Monthly Archives: March 2012

An ode to BACON…

30 Friday Mar 2012

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It’s true that I am a vegetarian.  As I brace myself for the inevitable “Why?” and “What made you decide to eat that way?” or the varied barrage of questions that are particularly virulent in my part of this gun totin’, meat eatin’ country, I stammer out some lame excuse about my uncle being one and I just had to try it. Had I known, at the ripe old age of 11, having decided that I was going to be a vegetarian, that I would be asked a million times, “Why?”, I would have perhaps decided otherwise or at least made up some elaborate and nasty story about my near death from poisoned meat.  But the truth is, I don’t really know why I become a vegetarian.  It just sounded like a good idea at the time.

I am not a true salad cruncher.  I hate sprouts and cannot understand why veggie sandwiches always come on seedy wheat bread.  I don’t eat meat, does that mean I can’t have a french roll too? Also I break the sacred no animal eaten law yearly, on Thanksgiving, when I go to town on a thick slice of turkey breast.  And lately (I am going to whisper this so Alice & Angela, my vegetarian compatriots, don’t hear), I have become a closet bacon eater.

Bacon is the vice that tempts me, it evilly lures me in, seducing me with it’s thick chewy curls and smoky flavor.  My weakness has become a bit of a family joke and recently my sister and her man made me a delicious salad spiked with juicy pieces of bacon hidden beneath the coy green lettuce leaves.  I had to eat it. It would have been rude to insist that they make another, so I politely licked my plate clean.

Sometimes I worry that I am a bit of a hypocrite, that if I sneak a piece of tasty bacon every once in a while,  I somehow am betraying my vegetarian values.  But then I think, “what the hell…who really cares?” and I munch away.

Save twilight

26 Monday Mar 2012

Posted by in Hollywood, Whatever

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…and let the pleasure we invent together/ be one more sign of freedom.

While I was gone, the rain cleaned my city.

The city of angels sometimes needs some cleansing. My city, a place where a couple of tourist guides, zip cars, celebrity home tours and tap cards won’t quench one’s thirst for grandeur, didn’t miss me… still I could hear the rain pouring down my streets from the golden gate bridge.

I can’t stop myself from thinking that while I was gone the city didn’t feel I had been gone at all, partially because I’m never truly gone but mostly because my presence is nothing but a type of sub-existence.

Living as any one might live, not doing more than one could and not doing less than one should. That’s the type of sub-existence I speak of. Always afraid of proving myself so I will never prove myself wrong and then, when I surely do prove myself wrong, the city understands and those gates of tinsel are open again, whispering ‘this is home’. This is home.

The roughness never frightened me, the stories never deceived me but I, I have disappointed myself. I hurt myself greatly but that surely doesn’t change much of anything. Life is a drag but it can also be the stuff of wander… and wandering is something I could never leave behind for it is part of the type of person I am. So,

I pack up my bag, fix up my mascara, put on my high-heeled boots and walk determinately to that flying machine that will take me home. A home where not money but aspiration is the currency that speaks the loudest.

Where dreams are usually put down to sleep before they get a chance to check the sunset in Malibu.

 

*quote from “A Love Letter” by Julio Cortázar.

The Blood That Binds

23 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by in Brother, Family & Friends, Living

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The Blood that Binds

It runs thick. It runs with a wild passion. It beats our names—yes—but more than that, it beats out the true essence of us. All of us. Alisha, it calls. Drew! Aubrey and Anna it exhales. Sammi it shouts! It finishes with the sigh of Josh to only begin again with Alisha. This is the blood that binds. This is the blood that works like a braid, tying us together until we are so entwined and entangled that we become one disheveled entity.  One miraculous tangle of humans; a blood gang of brothers and sisters.

We share the same battles. We share the same memories, the laughter, the stories, the scars. We can run our hands along the same rough wood that sides that house that we watched be built up there on that big hill and feel at home. We can breathe that cool mountain air and know that it holds all of us (and not just us but our fathers and their fathers) within it.

When I am happy, I think of you.

When I am terribly sad, I think of you.

Sometimes, even when the clouds lay just so, all that I can think is how I would like to show each of you this giant alligator boogie chillin’ in the blue blue sky.

I feel so incredibly lucky to know each of you. To call you mine—my sisters—my brothers. So this is my love letter to the six of us: May we always—and I mean always—know how damn lucky we are. I have the five of you to call my friends—and friends we will be—far beyond this life. I love you!

The monotonous glue that holds it all together

21 Wednesday Mar 2012

Posted by in Living, Uncategorized

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Today I don’t feel like writing.  I’m not inspired to work, get dressed, drive my car, answer the phone or even brush my teeth.  But brush them I must, for I’m working a double today and 15 hours of unwashed teeth is just indulging this lazy streak too much.

But…I could crumble into a contented slumber right now and dream of that sunny, summer day when Edgar and I fell asleep on the warm, smooth cliffs above the Pudget Sound.  Or I could envision myself 10 again, running wild in the mountain hills with huckleberry stained fingertips.  Or maybe I’m on Topanga Beach with a grey sky, a fancy camera and a brand-new love.

All of these places I would rather be but like all fond memories, it is the mundane, tar-pit existence between them that holds it all together.  For if each and everyday was amazing and magical, how could we learn to appreciate them?? And how would we discern what was memorable??

Yet on days like today, when the clock ticks on and I’m eating 3-day-old leftovers, I sometimes wish for more memorable moments.  But I’m saving up…next week is my 30th birthday and I’m sure it’s going to be unforgettable; a lush hunting ground for new   memories and rainy day reminiscences.

Boys playing with fire

19 Monday Mar 2012

Posted by in Raw Passion

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In accordance with the prophecy, the strong may survive but the willing will endure and endurance is what separates men from boys, or so my father would say.

I like boy stories. The non-sound of harsh lines spoken by silent tongues. Men telling stories full of courageous passion with the blink of an eye. A flame that never dies or oscillates: a flame that endures. I like boy stories but mostly, I like boys who like to tell passionate stories and who sometimes also live it.

Boys with eyes full of a flame I would like to own but can’t while knowing that in life, wanting to obtain an unattainable source of glow is what keeps the wheels turning. Love, after all, is a good excuse for wanting something you can’t quite have but could, perhaps, be close enough to experience… without holding memories as the hopeless hostages of this ethereal flaw of character. Love is usually the man holding the whip, commanding his horse to run faster. Faster.

Run faster, against the rain.

I like these stories. They fill me with the type of passion I always knew of but could never identify as feelings with proper names, colors, flavors or textures. After all,

I know what I speak of but do not know how to tame it.

Irasshaimase Means Welcome in Japanese

16 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by in True story?

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Flying over the great Pacific Ocean, I realized that this was going to be one of two things: incredibly amazing or chew-your-arm-off awful. The airfare was bought spontaneously; mine first and then his.  Bags were packed and we were shuttled off together to explore the Eastern side of the world. We were throwing ourselves into a place were they ate things that we had never seen; they spoke a language that neither of us could navigate thru and a land that we knew so little about.  It could end (if not tragically) than dramatically.

But we got lost in the markets of Tokyo, caught within the gates of the train terminals, aimlessly searched for our Ryocan as Kyoto rained down upon us. We got sick and sunburnt. We devoured every moment greedily; feasting on golden temples, the green of the forests and streets that our feet had never known.  We drank Sapporo in a little tavern (ordered by pointing at the glass of frothy beer on the menu & smiling) until we barely recalled stumbling back to the Ginza district where we attacked each other’s bodies passionately. We saddled onto the stools of a crowded hole in the wall restaurant where they served us the most amazing Ramen my lucky lips have ever had.  We laughed at our wild dance in the International district.

On that side of the world, we took a ride on the fastest train. We spent all of our yens. We chewed on odd pieces of meat that someone ordered. We walked for hours—stumbling upon shop after shop of guitars and kitchen equipment. We breathed in the warm flowers of spring. We were mesmerized by the lights of Tokyo and the strong, humbling presence of Kyoto. A day trip to Kamakura brought us to the great golden Buddha and a hidden village tucked behind a rock wall. We sipped on tea that warmed the coolness of the rain out of us. We counted all of the fat people that we saw. We stayed up late talking. We slept curled around each other night after night.

On that side of the world, we fell in love.  For good. It wasn’t tragic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was down right romantic.

Awe

16 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by in Family & Friends

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Just when I think my baby sister is teetering on the edge of Stepford wifery, she sends me a picture of her youngest, a babe of three months, chillin’ in a Halloween graveyard.  She and I know, in the twisted sense of humor which we both inherited from our father, that a chubby little red cheeked boy cooing near an old mossy gravestone is funny.

Of my five siblings, she perhaps reminds me most of myself and though I sometimes shudder to watch her struggle with a life most 22 year olds could not swing, I am always in awe of her.  She is so many things; a mother, a sister, a student, a wife, a dreamer, a daughter, a girl and how she juggles it all amazes me.  She is not the Sammi of our childhood, that is true, but why should she be? She still loves peanut butter and bad, sappy movies.  She’ll always be a bit of an exibitionist and a food lover.  She still sleeps more than the rest of us (when she can!) and she’ll always have a little wild side tucked away, just out of reach.  Yet, she is so much more than that.  As she carves her way in the world, she’s become a lover and in turn, a nurturer.  A thinker and a believer.  So when she hesitates to staying up late or going out with the rest of us for a beer, I remind myself that she is doing her best at doing it all and knowing that; that’s usually good enough for me.

A Cliché

15 Thursday Mar 2012

Posted by in Whatever

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I read somewhere that courage must be extensively used and often trained. Like a muscle, the poem assured me, it might shrink if it’s not put to use.

One might think that agreeing should be enough. Nodding and smiling strangely while admitting I’ve failed to realize the obvious ~ prior to the acceptance of this unspoken treaty of simple truth ~ should be enough but no. It isn’t. Accepting the fate of understanding and admitting my previous unconscious and unspoken belief wasn’t enough.

I preferred to carry on and consume myself with remorse.

I waved a white flag and willingly waited for the impatient remarks with a bouquet of purple hyacinth in hands. I wanted to be reprimanded for my mindless bigotry.  How could have I hated so many precisely because they lacked the one quality that must be used like a muscle before it’s correctly executed by its conqueror? How could have I been so selfish and even cruel? After all, cowards must not know there is something called courage that is not quite a quality inherent in humanity and yet, it’s constantly admired and seen as one of the noblest if not the noblest characteristic a man could possess.

Courage is not for all and because of that I should not expect it to be showcased as if it were a trait evenly present in all subjects of the human kind. Courage is that extra dedication one owns and displays humbly to those who never thought they would ever come to the point of really needing it.

The cliché becomes the truth and truth is that courage springs from the most unpretentious of soils.

Or so I heard.

It Grows

13 Tuesday Mar 2012

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It grows silently at first—creeping up the giant tree that is us like nothing more than a meager little vine. Higher & higher. It sprouts a branch; two and then three. And in one miraculous moment we realize! “AH HA! Look what I have grown!” A voice. An amazing, wonderful voice full of words strung together that no other mouth could have said.

Sometimes we loose it. Sometimes we forget to look for it. We forget where we left it. We forget that we ever had it to begin with.

Sometimes we think that it may be easier without that lion that lives caged within us—so we let it go on purpose—and put others words strung together on the tip of our tongues. We try on other peoples thoughts so often that we don’t recognize our own.

It’s too easy to become comfortable wearing the voice of someone else and I fear, that it has grown far too common. There are all of these wonderful (maybe electrifying, magical, inspiring—even terrifying) combinations of words and ideas that we have allowed to be tucked away.

So let us speak! Speak! And say all of those wildly amazing human things that you have to say.

Security Circus

12 Monday Mar 2012

Posted by in Reality check?

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On a recent summer sojourn to New York City, Edgar and I decided to tourist it up a bit, so we hopped on a ferry and chugged it out to the Statue of Liberty.  I had been there before, but Edgar hadn’t and though I do think it is something all Americans should see, his adventure was probably somewhat dampened by my continual moans of disappointment in the overly policed process the entire experience has become.  Somewhere along the way, it seems that our national landmarks have morphed into turn-style money makers instead of the revered physical locations of our collective history which they celebrate.

Simply seeing the Statue of Liberty from a vantage point slightly closer than the Battery Park bank, requires a good chuck of cash and a trip through a security circus more stringent than White House screening.  After standing for what seemed like eons in a snaking, winding line underneath dirty white tents, we arrive at the metal detectors only to have Edgar turned away due to his key ring pocket knife.  Upon further inspection, it turns out, he had also brought along another blade, considerably bigger, you know, “just in case”.  So we were given two options: surrender both “knifes” immediately to the NYPD never to be returned (even though one of them was small enough for a cockroach to use as a butter spreader) or go hide them somewhere in Battery Park.  So we chose the latter. Afterall, nothing screams NYC like a 6 inch bowie-knife hiding under a bush.

Finally on the ferry, we cruised through the bay before docking on Liberty Island where we were ushered through yet another security screening in an even dirtier tent.  We were instructed to gulp down any liquids we might have and judging by the torrent of water rushing down the ramp towards us, many people simply dumped their drinks out.  Couple this with the tower of water bottles heaped in the corner, the impression that America left on many of the foreign tourists was undoubtably one of filth.  When we were finally allowed access to the statue, our tickets took us up the winding stairs to the pedestal where we could gaze at the lucky few who were able to afford the crown tickets and had had the fortitude to buy them 5 months in advance.

They have signs around the island explaining that visiting the statue of liberty is actually free and that the ticket prices are simply to cover the ferry boat expenses and such.  However, I would argue that is not the case at all as was evidence by the hundreds of people whose tickets denied them even pedestal access.  So clearly, there is a class system being run at our national monuments, where more money gets you a better experience and exclusive access to something that is, by rights, for all of us.  Needless to say, as I watched hordes of Chinese tourists push past me with their special crown badges swinging about their necks, I took a bitter breath and we bee lined it down to the ferry dock, where the uncrowded and unhurried Ellis Island awaited us.  The rest of the afternoon went off without a hitch, with Edgar even patiently sleeping on a bench while I read every single display at Ellis Island, and when we returned, lo and behold, the knives were there and we went on our merry way, fully armed.