainbow. This book is a golden child and I can't wait for the world to read and see what I have read and seen. I am still floating on air, as if it were my own. (After living and breathing this book in progress for g-d knows how long, one does begin to feel a sense of ownership and protectiveness to a close colleague's manuscript!) And now...oh now it is truly a Book. More than anything I could have imagined with this ol' imagination of mine. Stunning. Stunning!

I am grateful for M's friendship and mind and spirit. She's waited a long time for this moment--and now the moment is here. It's dizzying. It's happening. And it is worth the wait. Bears and cubs. Tear down these walls. Get outside. Live. Be. Write!

I know the weather has been unkind to many of the writers in our community. I suspect you've all had more than your unfair share of snow, ice storms, blizzards, and drenching rains this past, endless winter. (Don't throw beans. We never had significant snow falls down my way. Not enough to close a day of school and hence we've accrued days off in April and May. Sweet.) It's the end of March and I predict hope is just around the corner. Think butter yellow, curling flowers and damp, cool green grass and open-toe sandals and skin the color of sand, not chalk.

To help you prepare for your imminent spring awakening, I celebrate Our Spring Training by gifting this amazing concert footage of Bruce on Aug 31, 2003, his last of 10 shows held at Giants Stadium (which houses the New York teams but "is actually in New Jersey!" as Bruce likes to tease).

What are you waiting for this spring? Fresh air, cool drinks with tinkling ice cubes, the sprite dance of butterflies in the backyard, blue skies and late sunsets? Are you waiting for a sunny day? You've come to the right place. Sit down. Feast your eyes on all this glory and joy and euphoria.

A Heads Up (er, actually, Heads Down, ahem) Alert for those out there who enjoy seeing Bruce wrap his wet legs around a microphone: Pay particular attention to the 4:44 mark and beyond. You can thank me later. ;>

Your head says winter but your heart says "Is it hot in here or is it just me?" ;>

Tick tock...

So? Did you watch the video yet? What are you waiting for? Wake up. Wake up!

It's Not Just You. Swear. Now watch. Do it for me. And For You. I bet you're feeling alllll better already. ;> (Remember: Moment 4:44 on the clip. Write it down. Pay attention. This is going to be on the test.) ;>


"You're off to great places. Today is your day.
Your mountain is waiting, so get on your way."
-Dr. Seuss, OH THE PLACES YOU'LL GO

I'm frustrated.
I've done nothing this week that hints of writing.
I'm angry.
I'm tired of yelling at the news I read and the news I see.
I'm waiting on the world to change but I have to start with myself.
And...
I'm tired of yelling at myself
when I'm the only one who can save my world-- and save myself.

Presented without song or dance because...
this is
Pure Poetry in motion.
Madness and writers make comfortable bedfellows.
Poetry isn't always pretty.



Join us and shake your iambs out : If it's Friday, it's 15 WORDS OR LESS Friday at laurasalas's place.

Now plugging: David Cook on Tuesday night's American Idol performance show. I haven't connected with the show in a while, as much as it used to be my one shameful reality television vice. But tonight, someone's voice made me look up and listen.

I taped the show because PBS's FRONTLINE'S excellent 2-part series, BUSH'S WAR, stole my attention two nights running. I expected to fast-forward through much of the American Idol tape, but this number stole my heart. I like this guy. Different. Raw. Genuine. The rest of the singers fall into the high school talent show contest category-- except your kid isn't on stage so you're not paying attention.

But this one...Well... I was drawn in. How about you? (Billie JEAN? Michael Jackson's Billie JEAN? The song we all squealed over way back when Michael Jackson was still cool? Don't worry. No sparkly silver gloves here. Chill.) I think I can only get away with saying "Chill" online. In real life, I would sound like a doofus trying to be hip. ;}

http://booktv.org/program.aspx?ProgramId=9067&SectionName=&PlayMedia=No

Noted YA Author Marc Aronson will be featured on BOOKTV.ORG at 7:00 PM, Sunday night, March 23rd, 2008. (BookTV airs on on the weekends over your C-SPAN 2 cable channel.) Aronson addresses the history of race relations in his book RACE: A HISTORY BEYOND BLACK AND WHITE. This talk was taped at the Brooklyn Public Library on February 27th, 2008. (There may be a brick or two with my name on it in libraries in my home town branches. I believe that over the years, I accrued enough late fines to be considered an investor in the infrastructure.)



Aronson tells us: "I wrote this book to make sense of race and racism now by tracing out their long history. This is a book about deep, disturbing, and personal feelings. And yet it is also about people and events hundreds, even thousands of years ago. As you'll see, I think the two are connected. Race is our modern way of handling emotions that go back to the very beginning of human evolution. That is one reason why race is so hard for us to deal with: in one way race seems as current as science, in another it taps our oldest fears." For more, please see: http://www.marcaronson.com/archives/2007/04/race_a_history.html

Without injecting personal politics into this blog entry, it goes without saying the issue of race is timely, timeless, and critical to our survival as a community of mankind.

We should be better than what we are.
We can be better than what we are.

And yes, our words matter. Words DO move mountains. Big and small.
A speech can change a life.
Think "I Have A Dream."
Words on paper, written by someone who loves words, like you, like me. And yet those words moved a nation and changed a nation. Never underestimate the gift that comes from your fingertips!



Here's something to think about.
A strange confluence of historic events:
King's I HAVE A DREAM speech: Washington, DC, August 28th, 1963.
The last day of the Democratic National Convention: Denver, Colorado,
AUGUST 28th, 2008 (See http://www.denverconvention2008.com/ )
Someone will accept the nomination of the Democratic Party on August 28th, 2008, 45 years to the day since I HAVE A DREAM entered our nation's collective conscience.

The dream goes on. For better and for worse.

Here's the For Better.
Follow That Dream.
A seriously haunting performance of a song I hold so dear to my heart. (And Audrey, if you're out there... This is for us.)

Now every man has the right to live
The right to a chance to give what he has to give
The right to fight for the things he believes
For the things that come to him in dreams

EDITED TO ADD, 4:42 PM:
John Lundberg is one of the bloggers on THE HUFFINGTON POST I have marked as a favorite. When he posts something new, an alert appears in my e-mail. I just opened such an alert. And what did Lundberg post about? POETS writing poetry about race and racism. Will worlds stop colliding today?

One of my favorites, also cited by Lundberg:
I, TOO, SING AMERICA:

I, Too, Sing America
by Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.

Who said the pen is not mightier than the sword? When we stop writing, we stop fighting for the dreams of a nation, dreams of our lives.
"And the poets down here don't write nothing at all.. They just stand back and let it all be..." (Bruce Springsteen, JUNGLELAND)

We are ALL America. Keep writing. Words mean everything. They are what bind us as a community and a nation. From the Declaration of Independence to the Constitution to the words of song that goes to the core of who we are and what we are meant to be: As newport2newport reminded me in her eloquent comment below: "This land is your land. This land is my land."

From http://www.wnyc.org/shows/lopate/episodes/2008/03/03/segments/94399

The Leonard Lopate Show
What Makes a Best-Selling Children’s Book?
From the Goosebumps to the Harry Potter series, some children’s books become enormous best-sellers. Jean Feiwel, Senior Vice President and publisher of Feiwel and Friends and Square Fish Books, Diane Roback, Senior Editor of the children's section of Publisher’s Weekly, and Micha Hershman, a manager of Borders Group children's department, discuss what makes a best-selling children’s book.

In case you missed this interesting segment on Leonard Lopate's radio show, originally aired earlier last week, you can click and listen here:

I did not have an easy recovery period after the oral surgery yesterday. Five ungodly hours in a dentist's surgical chair. Oh yes. The last place on earth I wanted to be but... so be it. I call it: I want a birthday do-over. {}

The e-mails, posts, and phone calls were my saving grace. I will get to them as soon as humanly possible.

Right now, the "human" touch is not there. Hard to talk and hard to walk. Pain and dizziness and nausea. Not the trifecta of delicious concoctions.

I slept all day, all night, except for routine and involuntary trips to de-spew. I can't think of a kinder way of phrasing it. Please bear with me.

All is well, technically. It's the aftershock. Like having a baby. There's this gorgeous new life in your arms and all you can do is shiver, shake, throw up and sleep. The baby can wait.

Other than that, everything is perfect. ;}

THANK YOU, ALL OF YOU. Not to get all Sybill-ish on you but I Hear Your Voices in my Head.

And I thank you for being there for me. You didn't even know the pain I was suffering (nasty nasty effects, who knew I was such a wimp? I used to be invincible!) and yet the cards and letters and calls kept coming for the ol' birthday. I wish I had not been mentally unconscious. So much love and I hallucinated through it all!

Before I pass out (and I am headed that way), please join me in whooping and hollering a happy birthday chant of my own to the lovely saraclaradara and cathyipcizade. This has been a busy birthday week for Live Journal scribes, including carriejones and docstymie. You know Pisces-types are known for their creative side and this list is proof for the pudding. ( Hhm. Pudding is soft. Can I eat pudding without losing it?) ;>

Okay. Wake up. It's all right. It's all right. You're safe.

I just had a horrible dream.

I met someone in a concentration camp.
He was a musician and actor. Someone Almost Famous.
I remember him wrapping a sheet around me. As if to hold me close. Keep me warm.
We fell in love. (Survival instincts make strange bed-fellows.)
I remember the kiss that sealed our fate.
And we knew we had to run. We held hands, our thin cloth coverings wet and dirty and flapping in the rain. I was barefoot. I remember the feeling of the mud drenching and swallowing my toes, slowing me down. He kept running.

And there are the Nazis chasing me through the forest, Nazis holding me down, making me scream my allegiance to Hitler as the guns are drawn and I am sobbing.

It's not good to cry on your birthday.
Very superstitious. {}

The day can only get better-- if you call going to the dentist for major mouth surgery "better." I know. Could he have picked a worse day and told me "That's all I have"? He made me an offer I couldn't refuse. ;}

Thanks to you for the lovely thoughts here (can LJ entries be copied and pasted from one entry to another?) and in e-mail.

I need to erase this nightmare from my memory. Too real, too painful.

May God bless and keep you always,
May your wishes all come true,
May you always do for others
And let others do for you.
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung,
May you stay forever young



Added to edit after posting: Too bizarre. Check out the time this entry was posted on Live Journal. 3-0-6. Shiver me timbers! Oy! Seriously unplanned but maybe it's a sign.. The Powers that Be work in Mysterious Ways. Is it too early to start drinking? I have a feeling it's going to be ONE OF THOSE DAYS.... ;}

In my ever-obsessive need to stake my claim as a Native Daughter of the lovely borough other writers now think they discovered circa 1985, I post this hip, hot essay from author Colson Whitehead as originally read in this Sunday's New York Times Book Review section:
I WRITE IN BROOKLYN. GET OVER IT. (his title, not mine)

I started reading Colson's novel JOHN HENRY DAYS and I can't remember why I put it down. It was during Springsteen's Seeger Sessions tour and I was big on learning more about the iconic John Henry, the Steel Driving legendary hero.
(I think I stopped reading more due to my Springsteen show schedule and less because of the quality of the writing. I remember the reviews. They liked it.)

statue of John Henry

In case the memo has not reached your desk yet: Brooklyn has always been cool and kind to writers. I should know. Stamping foot, pouting lips. I was there before you. So get over it. ;>

pretty little map of Brooklyn; double click to enlarge for a better view

My cordless mouse is dying so I am about to melt into the ether, like the Wicked Witch of the West. Foiled by technology. And I have no idea where the replacement batteries are. What kind of modern convenience is this?

I so wanted to write about the biography I just bought from Amazon. I could not find it in the stores. I can't wait to crack it open and fall in: it's the biography of Betty Smith, author of one of my favorite books... wait for it... A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN. (Click link to browse its glorious, Brooklyn-authentic pages.) Better yet, because I don't want you to leave here without a gift, Browse Inside here (and don't say another disparaging word about Brookly bum-types again): ;}

Browse Inside this book Get this for your site

Another huge reveal of a fake memoir.

AUTHOR ADMITS ACCLAIMED MEMOIR IS FANTASY:

From the NYT article:
In a sometimes tearful, often contrite telephone interview from her home on Monday, Ms. Seltzer, 33, who is known as Peggy, admitted that the personal story she told in the book was entirely fabricated. She insisted, though, that many of the details in the book were based on the experiences of close friends she had met over the years while working to reduce gang violence in Los Angeles.

“For whatever reason, I was really torn and I thought it was my opportunity to put a voice to people who people don’t listen to,” Ms. Seltzer said. “I was in a position where at one point people said you should speak for us because nobody else is going to let us in to talk. Maybe it’s an ego thing — I don’t know. I just felt that there was good that I could do and there was no other way that someone would listen to it.”

The book, LOVE AND CONSEQUENCES, was recently published by Riverhead (Penguin).

More from the TIMES article:
Sarah McGrath, the editor at Riverhead who worked with Ms. Seltzer for three years on the book, said she was stunned to discover that the author had lied.

“It’s very upsetting to us because we spent so much time with this person and we felt such sympathy for her and she would talk about how she didn’t have any money or any heat and we completely bought into that and thought we were doing something good by bringing her story to light,” Ms. McGrath said.

“There’s a huge personal betrayal here as well as a professional one,” she said.

I have to admit I have little sympathy for the purported writer. I wonder if she ever browsed the FICTION section in the library. I heard there are a few good books in there. My heart broke for the editor. What could it feel like to wake one morning to find out all the words you fell in love with were lies?

A fascinating essay in today's New York Times reinforces my love for children's books and children's authors. A must read: a true fan piece spotlighting William Steig's world and the current exhibition of his work on display at The Jewish Museum here in New York. Better get thee to the exhibit soon as it ends March 16th. (Why do I feel as if I am the last to know all the good stuff?)

Things I didn't know: Steig was Brooklyn boy. (Instant rapport.) A Brooklyn Jewish boy. (Who knew?) That he sold his first cartoon to THE NEW YORKER magazine when he was 23 to help support his family. That he began publishing his children's books when he was 61 years old. (Okay. I am not giving away my age. All I am saying: there's hope, there's time, there's time! I feel better now.) ;}

Things I did know: some of his books have been my best friends as both a writer and children's book aficionado. The less-talked about, less seemingly impossible BRAVE IRENE was a story I read over and over again to my children-- and to myself. Irene was the girl I never thought I was, the girl who never gave up, despite the obstacles of the wind, the snowstorm, the darkness, the impossibilities...

If I couldn't be that girl when I was little, I am determined to be her now. {}

*******************
From the William Steig website:


double click to enlarge

From ART KNOWLEDGE NEWS: “I often ask myself, ‘What would be an ideal life?’ – I think an ideal life would be just drawing,” William Steig said in 1992. He died in 2003 at the age of 95.

Are any of your books loooking for a new home? Here's a novel idea. Pun intended. It's awkward it never occurred to me before: bring your books to homeless shelters. Head on over
to the ABC news site for an eye-opening piece on book clubs forming in these shelters. In my book, food, clothing, and shelter provide the traditional necessities, but let's not forget that other basic need: to read, to connect, to share, to see ourselves in stories and to feel less alone.

From the article:
"At a time when book-reading is declining and is especially low among poorer people according to a recent Associated Press-Ipsos poll, the book club at 2100 Lakeside seems ill-fated. But, while 1 in 4 people polled admitted to having read no books in 2006, homeless men here are reading two a month."


I know I am preaching to the choir when I say there "is no frigate like a book." (Why argue with Emily Dickinson?)

There is no frigate like a book (1263)
by Emily Dickinson

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away,
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears a Human soul.

Many moons ago, I found refuge in the pages of a book. That was X thousand books ago as well. (Numbers schmumbers.) One of the first books I ever read to myself-- and then to my parents-- was AND TO THINK THAT I SAW IT ON MULBERRY STREET. The man who launched 10,000 children's book editors pleas for "No Dr. Seuss imitators" celebrates his birthday today, March 2nd. Happy Birthday, Theodor Seuss Geisel. I'll always love you. Not green eggs. Not ham. (The food. LOVED the book.) When I realized I Could Read it Myself, hello, I found nirvana and I never, ever looked back. Not sure what would have become of me but I suspect none of it would have been good.

I guess you could say what I found on Mulberry Street was... me.


Dr. Seuss, still looking good at 104

P.S. Seuss's Mulberry Street was in Springfield, Massachusetts, Geisel's birthplace. Not the infamous Mulberry Street in Little Italy more familiar to residents of the New York area. In a 6 Degrees from Kevin Bacon way, it pleases me to know I touched Seuss DNA somewhere, sometime in the course of the six years I lived in Springfield, Mass. His love was in the air. Everywhere. And now that I look back on those years, I sort of miss Springfield, too. Oh the things I could think about, all those things that happened in my life in Springfield. But that's another story.



"Nothing," I said, growing red as a beet,
"But a plain horse and wagon on Mulberry Street..."



As the Good Book says, according to Dr. Seuss:
“Today was good. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one.”

(In truth: today was okay. Too busy for a Saturday. A little too much pressure and angst. But tomorrow is another one and another chance to make it better. You know, as in Hey Jude... "Then you can start to make it better..." I'm here, I'm not. I know. I'm lost in the bowels of parenting and real life and calendars and checkbooks. Wake me up when the bat mitzvah's over.)

Don't ask. It's all right, Ma. Just accept. Yes. That's Bob Dylan. Must See Hava Negila. ;>

I know.
Get a life.
But seriously.
I just read Great News online.

This news makes me happy.
Gleeful.
Bordering on ecstatic.

Comedian Lewis Black is getting his own show!

Coming to COMEDY CENTRAL on March 12th. What sounds like one of the wackiest premises to come along since Mork moved into Mindy's hometown: a plaintiff vs defendant courtroom-like challenge, wherein Black presides over debates to decide the greater of two evils. Hot button controversies lined up for this show include American Idol vs High School Musical, Paris Hilton vs Dick Cheney, etc. I love it.

The show is "The Root of All Evil" and it may be just what Lewis needs to become the break out star he almost is.

It may bomb. It takes a while for funny people to find their place.
They make great sidekicks. They make great "best friends."
But it's tricky when the star IS the Funny One.

SEINFELD knew best: he was funny but he surrounded himself with friends that were even funnier.

CURB YOUR ENTHUSIASM is hysterical because the comedy is brilliant. And Larry David isn't being funny. He's being Larry David-ish.

LUCILLE BALL was in a class by herself. We loved her because her wit was always a vehicle to a destination. Her antics kept the Ricardos from falling apart.

MARY TYLER MOORE was a brilliantly funny show. Mary on her own was white bread. But her family of news colleagues made me laugh like nothing else could.

I love Lewis Black.
Smart, funny, a mirror of my frustrations and angst.
I hope this show is as great as his talents.

Here's Black doing his best Chris Crocker "Leave Britney Alone" sendoff. Just think what this could do for Huckabee!



p.s. Happy 2/26 birthday-- happy THIRTEENTH birthday-- to my baby. I love you more than...anything. Bruce included. Even though I played Bruce CDs over and over in the labor and delivery room until you finally showed up-- and showed the world your pretty and brainy face. The doctor almost dropped you. The next morning, he thought you were a boy and it took an extremely post-partum angry me to remind him who and what you are. And...we haven't stopped laughing since. {}

Why oh why did I quit taking guitar lessons?
(There's a good story there. It involves outing a family member who wishes to remain anonymous in this semi-professional writer-to-writer journal.) ;>

But oh! This kid is on the right path.
Long may she play.

Guaranteed to make you smile. Laugh. And sing along.
That's what a great song can do.
All across the universe (tipping my hat to the Beatles, of course), great words resonate and make sense to people of all ages.

I surround myself with books, hundreds of books (I Can't Stop Buying Them... Save Me Somebody) and pray for the magic in the paper to seep into my skin. I am their assistant. I tap tap tap and hold my breath, willing the trick to work. Presto change-o. Make my words appear. Shazam!

Aint woiyds grand? Where would we be without them?

Random Thoughts while I Nurse Myself Back to Life:

If this is what the flu feels and looks like, I will kick myself for not getting the flu shot.

I've had more hallucinations in the past 48 hours than a roomful of kids on LSD.

My bones ache in places I didn't realize I had bones.

My family was in my house for the football game yesterday. I never saw them.

Tea is good.

I can't read. Anything. That is the worst pain of all.

Edited to add the reason I came online to post here: Forgive me, friends, for neglecting your lives and stories. It hurts to be out of touch with you. A hurt worse than physical affliction.

What goes up, must come down
My body and brain are crashing
and I must resist temptation
to post here
knowing full well
anything I say can and will be used against me

Did someone already come up with the phrase "Thank G-d it's Friday"
and how did that brilliant person know Just How I Feel tonight?

I met my writer friends at a diner today
We talked shop
I filled them in on Kindling
and the drive and the fiction strand
and the bonfire and the wishes
and the writers that welcomed me with open arms

They said I was glowing
Like I was in love
That look we get when romance is mysterious and mythical
That feeling we get that we can literally walk on water

If this is love, I hope the honeymoon never ends
(although I know it always does, the blessing or curse of getting older)

Holding on to this spirit of enchantment and infatuation won't be easy--
(I know, realistically, we are odd creatures and err on the side of angst and worries-- of which I have many and many)--

but I will do what I can to protect and defend the fire in my fingertips.

The weather is deadful: monsoon rains since early morning
and I've lost my ambition to do anything of consequence this evening
In fact, these letters I type may be the heaviest of lifting I attempt all day.

Not true.
My eyes are yearning to close
And I am fighting them,
fighting sleep,
fighting letting myself go into the abyss of
nothingness

Give me a few minutes. I'm sure I'm headed that way.
It's not nice to deny Mother Nature what's due. And what I am due for is
sleep
A Very Deep Sleep

where I am sure I will dream of
quiet revelations found in
trees and lightning bolts and magic and Mrs. Gladstone and Stanley Yelnats and handsome waiters carving slices of honey-soft steak...

No joke.
I just fell asleep
at my desk
before I sent this to Live Journal.

There was a dream in those few seconds of slumber
but I can't remember anything
and I'm shaking my legs and arms out,
trying to re-ignite my engine tonight
but, like my car last weekend,
I think my oil pressure is leaking
and I have to stop this car,
safely

When you dine at the New England Culinary Institute, only the best will do.

Unfortunately, I was so busy working on my book I forgot how to dine among the good gentlemen and gentleladies of Kindling Words. I had to brush up on table manners before I walked into the dining room. No way was I going to be caught dead selecting the wrong fork in front of Gregory Maguire.

It's good to have good people looking out for you. My culinary consultant, Chuck, passed along these helpful, courteous hints-- and let me tell you, no one at Kindling noticed I was once a mouth-stuffer. ;>

Save this for future reference. You, too, could be guilty of putting your butter knife on the wrong plate.


This is how we do it: stretching the brain, putting fire in the fingertips, before the day begins

I knew I wasn't in New York anymore
Southbound, I-89, Vermont to Long Island
Somewhere near Randolph,
one of those towns you only see
on picture postcards,
in art house movies,
and pinpoint black dots on a road atlas

These are the towns we pass straight through
these are the places we forget
These are the people we ignore

And I would never have known Randolph
And I never would have stopped
I would have kept my foot on the pedal
and soared by,
sixty-five miles per hour

But I know this name
I know this place
because my car's oil pressure gauge
went flatline at exit 4,
You don't fool around
with "STOP SAFELY!" messages
blinking on the dashboard
Something tells you
you're in trouble

Like a mirage,
a Mobil gas station appeared,
just off the exit ramp,
tucked into a white carpet,
sheaths of jagged, shaggy layers of snow
surprisingly busy with snowmobiles
truckers in workboots and parkas and knit caps,
and locals, fair-skinned and sturdy,
buying the Sunday paper and a pack of cigarettes

I pulled in, parking my unruly Volvo SUV in a corner,
ashamed and awkward and intimidated
by people who knew where they were going
and what they were doing

I prayed someone inside
the tiny store at the edge of the crossroad
would save me

"We're too small," the manager said,
never looking at me, ringing the cashier,
wiping the counter,
answering the phone
"We don't service cars.
You're gonna' need a tow.
25 miles to the nearest town
Don't worry.
25 miles is nothing around here."

AAA had to come to
rescue me
I learned a lot about Randolph, Vermont
in the two hours of my unintended visit to this
town, buffered by crossroads in the middle of nowhere

I asked Brenda,
the Mobil gas station attendant,
what people did in Randolph
and she told me:
"You're doing it."

Brenda bought me coffee
and lent me her cell phone
to call AAA
("Only Verizon works out here,"
she said)
We were the same age
Fortysomething
She'd rather be
a stained-glass artist
than a Mobil gas station attendant
but she already has grandchildren
she was abused for nine years
she knows how to open car hoods
she knows how to find dipsticks
she wants her children to join
The National Guard
I told her:
"I write poetry"

Driving home in a thick, white breeze of snow Sunday afternoon
Clutching the wheel for dear (not deer, ahem) life,
afraid my car would roll over
as two cars did just before me
on an icy bend on I-89 South

I saw a sign just like this



I thought I had stepped onto the set of Northern Exposure, a show I remember more for the cute Jewish doctor in Alaska
(okay, it could happen, but his mother wouldn't be happy about it)
and the nomadic moose in the opening credits

You see a lot of strange things on Long Island:
fake body parts pumped plump with Botox and gel,
Ugg boots and cuffed denim shorts,
Wrinkled in Time Grandpas in red Corvettes

We've got lots of doctors my mother wished I married
but we don't have moose



We do have the occasional MEESE-kite,
now that I think about it.
I wonder if MEESE is the plural of MOOSE

FYI: In Yiddish, meesekite ("mieskeit") are unattractive human faces.

Not that a moose isn't pretty in its own way.
It's an acquired taste, I suppose
Like squid
Like liver
Like gefilte fish

Seriously.

He sets up a pose with a jovial group of African-American teens. Trying to be hip, he asks: "Who let the dogs out? Hoot Hoot."

I know. I KNOW. Someone open the window to get the stench of racism out of here.

At the 2:33 mark, he asks a BABY "What's HAPPENING?" and then talks about the baby's "BLING BLING." When he calls the little baby "Michael Jordan," I had to check my calendar to make sure it was 2008 and not circa 1863, somewhere on a southern plantation.

Yo, Mitt! You've got street cred in the hood now!

G-d help us. :{