ballads & anthems

The Missing Tool

Within the first few weeks of college my gaze was set upon the tall skinny guy in paint-stained Levi's passing me in between painting and sound class.  It was a regular occurrence, this walk-by, as were my attempts to somehow "accidentally" bump into him.  No matter how desperate I was to get his attention, his interest in the vending machine, his sketchbook, or the floor seemed greater.  

A month into college, I was addicted to the nameless boy.  I would tell my roommate that I had misplaced some necessary tool at school and had to step out for a minute to look for it, literally praying the entire walk there that I would be granted some love collision in return for going to church on Sunday.  I was shamelessly bargaining with God on the elevator when the doors opened and, low and behold, there he was... wearing those same Levi's I'd come to know so well.  I'm pretty sure he would've seen and heard my heart beating through my sweater if he'd taken a minute to look up from his Walkman.  My prayer was granted, but I was forced to exit the elevator and pretend to look for the missing tool.  I was the only tool, searching for a sad palette knife that might want a new home.

The Missing Artist

Friday nights were reserved for Gallery 100 shows, the student gallery on the bottom floor of the Woodruff Arts Center.  Each student was given at least one opportunity to exhibit there before graduation.  In support of the hard working student artist, hungry friends and fellow classmates would gather in the gallery to eat & drink their weight in cheese, crackers, grapes, and boxed wine.  If the work was decent, it was a bonus.  It was our duty to support these artists every week by eating their food while nodding with approval at their paintings.  Paper plate in hand, it felt good to be a budding patron, even if I never caught the budding artist's name.

This Friday night was no different.  Just as I walked inside the gallery space, immediately my eyes shot to the enormous shiny puddle of pink latex paint pooling on the floor, still dripping off the side of the white gallery wall.  My fresh 18 year old eyes couldn't comprehend the beautiful mess, as it seemed a liability to leave wet paint out without a warning sign around guests who were on their way to being equally sloppy.  I was intrigued by this artist's bold statement, no less the color choice, Pepto Pink.  The other paintings were of equal fortitude, if not also a bit more prudent and exemplary of his technical talents.  Impressed is an understatement for what I felt, and I slowly scanned the busy gallery for a glimpse of the person responsible for making art whose impact was great enough to make me forget about the food & wine.  I left that night stumped, still unknowing who had created the most beautiful paintings in the entire world, and feeling a new kind of crush.  One that rivaled the crush of the tall skinny guy in paint-stained Levi's.  

My roommate and friends looked at the paintings with a cool objective sort of admiration, as if to say, "This guy's work is pretty nice.  Dang, are the crackers all gone?"  Where I, on the other hand, was already planning my next mission: Find Missing Artist, followed by Make Missing Artist Love Me.  Little did the tall skinny guy in Levi's know it, but he'd just been let off the hook.

A week later, I was leaving school when I walked past Gallery 100 again.  Without thought, I glanced over and saw a hunched figure on the floor.  

It was the Missing Artist.  

My heart raced as I tried to get a better look at his face without slowing my stride.  His show was coming to a close, and he was now forced to humbly scrape up the beautiful Pepto Puddle.  I wanted to run in there, yank his head back for a good close inspection and pocket the plastic paint drips as a souvenir, but better judgement got the best of me.  Eventually I would connect the dots.

Do I need to tell you that the tall skinny guy in paint-stained Levi's was the same guy who stole my Pink Pepto heart?  The amazing discovery was the real answer to all of those negotiation prayers.  The moment I realized that Clark & Superman were the same person, I knew he was the one.  It was written in the stars and all over that puddle.  Now I just had to get him to look at me.

Ballads and Anthems

No one knows more than Terry how difficult it can be to maintain a career, a family, a home, AND a hobby.  It's been years since I've seen him paint, and even longer since I've seen his paintings hang in a gallery.

His opening last Saturday, Ballads & Anthems, was perfect.  He shared the show with an old friend who's work is also beautiful.  A friend who probably has his own Gallery 100 stories to tell as well.  This time around, we're all married; we had our daughters with us; the art grew up a bit from the days of spilled latex paint on the floor (even though I would've loved it as much now as I did then); and this time I made sure he actually made an appearance at his own opening.  But in other ways nothing had changed... old buddies from college were there, the cheese, crackers, grapes, and boxed wine too.  Although newer and not stained, Terry still wore Levi's.  And 15 years later, I'm still smitten.

week 24 // you are my wild

Sunday dinner at a nearby Irish pub.

The corned beef and cabbage, shepherd's pie, and fish n chips seemed like a great idea until we saw her bacon cheese burger arrive.

Hope you are all having a wonderful week.

>>> you are my wild <<<

a tribute

Six stories of cinderblock, stained polyester carpet, and recreational drugs were the framework for the dorms I called home for 4 years.  I used to be so embarrassed by the fact that I spent my entire college career in that place, as I watched friend after friend move out and into equally depressing, yet envy-inducing, apartments only blocks away.  Although there were no rules or restrictions, no meal plans to speak of (forcing us to make sad little dinners in our sad little kitchens), and there was really nothing that kept us from being classified as a proper apartment, those who lived in the dorms were cursed with the most homogenous living quarters.  No matter how creative I tried to get with my Rasta-approved decor and shelves of random sentimental knick-knacks, my room still looked just like my neighbors' and still smelled like the Steak-umms© they fried up the night before too.  We dorm dwellers were bonded by the fact that our parents were under the impression that "dormitory" was synonymous with "safety".  Little did our parents know that the closest thing to an official dorm Meet-n-Greet was the moment we found out that the guy/gal hosting the pot circle was also our R.A.  And what a bond it was.

When I met Terry he was living in what was at best considered a loft and at worst considered the enclosure above the place where homeless men went to the bathroom.  It was everything that art school dreams were made of.  It was a low-maintenance space where 6 boys with skateboards and guitars and gallons of oops paint came and went without question.  It had walls, but just barely, as if the person responsible for building them gave up 10 feet before reaching the ceiling.  If you were paying close enough attention, you could see the old hooks and stains from it's original use as a slaughterhouse 80 years prior to it's current use as squatterhouse.  I do believe someone received a rent check from them, I assured my concerned mother.  If I had to be forced to the confinement of the embarrassingly air conditioned bourgeois accommodations of the dorms, it pleased me to be able to take partial ownership of the cool digs of my almost-homeless boyfriend.  

"Where'd you get those awesome shoes?  Are they a little... big?"

"I found them in the trash downstairs.  Yeah, they're 2 sizes too big, but if I stuff an extra pair of socks in the toe they're perfect."

{ Pitter pat, pitter pat, went my 90's grunge heart. }

We split our time pretty evenly between school, his apartment, and my room, but not without Terry sufficiently reminding me how lame it was that he was being forced to relive the dorms.  I felt like I was asking a freed prisoner to come back for lunch dates in his old jail cell or something.  Fortunately, my room offered a few incentives that his place did not.

1. A girl.

2. Food, cooked by a girl.

3. A nice view of the city. 

4. Scented candles; towels large enough to cover both your front AND back; ambient side lamps that make you feel like you're in a home, not an insane asylum; and usually some good roommate entertainment.  If asked, he'd never admit to caring about these things, but I choose to believe that those little amenities mattered in the long run.

5.  Cable.

We both would agree that No. 5 was a biggie.  It wasn't just basic cable either, it was HBO cable.  It felt like we were eating the finest caviar in the backseat of a beat-up Chevette.  It was wrong, but delicious.

Sunday nights became our night.  When the Sopranos premiered in 1999, we made a routine of walking to our favorite diner, and bringing back dinner for two to my bed of one while watching what would become our favorite series of all time.  Before then, there was little to no tv at all in our lives, give or take the occasional movie.  I was an experimental video major, busy believing I had come up with the idea that television is opiate for the masses.  My elitist convictions were in direct opposition to my love for Sunday Sopranos.  On an aside, my experimental video professor and mentor was the mother to the director/producer of the show.  I think I may have once made the mistake of asking her about him, only to be left feeling like I'd pried my way into learning about a dirty family secret of pornographic filmmaking.  Actually, I think even that industry would've been more respectable to her than the industry that brought us everything she disliked.  Every Sunday, as credits would roll and my eyes were still unblinking, I would see their unusual shared last name and be reminded of the irony.

One night, after watching a particularly good episode (Russian in the Snowy Woods), we lay there staring out the window thinking about what we'd just watched.  We discussed how poetic and lovely it was.  We talked about the characters as if we really knew them, a little worried and yet so amused.  It was how we talked about many episodes in fact.  I even dreamt of these characters, because Tony and Carmella- they were so believable.  Even in the absurdity of their unrelatable lives, you couldn't help but get wrapped up in every single emotion.

Our eyes were looking out my big 5th floor window, down to the top of a street light, as we exchanged thoughts about Paulie and Christopher.  We were making predictions for the following week when we see a taxi pull up directly under the light.  If we hadn't been mindlessly talking the way we were, we would've missed what came next.  The passenger car door opened, a man walked around to the driver's window, pulled out a gun and shot him.  

We looked at each other and asked ourselves if what we saw was real.  Perhaps this "opiate for the masses" had a hallucinogenic effect as well?  Pretty sure that the man in a hoodie who was now running into the small wooded area behind the train station was confirmation of what we just witnessed, we did what any smart college kids would do.  We walked down the stairs and out of the building to make sure the cab driver was okay.  We probably yelled, "HELP!  WE JUST WITNESSED A CRIME!" too, as we were the dumbest humans that night.  I really believe the dorm angels to whom my mother prayed would protect me during moments just like this kept the shooter from coming back and putting a cap in our lily asses.  The man in the cab had been shot in the face, but was rushed to the hospital and I've since learned survived the incident.  I'm still too naive to even make an educated guess over what went down that night, but my worldly non-dorm-dwelling (now) husband tells me that it was probably drug related.

Drugs, Russians, Italians, Atlanta, New Jersey, Dormitory Witness Protection Program- that was the night it all became one big lumpy memory.  

Buonanotte, James Gandolfini.  You gave me caviar in a Chevette on Sundays.

better to be safe than sorry

I had no intentions of going anywhere or doing anything other than lying on the couch in a pose striking an uncanny resemblance to Al Bundy when Fiona woke up complaining that she felt weird.  She did in fact look weird, so my maternal instincts went into overdrive, albeit incorrect instincts.  I won't bore you with the medical details of a big false alarm, but the take away lesson for me was that not all "weirdnesses" warrant a trip to an inner city ER at midnight.

"Better to be safe than sorry", rang through my ears the entire trip to the hospital.

We pulled into a pretty quiet parking lot, greeted by a pretty bored looking parking attendant.  We walked inside, holding hands, and I felt her shaking.  Full body shaking.  I realized just how scary this was for her.  What was precautionary mother-measures for me was panic-inducing for her, even though she never admitted it.  As we waited for the drunk teenage party girl on a stretcher in front of us to finish checking in at the front desk, I held Fiona and whispered into her ear.  "Isn't this silly?  Can you believe I took you to a hospital this late at night?  I'm sorry I did.  I just figured they might give you some medicine to make you sleep better, that's all."  The shaking soon stopped.

As we checked in, Fi's eyes wandered through the waiting room.  It didn't appear to be a busy night by an ER nurse's standards, but it was enough to keep a 9 year old's eyes busy.

"First name?"

"Fio-"

I was interrupted by a young girl who looked like an extra from a vampire movie... startlingly pale, black stringy hair that I couldn't make out as an up-do or a down-do or something in between.  She had on oversized tuxedo pants cinched together at the waist by an enormous black belt, a tiny black hoodie zipped up under her chin, and the kind velvet mary janes I wore everyday in 1994.  Her hands were also shaking, but it had a very different effect on me than that of holding her and whispering comforting words into her ear.  It was the kind of shaking that made me want to hide my offspring.

"Tttttt-ake ma-ma-my nnnnname off... the the the... tr-triage list.  TTTAKE IT OFF!  I CAN'T WA-WA-WAIT NO MORE!"

Strung out on something I'm pretty sure I can't relate to, I wanted to tell her that yes, yes she can wait.  And she should wait for triage.  And then I wished I'd had a donut to hand her and tell her that she can fill that hole in her soul with a bible and donuts like the rest of us for so much less money, but please, for the sake of the children in the ER at midnight, wait for triage.  

As we take a seat in the farthest corner of the waiting room, Fiona points to a burning cigarette balancing on the top of a Dixie Cup with purple liquid sitting in the middle of the waiting room floor.  An orderly quickly disposes of the evidence (I believe a little something left behind by Vampire Diaries) and we sit down, strategically positioned so that Fiona's back would face Nancy, or Nance as she was affectionately called by the familiar nurses and orderlies that would have to remind her to keep the chatting to no one down.  Nance was a woman in a muumuu that looked to have been made of 3 of my grandmother's large floral print tablecloths sewn together with holes just large enough for her head and arms.  Her right foot was wrapped in toilet paper, left foot in a proper dangling sock and slide-on slipper.  When we arrived, I took note that she was sitting in a wheelchair, head back, mouth agape, obviously fast asleep.  When we were walking back to our corner of the waiting room 5 minutes later, she was now sitting in the chair next to the wheelchair, head following us, but eyes darting up and down like a slot machine.

She yelled something inaudible in our direction, I believe to the effect of, "why are you here?", but I can't be sure as she was slurring and although her head had followed us, one eye was technically looking at a ceiling tile and the other was looking at her toilet paper bandage.  

Fiona leaned in close to me as we slowed down.  "Excuse me?", I asked.

"I'M TALKING TO MYSELF!"

I quietly apologized while we sat down, quickly pulling out a copy of Harry Potter from my bag.  I began reading in my really awful British accent as if to say "See? No big deal.  Just a little light reading and Hogwarts dialect in the ER at midnight next to Nancy, the lady who smells like fries and looks like Nana's tablecloths.  No big deal."

We got up a few times to get water, or to go to the bathroom, and finally to be seen by a triage nurse.  Each time we walked past Nancy, and each time we tried our hardest not to stare.  

Getting water: Nance was standing over the magazine table, holding an issue of English Gardens an inch from her face.

Coming back from the water fountain: Nance was sitting in her wheelchair once more, reading English Gardens an inch from her face.

Going to the bathroom: Nance was unwrapping the toilet paper from her right foot.

Coming back from the bathroom: Nance's left foot is now wrapped in the remains of the toilet paper, dirty sock and slipper sitting in her wheelchair.

Walking towards triage: Nance's head follows us.  She yells, "GET ME A BOX LUNCH!"  I make sure not to answer her this go around, for fear that she is talking to herself again.

Walking back from triage: "DID YOU GET ME A BOX LUNCH!?  WHY AIN'T YOU ANSWERIN' ME?"

Fiona's eyes are huge.  I can practically hear the million questions knocking around inside her brain, as she tries to make sense of it all... why are we here?  Why is she here?  Is she sick?  Is she hungry?  Both?  Is toilet paper a legitimate form of a wound covering?  And WHY are these nurses giggling about another nurse's rainbow colored shoe laces!?  Don't they see that there's a woman with unruly eyes barking at my mom!?

Three hours later, exhaustion got the best of her curiosity.  She was barely able to keep her eyes open, body sprawled across my lap.  I tried several times to put the kibosh on the whole thing and just leave after the triage nurse assured me that she was probably only coming down with a virus.  But they couldn't let me go until she saw the doctor.

Finally two rooms become vacant at once, so altogether me, Fiona, and Nance are escorted back by a friendly nurse with a large red mustache.  He speaks to Fiona as if she were an angel sent to him personally, his register also similar to that of a 9 year old girl's.

"Heyyyy, Precious!  Aren't you sweeeeet.  Are you not feelin' good?  Oh, pumpkin.  Here's the remote.  Channel 51 is Disney Channel, okay?  Mama, let me know if I can get y'all anything, okay?  Sweetie, the doctor is gonna be here real quick-like.  Lay on down."  He dims the light to our room, and I'm pretty sure he would've stayed and played Chinese Checkers or braided her hair if he could.  But alas, Nance needed tending to in Room 20, and so he wheeled her out of Room 19 and across the narrow hall.

With both our doors still open, we could hear him say in a normal much less enthusiastic voice, "Hello again, Nance.  What's wrong tonight?  Sweetie, last night your other foot was all wrapped up.  Now this one hurts?"  She cleared up the misunderstanding by saying, "Naw, that's my Chri'mas foot."

Disney Channel, Schmisney Channel.  Fiona's eyes were fixed on Room 20.  She watched a resident bring Nance a box lunch, and I watched Fiona smile, lean back, and relax a little.  When her curtain was pulled,  Fiona's eyes moved down to the shin-height production, watching and listening as Nance unwrapped one of her hurt feet, and explain to the doctors that some pain medicine would definitely make matters better.  Fiona clasped her hands in relief when the doctor agreed to bring her some.  Leaning over she whispered, "Yay!  The medicine will help!"  And when she demanded that he check her heart, Fiona shot me a double thumbs up when she heard the doctor assure her that her heart sounded great.  

Feeling the anticipation of imminent discharge, I think Fiona assumed that just as Nance was admitted so would she be leaving with us.  Her cunning eavesdropping skills allowed her to stay up-to-date on Nance's prognosis, up until the very moment we were granted leave at 2:30am.  She was almost satisfied with her prognosis, with the exception of one nagging concern. 

"Mom, why does she keep asking the doctor to look at her foot?  I think they need to look at her eyes before we go."  

Better to be safe than to be sorry.

week 23 // you are my wild

There is a point in every summer when a new sort of hell has taken the place of the early morning school day hell, which already seems like such a thing of the past.

Two words that have made centuries of moms mad, "I'm bored."

My first summer tactic (also my most patient tactic) is inspiration.  We dig through cabinets to find long lost board games.  I dust off the croquet set from the garage.  We pack poolside picnics.  They each pick out one book from the book store.  I throw cardboard boxes and markers at them and lock them out of the house.  Whatever it takes to avoid hearing those two awful words.

My second summer tactic is threats of putting them to work.  "You can't find something to do?  Here.", as I hand them rubber gloves and a toilet brush.  It is the oldest trick in the Mom Handbook.  I recall my own childhood, the first time of the summer that I made the mistake, landing myself on the front porch shucking what I remember being enough corn to feed an entire Mexican village.  "Whyyyyy do we have so much corrrrrrrrrn???", I'd whine to my mother who couldn't hear me anyway from inside the locked airconditioned house.

My third summer tactic is researching sleep away camps.  Terry usually shuts that one down before I make it to the online registration page.

And lastly, a new tactic, made only more enjoyable for myself, is the Polaroid tactic.  If you can't beat 'em, make your days look dreamy and lovely through dusty old Polaroids.

All Lies.

During a recent phone call by a person who wishes to remain anonymous*, I acquired my newest favorite absurd story.  Enjoy!

I was in L.A. on business.  After the first couple of days of work, I was then free to roam around and sightsee in the obligatory airport rental convertible I'd have for the remainder of the visit.  

Being a north easterner to my core, I see and feel the geographic and cultural differences upon arrival.  

It is so flat.  (Note to self: next trip, you'll need a bike in addition to the convertible.)  

I realize how much I like cacti.  

The weather really does live up to the hype.

There are a lot of homeless people.  I live in NYC, but even still.  It doesn't compare to this.  Maybe I'm just noticing it more here because it's so flat and because the weather is so nice.  And because of the cacti.

The people here are very nice.  There seems to be a lack of cynical assholes for sure.  After a series of bad-taste jokey jokes delivered to my car rental associate, I realize that I am the cynical asshole that just infected the land of good vibes.  After some reflection and introspection, I further conclude that it has everything to do with the difference in weather.  

I decide to go see the Stanley Kubrick exhibit at LACMA.

It's amazing.  I spent an entire day devouring all the information I could from the exhibit.  I am a Stanley Kubrick expert now, and it feels good.

The following day, one of my friends who lives in L.A. and knows I'm in town, Kathy, hits me up to hang out.

"We should go to the Stanley Kubrick exhibit at LACMA."

This was the moment that would change everything.  Well, not everything.  But it would change everything about the next day.

"Yeah!  That would be great.  I've been wanting to see that exhibit."

I'm not sure why I lied.  It was a useless lie.  Not unlike the million other useless lies I've told over the years.  

* * *

Like the time I told a friend I was experienced in psychedelic drugs, when asked.  Followed by the time I declined psychedelic drugs to the same friend because I was scared.  Because I had never ever taken a psychedelic drug before.

* * *

Like the time I went to dinner party with friends of an ex who I knew I'd never see again.  When the host asked me my name, I answered honestly.  But when asked what I do for a living, I am suddenly a guitar player.  I'm not sure how it came to that, but there it was, resting on my lips, "guitar player.  Professional."  What was so bad about being a designer?  Apparently, it was just too honest.

"Really?!  You play the guitar?  That's amazing!  What do you do?"

"Oh.  Just lessons."

"Wow, okay.  Where do you give lessons?"

"I give... lessons... at a music store."

"Really?  Which one?  I know every music store in town!"

"You do?  Well then, Lower East Side."

"Lower East Side, Lower East Side... nothing's ringing a bell... what's the name of the place?"

"All Music.  The name is 'All Music'."

"Okay.  Cool.  I'll have to stop in sometime and check it out.  Hey- hold on one sec, will ya?  I'm going to run and grab us some guitars, and maybe we can a play something?"

It was then that I nodded, turned around, walked up the steps to the bathroom, and locked the door.  After an hour of being sick, my girlfriend came up to check on me.  I told her I would not come out until the guy with the guitars went to bed.  And of course I would have to break up with my girlfriend.

* * *

Again, I have no idea why I couldn't have just said, "I actually already went to LACMA yesterday, but I'd still love to see it again tomorrow." But by the time I had already not said that, I was on to the next course of lies.

"Great.  Pick you up in the morning?"

"Yes.  I'm a morning person."

On our way to the museum, I am already very uncomfortable driving down familiar roads and looking at familiar sights that she is now pointing out to me.  As we look for parking, I tell her to turn the corner and check for cheaper lots in the back.  She does, and low and behold.  The cheaper lot.  She gives me a look as if to say, "Nice.  Sure you've never been to LA before?"

We walk inside.  I gasp.  It felt like the right thing to do.

We meander from piece to piece, stopping to read all the same information I'd read the day before.  I play along for a few pieces, but begin to panic a bit at the thought of having to maintain this level of feigned curiosity throughout the largest museum in the western hemisphere.  I loosen up a bit, and walk ahead of her.  

She catches up and says, "Incredible."

"I know.  He began his career when he was 17..."

We move to the next piece where I'd forgotten I'd procured that little fact a day earlier from the museum placard that read, "Kubrick began his career at the age of 17."

She looks at me.  "You're a pretty big fan, I see.  You really know a lot about him."

I lie-smile.

We continue this way for the remainder of the exhibit.  She tells me she'll be right back; she has to use the restroom.  I watch her look around, searching for restroom signs.  I tell her that it's down the hall, just beyond the Japanese exhibits, and hang a right.  Or at least I think.  She smiles with raised brow.

I tell her I'm hungry, and she offers to buy me a sandwich.  I decline and tell her that I'm not very impressed with the food here- er, not impressed with the food at museums in general.  All Museums.  Like All Music.  I dodged the bullet again.

An entire day was spent conserving a needless lie.  And yet it was not a new feeling; being trapped in such idiotic dedication, that is.  And it probably won't be the last time.  I do believe I'm perfecting my craft.  -as told by "anonymous".

*When gaining his permission to post this, I read it aloud to him.

"So, can I?  Do you mind if I post it, or do you think there's any way 'Kathy' will read it?"

"Dera, don't use my name.  I really like her and her friendship, and I can't believe I've managed to not screw it up.  Yet.  Besides, I can picture myself forgetting you wrote it and telling her to read your blog.  And then she'll read it, and I'll have to  tell her that I forgot to mention that I had another brother.  Who went to LACMA to see the Kubrick exhibit.  And wow, he's such a liar."

week 22 // you are my wild

Leave it to me to go to the prettiest beach with 3 cameras in tow (film included!), and not take a single photo with anything but my phone.

Luckily we were still in beach mode when we returned, which allowed me to capture the essence* of our vacation.

*essence: lounging about all day in bathing suits and sandals, noses and shoulders kissed by the sun, specks of sand still found in our hair.

>>> take a peek at week 22 here <<<

week 21 // you are my wild

What an amazing week this was.

Each image is so full of life.  Each one tells a different story from our different little corners.

From the subtlety of an expression given in a glance to a glimpse into those first few fragile moments of bringing new life into the world.  From waiting for the ball to sink into the mitt to waiting for a hotdog to arrive at your food truck table.  From a sip to a twirl.  

And each kid with their own little personalities shining through... 

>>> see what i'm talking about here <<<