Favorites 11.4.13

Winter cats: Different than summertime cats, lord knows. Less preoccupied with the hunt, more down for curling into a closed donut on your lap or sleeping the night in the crook of your knees—where you can use them for warmth just like the hot-water bottles of old.

Spaghetti squash: I'm entirely on this bandwagon. A lengthwise slice of the knife, a quick scrape of the spoon to abolish seeds, and a half hour in the oven roasting into oblivion. Such a minuscule amount of effort for a shitload of delicately perfumed vegetable matter.

Falling back: A triangle of morning light on my wall at 7:30 a.m. instead of darkest night—it's okay to want this, right?

David Bowie's List of Top 100 Books: How do you get the titles you read? Why wouldn't you get them from Bowie? I've already read seven: The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, White Noise, A Confederacy of Dunces, On The Road, Mystery Train, Lolita, and Herzog. Ninety-three more to go I guess.

Favorites 10.7.13

Broiled cheese toast: Didn't you know that broiling things makes them taste better? Throw a slice of bread and a slab of cheese in the oven and in no time you'll have something that sits squarely at the intersection of melty, toasty, bubbly, and crispy. Dip it in yer soup, or don't.

When the dog stretches: A mid-nap move whereby he rolls from his side to his back, scrunches all his limbs up real tight like a baby in his mama's belly, and then stretches them up spindly and stick straight into the air above him. A groan from the depths of his canine soul. A smacking of chops. Then he's back on his side in silent slumber. It just crushes you with cuteness.

The brink of tipsy: There's an art to navigating the knife edge between sober and drunk over the course of an evening. Act dumb with yer friends, sure—but don't sacrifice those acceptable levels of PMA in the morning. A fine—nay, VERY fine balance.

Wake Up: A Life Of The Buddha by Jack Kerouac: Y'alls know how I feel about Kerouac. And the story of Buddha as told by him? I mean please! "Until recently most people thought of Buddha as a big fat rococo sitting figure with his belly out ... People didn't know that the actual Buddha was a handsome young prince who suddenly began brooding in his father's palace, staring through the dancing girls as though they weren't there, at the age of 29, till finally and emphatically he threw up his hands and rode out to the forest on his war horse and cut off his long golden hair with his sword and sat down with the holy men of India of his day and died at the age of 80 a lean and venerable wanderer of ancient roads and elephant woods."

Hates 9.17.13

Slow-moving drains. No amount of mental effort can protect me from watching the scummy white foam of my toothpaste spit as it slowly swirls the drain and—once it finally ebbs—picturing the loogie's sluggish passage through pipes clogged with hair, dark grime, and mucus residue.

In-town driving. Highway driving gives you that sec to relax and feel the pull of the open road, but start-and-stop shifting from here to there—suffocating. It makes you wanna get a horse and ride it along a river watching leaves drop slowly from graceful branches.

Back hurt. I have a hot poker between my shoulder blades that talks of stress both new and old. Nothing to do but hot shower and cold wood floor.

Empty printer cartridges. Who even uses their printer these days? But when you need it, ya need it. And that's when you ascertain that the black ink's all gone, which is why your boarding pass is just a pale ghost on white paper. Just like last time. When you vowed to buy a new cartridge. And forgot.

Peeling garlic. Clumsy fingers fumbling with paper-thin skin, which flakes off and sticks everywhere, while precious minutes tick by and you're only half way through the first clove. It's upsetting.

 

Favorites 9.6.13

Dog paws. Like chocolate-chip muffins built of fur. Hold them and feel their warmth. Sniff ’em and catch the scent of salt coming off them.

A clean white shirt. Tomorrow, sure, there'll be a pizza-sauce stain and one of those tiny tears from my belt buckle, but today—a sense of orderliness and new beginnings.

A cold glass of carrot juice. For years I've eschewed juice in favor of eating the actual fruit/vegetable involved. But after a long, hot day when you collapse into a corner chair and shout about how your dogs are barkin, a small, cool glass of carrot juice will revive your wilted spirit.

This video: I decree that these bears pole dance better than the girls at the Magic Garden.

Favorites 8.23.13

Justified: It's only a TV show—not a masterpiece or anything. Still, there's a corner in my heart for the idea of the modern day cowboy, for Lexington, for haunting hillbilly music. Plus, Timothy Olyphant!!!

Tacos: As a street food, their naturally casual. And as a non-carcass-eater, I appreciate their simplicity. Beans, cheese, a sprinkle of cilantro and chili pepper—call me good.

Home improvement: It's only a phase—I don't get OCD on my living space all the time. But the joys of patching drywall and sealing terra-cotta floor tile should not be unknown to you.  

Bob Dylan, "Went To See The Gypsy": 1970 demo song on NPR First listen right now (click HERE and let er rip). A mysterious tune that smolders with electric piano. Dylan's a wizard—he can rid you of your fear.