forks knives spoons
plates, cracked
bowls, cracked
wine glasses
glasses, miss-matched and stolen from bars
cumin rosemary lawrys salt salt pepper coriander basil
green tea earl grey Tao calm coffee filters
noodles brown rice peanut butter cocoa sun dried tomatoes
pots pans baking sheets spatulas butcher knives
toaster tea pot microwave
vases
small cooler
broom swiffer
garbage can recycling bucket
drano raid windex clorox sponges dish soap hand soap
Pat’s kitchen table
three chairs
dad’s wooden table papa san chair love seat futon
drip paint painting train picture book poetry calendar
photos of Picadilly circus photos of Bologna Italy photo of mom Amelie poster Ankor Wat poster
map of London map of New York map of Thailand map of the world
DVDs CDs old phones old chargers chords chords chords
green rug
oak chest black book shelf green book shelf queen mattress box spring
cook books childrens books fiction books nonfiction photo albums yearbooks
notebooks journals diaries
sheets flowered blanket down comforter ratty pink blanket 4 pillows Gerald
t-shirts nice shirts pants jeans shorts skirts dresses
tennis shoes rain boots heels sandals flip flops clogs boots chucks
underwear socks bras belts hats scarves
box of notes from Nina box of college papers and notebooks box of Peter box of files
bath towels hand towels wash cloths park blankets
guitar
bike
cactus jade red vein
iron ironing board soccer ball huge box of junk I never open
toothbrush toothpaste brush nail clippers bathroom mat contact case qtips
nail polish aloe vera lotion contact solution sunscreen
face wash mouth wash shampoo conditioner body wash razor
me
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Dear Robbi [an excerpt]
You may admire this trait of mine, this ability to love -to drown in it as quick as Jack drowned in the icy waters of the Titanic's Atlantic. My brain shuts down, like so, and my heart and it's veins and vessels do the thinking. It's a dangerous way to live, this, but I cannot and will not attempt to control it. How can one resist the flowery goodness, the lavender and lilac of love? Especially, as you noted, the beginnings of it - when the seed has been planted and the young, wet, sinewy stem reaches the surface of the dirt and it's form is in plain view? And I don't blame you for fearing the wilty side, the other side of love, where you have to work hard to hold tightly to the fading pink petals - to keep it lively, to keep it lovely. When there is a fertilizer made for this, find me, bring it to me, tell me! Because the first years of love can be the best years of our lives - but the rest won't be so bad - not for people like you and I. We'll color it with those lavender purples and rosy pinks - no matter what - we'll smear our petals on the walls of our lives and never ever let them be eggshell or beige.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Memory Tour
As we walked through 5 neighborhoods of Brooklyn in one day and 4 neighborhoods of Manhattan that one balmy weekend, we remembered the time when she made up a bed for me in her sun-lit home, in the room with the balcony and the multi-colored quilt. When I would sit at her kitchen table watching her at the stove, mix concoctions, roll meatballs, sauté vegetables, and tell her about my day at school. When we would lounge at the pool in her backyard, where she would tell me that my body would change, that I should feel lucky to be a Chamberlain with only just a hint of sarcasm, that I would find another boy to kiss even if the boy I was kissing smelled like Michael Jordan cologne and had gel in his hair. We remembered the beach with driftwood and drip sand castles and the cottage with collections of sculls and sand and grandchildren. Woven through our conversations and our subway rides and crossing intersections, memories of her mother and my mother flowed freely, almost as though the two woman walked with us, laughing with us at the passing characters, wiping their sweaty brows with us, holding our hands like they used to when we were young.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Dear Grandper
Dear Grandpa,
Remember when we stood on the porch of the cabin in the June dusk, the lake behind us, the family weaving around us, and you asked me whether or not I was writing in New York? Remember how I told you I was, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the weary-eyed hours of the afternoons at the office, sometimes after dark and sometimes on an airplane between two places I call Home, in a notebook with small messy scribbles, piecing together an incredible weekend with dash marks and strikethroughs?
As you stood watching us play volleyball in the grass where quiet night sounds rose with the lightning bugs, we stood in front of you like players on a stage – your grandchildren and your children and your grandchildren’s children: healthy and vibrant, unique and teeming with life, with athleticism and passion for the stories we have to share with you. You made all of it possible, you and our beautiful Grandma started it all, and for that we are forever indebted, forever grateful, forever here to give you squeezes and hear your “howdys” and your “holy mackerels” with the utmost appreciation of these lives you gave us. We hope you saw us, we hope you witnessed our happiness, our talents and our fluctuating love lives and our cartwheels to different cities and states and our graduations and haircuts, our new shoes and our engagement rings and how our teeth looked when our braces came off.
You should have seen it – the way we all came together the night before you arrived at the cabin in the Northwoods. We all rushed past the reds and the blues and the Green and Gold of Wisconsin scenery into the deep dark woods where we’d all crash together, one huge happy family, laughing and shouting over one another, breathlessly tripping over our tumbling sentences: catching up. The whos and the whats and the whens and the where, whys tumbled out between soccer games and ping pong matches and crazy tube rides, before and after the fishboil and the campfire songs. You were there, smiling, leaning back and basking in your creations, and we felt love. Love in a way that only a family can feel, a love full of criticism and judgment, along with competition and digs and jars and cracked ribs from sudden hugs. Love spanning from the wheel of a motor boat driven by one sibling and pulling a tube that bruises and batters another, a love of proving oneself, building strength and muscle and courage to stand up and beat our chests like Tarzan, beat our chests with pride.
We flipped cups filled with beer for some and water for others, we held each other’s babies, we passed guitars, strumming what we knew and humming the rest, nodding because we’ve done this before and we’ll do it again, and life will keep happening and the years will keep toppling over one by one, and for that, we thank you. For that, we love you.
Remember when we stood on the porch of the cabin in the June dusk, the lake behind us, the family weaving around us, and you asked me whether or not I was writing in New York? Remember how I told you I was, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the weary-eyed hours of the afternoons at the office, sometimes after dark and sometimes on an airplane between two places I call Home, in a notebook with small messy scribbles, piecing together an incredible weekend with dash marks and strikethroughs?
As you stood watching us play volleyball in the grass where quiet night sounds rose with the lightning bugs, we stood in front of you like players on a stage – your grandchildren and your children and your grandchildren’s children: healthy and vibrant, unique and teeming with life, with athleticism and passion for the stories we have to share with you. You made all of it possible, you and our beautiful Grandma started it all, and for that we are forever indebted, forever grateful, forever here to give you squeezes and hear your “howdys” and your “holy mackerels” with the utmost appreciation of these lives you gave us. We hope you saw us, we hope you witnessed our happiness, our talents and our fluctuating love lives and our cartwheels to different cities and states and our graduations and haircuts, our new shoes and our engagement rings and how our teeth looked when our braces came off.
You should have seen it – the way we all came together the night before you arrived at the cabin in the Northwoods. We all rushed past the reds and the blues and the Green and Gold of Wisconsin scenery into the deep dark woods where we’d all crash together, one huge happy family, laughing and shouting over one another, breathlessly tripping over our tumbling sentences: catching up. The whos and the whats and the whens and the where, whys tumbled out between soccer games and ping pong matches and crazy tube rides, before and after the fishboil and the campfire songs. You were there, smiling, leaning back and basking in your creations, and we felt love. Love in a way that only a family can feel, a love full of criticism and judgment, along with competition and digs and jars and cracked ribs from sudden hugs. Love spanning from the wheel of a motor boat driven by one sibling and pulling a tube that bruises and batters another, a love of proving oneself, building strength and muscle and courage to stand up and beat our chests like Tarzan, beat our chests with pride.
We flipped cups filled with beer for some and water for others, we held each other’s babies, we passed guitars, strumming what we knew and humming the rest, nodding because we’ve done this before and we’ll do it again, and life will keep happening and the years will keep toppling over one by one, and for that, we thank you. For that, we love you.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Stanhope
I had the (dis)pleasure of sitting front row at a Doug Stanhope show this past Saturday. I say (dis) because it was far from a pleasure to hear this man speak his words of slurred wisdom, but I must say I walked out carrying a pocketful of something… discouragement? laughs? lost hope for humanity? and a head full of calm rage. Stanhope, in a faded denim shirt which had holes and strings hanging off the arms, swished around his screwdriver, switched over to a jagerbomb which he milked and at times lingered over, mid-sentence, and then went back to the screwdriver for a few more sips. Two Budweisers appeared out of nowhere on his stool, and he’d randomly see those and pick them up too. There was always an unlit cigarette behind his ear, and when he’d finally put it to his lips, he’d pat his pants absentmindedly, realize he didn’t have a lighter, and put the sweaty cancer stick behind his ear again. This was repeated until it eventually fell on the stage and he walked on it without knowing. I felt like I was just with an old college friend who got wasted and would sit and tell us everything that he thought about the world. The only difference is, I paid $25 for Douggy Fresh.
“Do drugs. Don’t have drugs.” Was one of the first things that he announced to his audience.
He also hates the Yankees. But who doesn’t? Oh yeah, the 100 Yankees fans who were at the Highline Ballroom that night.
He had a lot to slur about the World Cup… how watching soccer is like watching the Deadliest Catch: you watch, at the edge of your seat, and wait for something to happen, and wait, and wait, and nothing happens, and nothing happens, and you’re waiting, and you’re watching, and then, all of a sudden in the end, nothing happens. True, but soccer is so much more than that.
He did bring up an interesting point about travelling in Europe. He said whenever he used to go there he’d have to defend himself because people would say, “hey, you’re American, you’re George Bush, therefore I hate you.” Having gone through that exact experience everywhere I’ve travelled, I could agree with the old waste-case. He then went on to say that it would be nice if we could make fun of their governmental choices for once: “Yeah, our democratically elected Commander in Chief was a d-bag, but who are your leaders again? Kings? Queens? Wizards? Dukes? Earls? What is this, a country or a Renaissance festival?” Nice.
When he wasn’t spilling his drink, staring blankly into the lights, yelling at people for taking pictures of him, or burping, the guy was pretty funny. He mentioned that he thought this big change was going to happen in the world when he became a comedian, that he was going to make a difference by telling people how things really are. Nothing has changed though, so he’s reverted to being a downspiraling whoremonger with nowhere to turn but the bottle. Glad I caught the show before he pulls a Heath Ledger.
The guy who opened for him, Jamie Kilstein (who was breathlessly awesome) had quite a few winners, the best of which was simply this: “If god created everything, he created the atomic bomb.” Yes he did. Yes he did.
“Do drugs. Don’t have drugs.” Was one of the first things that he announced to his audience.
He also hates the Yankees. But who doesn’t? Oh yeah, the 100 Yankees fans who were at the Highline Ballroom that night.
He had a lot to slur about the World Cup… how watching soccer is like watching the Deadliest Catch: you watch, at the edge of your seat, and wait for something to happen, and wait, and wait, and nothing happens, and nothing happens, and you’re waiting, and you’re watching, and then, all of a sudden in the end, nothing happens. True, but soccer is so much more than that.
He did bring up an interesting point about travelling in Europe. He said whenever he used to go there he’d have to defend himself because people would say, “hey, you’re American, you’re George Bush, therefore I hate you.” Having gone through that exact experience everywhere I’ve travelled, I could agree with the old waste-case. He then went on to say that it would be nice if we could make fun of their governmental choices for once: “Yeah, our democratically elected Commander in Chief was a d-bag, but who are your leaders again? Kings? Queens? Wizards? Dukes? Earls? What is this, a country or a Renaissance festival?” Nice.
When he wasn’t spilling his drink, staring blankly into the lights, yelling at people for taking pictures of him, or burping, the guy was pretty funny. He mentioned that he thought this big change was going to happen in the world when he became a comedian, that he was going to make a difference by telling people how things really are. Nothing has changed though, so he’s reverted to being a downspiraling whoremonger with nowhere to turn but the bottle. Glad I caught the show before he pulls a Heath Ledger.
The guy who opened for him, Jamie Kilstein (who was breathlessly awesome) had quite a few winners, the best of which was simply this: “If god created everything, he created the atomic bomb.” Yes he did. Yes he did.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Live at Red Rocks
We had been on tour for a few days before we hit Red Rocks; just two acoustic guitars – one strung right-handedly and one strung for a lefty. The first session was quiet, slow, careful, in a dark living room in Fort Collins, Colorado. Our audience consisted of a sleeping Estonian couple and a tired brown dog. Despite the initial humbleness and faux-shyness, we continued the tour on to the road, with a bag of bananas, Earl Grey tea, swim suits, three picks, and a few songs waiting patiently in our fingers to break into the wind.
Somewhere between Fort Collins and Steamboat we stopped at a scenic overlook, our shoes crunching the gravel beneath us as he adjusted my strap. We faced out at the summer snowcaps and then out to the highway. This time the whipping wind was our audience, along with the cars racing by. Both carried the sound away from us quickly so we had little to critique. We’d added a third song to our set list, and were pretty set on a band name as we laughed and put our seatbelts back on, having swallowed enough wind and sung enough disorganized lyrics.
We sat in a wildly westernly decorated condo looking out on Steamboat with a few margaritas in us for our third performance. We had the confidence to play face to face with a captive audience who had heard us in their sleep the night before. Despite his nods and cues, I couldn’t pick up the vocals but for one song. Afterwards I vowed to memorize, but to play and to sing simultaneously is like asking me to blindfold my hands and only see with my heart. I was surprised at how well our performance was received, at how quickly my fingers could jump from string to string as I watched his.
The three solid practices were what created our confidence as we approached the Red Rocks Amphitheater in Morrison. The Beatles performed there in 1964, so why couldn’t we? We climbed a path to find just enough privacy, with just a hint of a possibility of a passerby or two to hear our strums. I sat on a rock and he stood facing the towering dusty boulders. He shouted Old Crow Medicine Show at me, so I answered in refrain. A group of mid-twenties boys in plaid shorts and aviators walked past hollering at us. “Are you two opening for the show tonight?” “Yep, just warming up,” we answered. “See you down there!” We played Ray LaMontagne in preparation for a future show in the same venue, thinkin about firsts, thinkin about the beginning of the end, thinkin about believing in everything as we played. Ben Nichols was next, his A minors switching to E’s and then back again, and I tried my best to keep up. I smiled and showed him the calluses beginning to form on my fingertips and we switched places so the sun wouldn’t burn just one side of our faces. He added another Ray LaMontagne to the list, and got an audience of 20-30 baffled hikers, and our nerves quickly made us wrap up, our cheeks red with a perfect combination of embarrassment and excitement. Our first show at Red Rocks! And certainly not the last.
Somewhere between Fort Collins and Steamboat we stopped at a scenic overlook, our shoes crunching the gravel beneath us as he adjusted my strap. We faced out at the summer snowcaps and then out to the highway. This time the whipping wind was our audience, along with the cars racing by. Both carried the sound away from us quickly so we had little to critique. We’d added a third song to our set list, and were pretty set on a band name as we laughed and put our seatbelts back on, having swallowed enough wind and sung enough disorganized lyrics.
We sat in a wildly westernly decorated condo looking out on Steamboat with a few margaritas in us for our third performance. We had the confidence to play face to face with a captive audience who had heard us in their sleep the night before. Despite his nods and cues, I couldn’t pick up the vocals but for one song. Afterwards I vowed to memorize, but to play and to sing simultaneously is like asking me to blindfold my hands and only see with my heart. I was surprised at how well our performance was received, at how quickly my fingers could jump from string to string as I watched his.
The three solid practices were what created our confidence as we approached the Red Rocks Amphitheater in Morrison. The Beatles performed there in 1964, so why couldn’t we? We climbed a path to find just enough privacy, with just a hint of a possibility of a passerby or two to hear our strums. I sat on a rock and he stood facing the towering dusty boulders. He shouted Old Crow Medicine Show at me, so I answered in refrain. A group of mid-twenties boys in plaid shorts and aviators walked past hollering at us. “Are you two opening for the show tonight?” “Yep, just warming up,” we answered. “See you down there!” We played Ray LaMontagne in preparation for a future show in the same venue, thinkin about firsts, thinkin about the beginning of the end, thinkin about believing in everything as we played. Ben Nichols was next, his A minors switching to E’s and then back again, and I tried my best to keep up. I smiled and showed him the calluses beginning to form on my fingertips and we switched places so the sun wouldn’t burn just one side of our faces. He added another Ray LaMontagne to the list, and got an audience of 20-30 baffled hikers, and our nerves quickly made us wrap up, our cheeks red with a perfect combination of embarrassment and excitement. Our first show at Red Rocks! And certainly not the last.
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