My friend Dan had huge blue eyes and said "fuck" an awful lot. He name dropped the top-notch Atlanta country club where he'd managed the dining room. He got into fights in Boston, defending his restaurant from marauding teenage idiots.
"They thought they'd teach the little faggot a lesson, but I was one tough little faggot," Dan told me.
Dan made lobster bisque so light and creamy and beautiful it almost convinced me I like lobster. He brought chocolate pots de creme to me and my mother, and we shared a bottle of Tokaj with him. I met Dan covering the local Stonewall Democrats for my old paper, and soon began inviting him along whenever I reviewed restaurants. Dan trained as a chef in Italy. He had marvelous taste and a twisted sense of humor.
Dan catered a Christmas party for my mother. He came both as caterer and guest, and had all of us in stitches with stories of weird times in the hospital. Dan had cancer, but had been in remission for years.
"Some young tech could not believe my nipple rings," he told us. "So I had to show him the tattoo on my ass. Red devil. Gets 'em every time."
Two weeks later, my mother and Dan were in rooms in different wings of the same hospital. My mother was recovering from a planned double knee replacement. Dan's lymphoma returned. He called my mother's room from his, told us both that he loved us, and died a couple of weeks later.
Dan deserved more than fifty years. Dan had so much kindness and wit and talent and love in him. I miss him every time I pass the farmers market where he sold exquisite homemade cookies and handmade red wine syrup. One of the last kind things Dan did for me was to walk me through the process of applying for disability. Dan knew the program because of earlier, devastating bouts with lymphoma. When I called him for help, I weighed nearly 600 pounds and was immobilized by sciatica. The advice Dan gave me led me to health insurance, surgery and a healthy, worthwhile life. I truly believe that, without his grace and good sense, I might not be alive today.
I owe him. On October 17th, I hope to repay a few of his many kindnesses to me during our all too brief friendship. I will Light up the Night for Dan Holmes.
Anyone who'd like to sponsor me can e-mail me through the blog. I'm not really in it for the donations, but the charity would probably appreciate it.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Ben Folds Project:Philosophy
I'm crazy, but I get the job done.
A couple of years ago,my therapist left Catholic Charities, and I made her a CD that organized my magical mental health in song form. I drew a human brain on the CD using Sharpies. I drew the brain in rainbow colors and loaded it with songs. I started off with the Johnny Cash version of "Hurt", moved along through such sad girl classics as "Save me" (Aimee Mann) and "Because of You" (Kelly Clarkson). The disc gets less depressing with songs like "In Between Days" (Ben Folds' cover, naturally) beforing ending with "Proud" (yes, the song from The Biggest Loser, a show I kind of despise for reasons I won't get into here).
"You made a mix tape for your shrink!" My friend Paul could barely get the words out, he was laughing so hard at the idea.
I like to think I take a creative approach to mental illness. Over the years, I've made my shrink cookies, crocheted her a hat and scarf, and passed along Hungarian recipes. She's helped me to realize that I can't change other people. Sometimes, I can't fathom changing myself, but I keep trying, at least where it matters the most.
A few years ago, I'd cry for hours if the cat got out. I once wept uncontrollably because I couldn't find my keys. Which were in my car's ignition. I don't do those things anymore.
I don't know that I always see the forrest for the trees. I'm trying to imagine the mortar, block and glass that'll be my city when I'm done. When will I be done? Are we ever really finished? Don't ask me. I'm crazy. But I get the job done.*
*Litter box cleaning not included.
A couple of years ago,my therapist left Catholic Charities, and I made her a CD that organized my magical mental health in song form. I drew a human brain on the CD using Sharpies. I drew the brain in rainbow colors and loaded it with songs. I started off with the Johnny Cash version of "Hurt", moved along through such sad girl classics as "Save me" (Aimee Mann) and "Because of You" (Kelly Clarkson). The disc gets less depressing with songs like "In Between Days" (Ben Folds' cover, naturally) beforing ending with "Proud" (yes, the song from The Biggest Loser, a show I kind of despise for reasons I won't get into here).
"You made a mix tape for your shrink!" My friend Paul could barely get the words out, he was laughing so hard at the idea.
I like to think I take a creative approach to mental illness. Over the years, I've made my shrink cookies, crocheted her a hat and scarf, and passed along Hungarian recipes. She's helped me to realize that I can't change other people. Sometimes, I can't fathom changing myself, but I keep trying, at least where it matters the most.
A few years ago, I'd cry for hours if the cat got out. I once wept uncontrollably because I couldn't find my keys. Which were in my car's ignition. I don't do those things anymore.
I don't know that I always see the forrest for the trees. I'm trying to imagine the mortar, block and glass that'll be my city when I'm done. When will I be done? Are we ever really finished? Don't ask me. I'm crazy. But I get the job done.*
*Litter box cleaning not included.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Ben Folds Project: Jackson Cannery
I'm starting a new project. I love Ben Folds. Why? Because he's a genius. His sense of humor, the brilliance of his piano playing, the plaintive keen/whiteboy whine in his voice....I don't know if Ben Folds is perfect as a musician, but he's the perfect musician for me.
I'm going to use his songs as jumping off points for blog posts. Some of the posts will have almost nothing to do with the songs. Some of the posts might describe the things I associate with the songs. No rules, just Ben and me.
#1: Jackson Cannery
(Track 1, Ben Folds Five, 1995)
Stop the Bus....Don't want to be lonely
I do lonely well. Better than I do almost anything else, or, at least, I do it more often than I do other things or other moods. I go to bars alone. I don't drink. I might meet acquaintances. I dance by myself. I watch pretty people mime intercourse and simultaneously envy and disdain them. I leave, alone. To my apartment, alone. To bed. Alone.
I go to the bookstore. I put on makeup. Maybe someone will talk to me. Maybe a man. Maybe I'll run into friends. It's happened. I talk to the barristas in the bookstore cafe. I know their names and college majors. I bring them cookies at Christmas. I've lived in Toledo for ten years. I've been invited to exactly two Christmas parties.
Odd that I love Chirstmas. I bake and give gingerbread men to friends. No one ever gives me cookies. My friends don't bake. Or host parties. They work. They date. They have children. I press my face against the glass and watch couples looking at wedding magazines. I see young mothers choosing picture books. Goth kids in little clusters, talking and laughing. I drink coffee by myself. I go home alone.
Weekends, I scramble. I call and text and e-mail. I chat. No one has time. No one wants to have coffee or see a movie or come to my place so I can make them a lovely dinner. No one feels like singing or dancing or talking. I go to the bookstore. I go to the grocery at 10 pm on a Saturday night. I think the place will be empty, but it's full of couples. Old, toothless men in wifebeaters with the wives I hope they're not actually beating. Yuppies giggling over the bottle of pinot grigio they're buying. A black woman in a sleeveless sundress, hair dyed platinum. She has to weigh 250 pounds, but there's a guy walking by her cart, carrying her purse. I buy ingredients to make risotto. I scale the recipe for one and go home alone.
Stop the bus. Stop it. Don't. Ben's right. Seconds pass slowly. Days go flying by. Just....stop.
I'm going to use his songs as jumping off points for blog posts. Some of the posts will have almost nothing to do with the songs. Some of the posts might describe the things I associate with the songs. No rules, just Ben and me.
#1: Jackson Cannery
(Track 1, Ben Folds Five, 1995)
Stop the Bus....Don't want to be lonely
I do lonely well. Better than I do almost anything else, or, at least, I do it more often than I do other things or other moods. I go to bars alone. I don't drink. I might meet acquaintances. I dance by myself. I watch pretty people mime intercourse and simultaneously envy and disdain them. I leave, alone. To my apartment, alone. To bed. Alone.
I go to the bookstore. I put on makeup. Maybe someone will talk to me. Maybe a man. Maybe I'll run into friends. It's happened. I talk to the barristas in the bookstore cafe. I know their names and college majors. I bring them cookies at Christmas. I've lived in Toledo for ten years. I've been invited to exactly two Christmas parties.
Odd that I love Chirstmas. I bake and give gingerbread men to friends. No one ever gives me cookies. My friends don't bake. Or host parties. They work. They date. They have children. I press my face against the glass and watch couples looking at wedding magazines. I see young mothers choosing picture books. Goth kids in little clusters, talking and laughing. I drink coffee by myself. I go home alone.
Weekends, I scramble. I call and text and e-mail. I chat. No one has time. No one wants to have coffee or see a movie or come to my place so I can make them a lovely dinner. No one feels like singing or dancing or talking. I go to the bookstore. I go to the grocery at 10 pm on a Saturday night. I think the place will be empty, but it's full of couples. Old, toothless men in wifebeaters with the wives I hope they're not actually beating. Yuppies giggling over the bottle of pinot grigio they're buying. A black woman in a sleeveless sundress, hair dyed platinum. She has to weigh 250 pounds, but there's a guy walking by her cart, carrying her purse. I buy ingredients to make risotto. I scale the recipe for one and go home alone.
Stop the bus. Stop it. Don't. Ben's right. Seconds pass slowly. Days go flying by. Just....stop.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Late
Late at night, when I can't sleep, I sometimes read his blog. The one with the halitosis. The one with the twin bed and the artsy, smoky roommates. Him. And I wonder how it is that a man who had breath like an unflushed toilet, a man who expressed fear of soup and who had never eaten a strawberry before I fed one to him, I wonder how a man like that can have a girlfriend when I'm alone.
And I look at pictures of the other one. The one who called me a whore because he was terrified I'd write about him. The last guy who kissed me. I wonder if he's the last guy ever. I really hope not.
What have I learned? Tall isn't a good personal quality. Nice isn't enough. I need to remember to brush my tongue.
It's something, no?
And I look at pictures of the other one. The one who called me a whore because he was terrified I'd write about him. The last guy who kissed me. I wonder if he's the last guy ever. I really hope not.
What have I learned? Tall isn't a good personal quality. Nice isn't enough. I need to remember to brush my tongue.
It's something, no?
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Tiny dogs, Huge house
Today, A. and I cleaned a giant McMansion --no, a McEstate -- on 40 acres in the middle of nowhere. Huge house. 8000 square feet. Every floor in the place was made of wood or marble or stone tile. The basement entertainment lounge had a fireplace, a full kitchen, a bar, a skeeball table, a pool table, a ping pong table and many presents from the asses of the family's collection of tiny, yappy dogs. And larger dogs. And cats. I cleaned a spot of something biological off a window ledge. A. told me the owner told her it was doggie-rhea. I want to bleach my entire body.
That said, the house had a central vac system and the owners had a wheelie mop bucket. This made cleaning the place not so bad. A long, exhausting job, but not impossible. The owner's 24-year-old son (hottttttttt) came into the basement just after A. told me about the 'rhea. I'd used one of my own rags wiping the spot. I said something about mailing it to her ex as a tea bag. Then, as Hottt Sonnnn was walking in, I made one of those comments that echo and expand and you wish you could unsay them.
"You ex'll love it. He lives for tea bagging." Hottt Sonnnn seemed like he didn't mind. Later, upstairs in the dining room (lovely tray ceiling, Broyhill knock-off furniture, three mouldering, hair-shrouded dog beds), he introduced one of the dogs.
"I think something's licking my ankle," I said.
"That's Buddy. He's a mini-pinscher."
The dog looked like a Doberman. Only tiny. I said another one of those echo-y things.
"I want to breed a pack of them and train them to hunt midgets." Hott Sonnn laughed. I laughed. Little People of America sent an angry letter of protest to the mailbox in my head. Joking! But sometimes, I have these bad thoughts.
The family who own the McEstate (40 acres, no mule) consist entirely of 6-foot blondes, including the 22-year-old daughter. They were all so shiny and tan and blonde and perfect that I wanted to have a weird orgy with all of them. Hottt Sonnnn eats ice cream in the tub. I know this because I found an empty carton of Haagen-Daazs Dulce de Leche in the soap niche along with a spoon. I imagined myself in his parents' enormous spa tub, licking caramel ice cream off his chest.
And then we cleaned the rest of the house. The lady of the house came home in the middle of the cleaning, unaware that cleaning and spackling (an impromptu project for her husband) would be taking place. She screamed at Hottt Dad, scattered dogs around the dining room like so many yappy, shitting throw cushions, then went out to have a nice, angry smoke by the pool.
Hotttt Sonnn paid in full, didn't dispute our price, and complimented the work, and said something about having us back the next time the Hottts throw a party.
I can't wait. I'm buying Haagen Daasz and a loofah.
That said, the house had a central vac system and the owners had a wheelie mop bucket. This made cleaning the place not so bad. A long, exhausting job, but not impossible. The owner's 24-year-old son (hottttttttt) came into the basement just after A. told me about the 'rhea. I'd used one of my own rags wiping the spot. I said something about mailing it to her ex as a tea bag. Then, as Hottt Sonnnn was walking in, I made one of those comments that echo and expand and you wish you could unsay them.
"You ex'll love it. He lives for tea bagging." Hottt Sonnnn seemed like he didn't mind. Later, upstairs in the dining room (lovely tray ceiling, Broyhill knock-off furniture, three mouldering, hair-shrouded dog beds), he introduced one of the dogs.
"I think something's licking my ankle," I said.
"That's Buddy. He's a mini-pinscher."
The dog looked like a Doberman. Only tiny. I said another one of those echo-y things.
"I want to breed a pack of them and train them to hunt midgets." Hott Sonnn laughed. I laughed. Little People of America sent an angry letter of protest to the mailbox in my head. Joking! But sometimes, I have these bad thoughts.
The family who own the McEstate (40 acres, no mule) consist entirely of 6-foot blondes, including the 22-year-old daughter. They were all so shiny and tan and blonde and perfect that I wanted to have a weird orgy with all of them. Hottt Sonnnn eats ice cream in the tub. I know this because I found an empty carton of Haagen-Daazs Dulce de Leche in the soap niche along with a spoon. I imagined myself in his parents' enormous spa tub, licking caramel ice cream off his chest.
And then we cleaned the rest of the house. The lady of the house came home in the middle of the cleaning, unaware that cleaning and spackling (an impromptu project for her husband) would be taking place. She screamed at Hottt Dad, scattered dogs around the dining room like so many yappy, shitting throw cushions, then went out to have a nice, angry smoke by the pool.
Hotttt Sonnn paid in full, didn't dispute our price, and complimented the work, and said something about having us back the next time the Hottts throw a party.
I can't wait. I'm buying Haagen Daasz and a loofah.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Death, Birth, Phlegm
My friend John had a heart attack a week ago today. I met him through a dating website, and our single date involved looking over crochet patterns and drinking coffee. He told me about his family. He hugged me goodbye because "Hugs are good." He reminded me of a polar bear. Not the real kind who would totally eat you but are probably starving to death because of global warming and Al Gore. The kind from Coke commercials. I could imagine John enjoying a Coke and sharing his treat with cute seal pups.
John had already found the love of his life, though. He and Carmela were back together, probably before my Starbucks cup hit the trash can as I waved goodbye after the coffee date and wandered toward my car. I forgave this lapse -- I didn't enjoy feeling like a backup plan, but John's kindness and gruff sense of humor eventually won me over. He ran a local open mic where I did the first readings from Butterbabe. He gave me advice about my last boyfriend ("Dump him. "Dump him. DUMP HIM"). I called him to check up from time to time. We always had funny conversations and I'd hang up the phone feeling a bit lighter and more cheerful than when we'd started.
John struggled with Type 2 diabetes his entire adult life. He spent most of the fall and winter last year having toes chopped off and recovering in a nursing home. He had a demented roommate who'd sit in his wheelchair in a hospital gown, spindly legs bare, knees wide apart. Carmela stayed with him as much as she could. I came by with a copy of the book, and for more boyfriend advice ("Seriously -- dump him. He's a douche.").
I last saw John at Artomatic 411, a sort of grand fleamarket of the arts that ran for three weekends in May and June. In a warehouse downtown, local painters and sculptors and writers and musicians and filmmakers put on a show. John looked so much better than he had in the nursing home. He'd lost weight, become engaged to Carmela and was making plans to finish his social work degree.
John had a heart attack a week ago today. I know I told you that, but I still don't believe it, and I feel like if I say it, I'll convince myself. I'd rather not believe it, but it's immutable and sad and terribly real now. John died a week ago today. He lived 47 years, all of them in Toledo. He wrote lovely, gritty, clever, poems that evoke this rusty little town by the Maumee and Michigan. He made the place softly forlorn, shaved the edges so that the city's oddball charm stood out, glowing softly like sodium lights in a steady rain.
Becca and I went to the visitation. We hugged Carmela and beautiful Caroline, the brilliant young woman John mentored and loved like a little sister or daughter. We met his mother. We left.
Becca's birthday was Saturday. She's 43 now. We had delicious food and a party in the park. There were gifts and songs and piggyback rides. I can't believe I can carry a 180-pound woman, but I used to carry a good 250 more pounds than I do now just in my own body weight, so I guess it makes sense.
And now I have a head cold and the phlegm keeps coming.
Better things are coming. Better days ahead. They have to be. My birthday is in six weeks. At least I've had another year.
John had already found the love of his life, though. He and Carmela were back together, probably before my Starbucks cup hit the trash can as I waved goodbye after the coffee date and wandered toward my car. I forgave this lapse -- I didn't enjoy feeling like a backup plan, but John's kindness and gruff sense of humor eventually won me over. He ran a local open mic where I did the first readings from Butterbabe. He gave me advice about my last boyfriend ("Dump him. "Dump him. DUMP HIM"). I called him to check up from time to time. We always had funny conversations and I'd hang up the phone feeling a bit lighter and more cheerful than when we'd started.
John struggled with Type 2 diabetes his entire adult life. He spent most of the fall and winter last year having toes chopped off and recovering in a nursing home. He had a demented roommate who'd sit in his wheelchair in a hospital gown, spindly legs bare, knees wide apart. Carmela stayed with him as much as she could. I came by with a copy of the book, and for more boyfriend advice ("Seriously -- dump him. He's a douche.").
I last saw John at Artomatic 411, a sort of grand fleamarket of the arts that ran for three weekends in May and June. In a warehouse downtown, local painters and sculptors and writers and musicians and filmmakers put on a show. John looked so much better than he had in the nursing home. He'd lost weight, become engaged to Carmela and was making plans to finish his social work degree.
John had a heart attack a week ago today. I know I told you that, but I still don't believe it, and I feel like if I say it, I'll convince myself. I'd rather not believe it, but it's immutable and sad and terribly real now. John died a week ago today. He lived 47 years, all of them in Toledo. He wrote lovely, gritty, clever, poems that evoke this rusty little town by the Maumee and Michigan. He made the place softly forlorn, shaved the edges so that the city's oddball charm stood out, glowing softly like sodium lights in a steady rain.
Becca and I went to the visitation. We hugged Carmela and beautiful Caroline, the brilliant young woman John mentored and loved like a little sister or daughter. We met his mother. We left.
Becca's birthday was Saturday. She's 43 now. We had delicious food and a party in the park. There were gifts and songs and piggyback rides. I can't believe I can carry a 180-pound woman, but I used to carry a good 250 more pounds than I do now just in my own body weight, so I guess it makes sense.
And now I have a head cold and the phlegm keeps coming.
Better things are coming. Better days ahead. They have to be. My birthday is in six weeks. At least I've had another year.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Hitler!
Hitler! He ruined that mustache for everyone.
I saw Inglorious Basterds. Enjoyed it, but also came at it from a fairly unique perspective. The movie centers on the titular group of soldiers, Jews who fight a guerilla campaign and kill Nazis in occupied France. My father, a Jew who fought in WWII, was sort of a bastard, too. Note the correct spelling there.
My father died in 1996. We never managed to come up with a functional relationship. During his last days in the hospital, he went from gesturing inarticulately into the silence of a morphine coma. I never managed to forgive him and he never managed to express any feeling for me apart from a sort of bemused contempt. We didn't understand each other. He never told me about the war.
Every dark-haired young man in uniform, all eight original Basterds, reminded me of my father. In wartime photos, my father looks like the actors in the Tarnatino movie.
Inglorius. Kind of a bastard. My dad. I'm pretty sure he never scalped any Germans, as they didn't store many of those in New Guinea or Australia. And I still haven't a clue about who he really was.
I'd like to blame Hitler for this, too.
I saw Inglorious Basterds. Enjoyed it, but also came at it from a fairly unique perspective. The movie centers on the titular group of soldiers, Jews who fight a guerilla campaign and kill Nazis in occupied France. My father, a Jew who fought in WWII, was sort of a bastard, too. Note the correct spelling there.
My father died in 1996. We never managed to come up with a functional relationship. During his last days in the hospital, he went from gesturing inarticulately into the silence of a morphine coma. I never managed to forgive him and he never managed to express any feeling for me apart from a sort of bemused contempt. We didn't understand each other. He never told me about the war.
Every dark-haired young man in uniform, all eight original Basterds, reminded me of my father. In wartime photos, my father looks like the actors in the Tarnatino movie.
Inglorius. Kind of a bastard. My dad. I'm pretty sure he never scalped any Germans, as they didn't store many of those in New Guinea or Australia. And I still haven't a clue about who he really was.
I'd like to blame Hitler for this, too.
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