Special thanks and shout out to RJ, who supplied today's entry.

Today is World AIDS Day. I am wearing a scarlet dress, and my White Party pin. I am thinking about my friends, and I'm going to do something I never do on this site: name names.
I lit a candle on the virtual candle site for John Borella. I didn't try to light more, one for every friend I miss. And anyway, unless I go to another computer, the site won't let me. But for every candle that's lit, Bristol Myers Squibb will donate $1 to HIV/AIDS research.

Let's light up their map, shall we?

Here's to my friends:

John Borella
Nick Cannon
Shel Lurie
Scotty Neail
Richard Neail
Ken Cutthoff
Alan Mark Wayne
Adam
Rick Whitley

and to the celebrities: Rock Hudson, Alexander Godunov, Liberace, Freddy Mercury

Oh, I know this isn't a complete list. How could it be? But it is a list of people I loved or admired, and who are now gone.

Jewish tradition holds that as long as you remember them, people live on. It's one of the reasons we name our children after our dead.

Today, I name names, because that's how people live on.

This weekend was a time trip. The job of clearing out the family home has fallen to me, and I'm doing it slowly and painfully. On Sunday morning, I sat down on the floor of my old bedroom, and opened up a desk drawer full of cards and letters. Pretty much every one I'd ever sent to my parents, individually or as a parental unit.
Before I could throw the letters away, I had to skim them. Most of them were jejune and embarrassing, but some of them were interesting to me, even from this perspective.

This is the text of a letter I wrote to my mother on January 25, 1977. I was 23, and living in New York City.

"I went to a meeting last night of the New York Radical Feminists. It was TERRIBLE!! All it was was about 8 very butch-looking INTENSE rhetoric-spouting women... and Kathleen and me. Kathleen accounted for something because her mother is one of the founders of the movement. But I didn't. Anyway, we were immediately suspect because we weren't gay. It was very upsetting. I thought the movement was based on a belief in alternatives and choice and educating the masses. They seemed to want a separatist Woman-state. Personhood is no good. They want women-ness without maleness. I don't understand. They also seemed to me to not realize that for younger women, we've already reaped certain benefits from their early struggles and we want to move on from here. Like they want to re-write the manifesto. But that's all words and unneccesary. The thing to do is to LIVE it, not write it. I was the only one in a skirt. O.K. They won me the right to wear construction boots. It's also my option to wear a skirt and not see it as a symbol of "my oppression". Am I making myself clear? I was very upset by last night. It seemed to me to have broken down and lost touch with what it had done and was trying to do. Yuck. Maybe I'm just a radical human, but that's what I thought the lib movement was about. The right to be human... I think it's turned into a lesbian movement. Does this mean there has to be still another lib movement for straight people? Shoot. I'm REALLY depressed by their TRULY sexist attitudes. One woman flat out said "I can't trust women who can have relationships with men. How can you befriend your oppressor?"

I've never BEEN oppressed. How can I view all men as my mortal enemy... MAYBE "the system", MAYBE "big business". Mostly, though, to me, my enemy is ignorance and prejudice. And I think I found THEM to be prejudiced. Is this some kind of rude awakening? I really BELIEVED in the women's movement, but how can I believe and identify with this reality..?

Ah, never mind..."

I remember how upset I was. The meeting was in Gloria Steinem's apartment in the West Village. It was lovely, and book-filled, with oriental carpets and windows over the street, and I watched the snow fall outside. Gloria wasn't there. I remember that I yelled at the women before I stalked out. I told them how, as a young girl in a tiny Southern town, reading about the movement in Time Magazine had opened my eyes to possibilities. That they had put me on the path that led me to New York, and to that very meeting, and how could they now reject me out of hand just because I slept with men? What had they won, what had they preached, if not equality? And now they were preaching separatism, and that was something very different.

Plus ça change, plus ça meme chose.

I whipped up four* different** fresh*** cranberry**** sauces Sunday for Monday's office Thanksgiving luncheon. There are tables and table and tables of food. The wonderful thing about working and living in such an ethnically diverse center as Miami is the sheer variety of food.

We have flan, and cheesecake, coconut cake, pecan pies and sweet potato pies. There are potato salads and three varieties of sweet potaoes. I saw succotash, an assortment of green bean casseroles. I passed by a platter of yuca cooked with garlic, and watched as one of my fellow workers carved a turkey that had been roasted under a blanket of bacon. (Small swoon.)
I mean, really, as a Southern girl, is there such a thing as enough bacon? Southerners are all about the pig, and so are Cubans.

I present to you all the TurBacon: (not to be confused with Turducken)



Today, I'm going round two with the cranberry sauces, and making a pear pie. Then the RLA, the noble dog Nails, the "special" dog Jojo and I will pack into the Cruiser and cruise north to the land of my relatives where we will celebrate the holiday with the traditional overeating, raucous behavior and unconditional love.

Recipes are available on request.

* Mom's 1950s relish: fresh cranberries, a whole orange (peel and all), sugar, and a little cinnamon. Toss all in the cuisinart and pulse until finely ground.

** Cranberries in port wine (a perennial favorite, and even though it was the first time the office saw it, by the time I got to it — 3/4s of the way back in the line — there was only a tablespoon or two left.

*** Cranberry salsa: tequilla, honey, cilantro, jalepeña pepper, orange, cumin. Another office winner.

**** The one and only Susan Stamberg's famous cranberries with sour cream, horseradish, onion and sugar. I think this one scared the folks at the office.

Oh, I am so mad this morning I don't know what to throw first.

Ever since Hurricane Wilma, the Metromover has been operating in fits and starts. The service has been supplemented by buses, taking riders along the route, and dropping them off at or near the stations. I say at or near, because depending on your driver, they may cop an attitude and refuse to let you off, or not stop, or whatever. In any event, it takes a 7 minute train jaunt and turns it into a half-hour ordeal.

Except for this morning.
See, there are two stops where I can get off the Metrorail and pick up the Metromover: Brickell, which is my usual stop, and, although it takes longer, is more pleasant in that it's out in the sunshine and fresh air and I can stand up there on the platform and watch the sun dance off the turquoise* waters of Biscayne Bay.

Or I can get off at Government Center, and hop an inner loop shuttle past the courthouse and the college and end up at my same end point over on Biscayne Boulevard. I prefer not to, however, because it's a very busy stop, and there's lawyers and government workers and the connection is semi-contained.

Today, I hopped off at Brickell and I was Very Early for work. When I got downstairs, the Mover was barricaded off and we were told to take the shuttle bus. Well, crap. If there had been an announcement on the train (they are always announcing broken elevators) then I would have ridden on to Government Center, which is the next stop anyway.

Down to street level. I waited. And I waited. And I waited some more. I waited while no less (and no more) than THREE shuttles came for Brickell Key (the maids' shuttle, OK?). Finally, after more than half an hour's wait, a downtown shuttle came. Oh, yesh, the driver assured all of us steaming in line, this would take us to Biscayne. So I got on. And we drove and drove and drove and then I realised that the bus, it did NOT turn on my usual street. It kept going straight. And then it turned back and went to Government Center. It was now forty five minutes after I got off the train one stop south of Government Center. I could now take another shuttle bus or any of the downtown regular buses, or I could go upstairs and get on a MetroMover going on another loop, or I could walk to work.

Which is what I did. It took 15 minutes in 3" heels (on a platform wedge, by the way) over crumbling sidewalks, and I still got to the office more rapidly than the shuttle bus that was coming up behind me as I entered the building.

THE OTHER THING I'M PISSED ABOUT

The other thing I'm pissed about this morning is last night's ANTM (America's Next Top Model and what rock have you been living under not to know that?) elimination of Lisa which left that yellow-toothed, Dumbo-eared, skank Jayla around. Lisa could pose circles around that nasty ho even when drunk or hung over, and as for the rabbit-toothed, walking teen snotrag, Nicole: well, she can be sent home any second now, and I wouldn't be crying.

*If, by turquoise, you are thinking of the really dark, muddy greenish brownish stone with heavy dark spider webbing.

The RLA was playing some Dylan this morning as we were getting ready for work, and I have to say, no matter what The Bob did, if he'd written "Sara" for ME? I totally would have taken him back.

Also? The very best sandwich in the world, and especially yummy for breakfast, is a BLT on white toast with a fried egg in it. I had one at my desk, just this morning.

It's long overdue, and it replaces the half-assed version that used to be on this site, but it is with great pride that I present to you the RLA's portfolio. It includes work by his students, his markers, his Illustrator stuff, his realism and his surrealism and even the work we do together in photoshop... Shoes of course, available as giclee prints for a modest price.

The link over there on the left now goes to the dotmac page, too.

This is what a three-million dollar ad campaign looks like:



And you just know that the bright lights at the agency were just pissing themselves over their own cleverness: it's a sign that says it's a sign.
Oh. My. Gawd. We are so funny. A sign. That says it's a sign. Get it?

The other ones in the series say things like "You're in one of the few places we're not." Huh? You mean you don't have a clinic on the train? Well, but the train stops right at the hospital, so sometimes you are where the hospital is.

Or in the immortal words of Firesign Theater, how can you be in two places at once when you're not anywhere at all?

Another one says "Get a better health plan by the next stop." and then has the web address. So I guess that works if you are a commuter with a wireless bluetooth connection on your cell phone. Or something like that.

It's a sign. It's a sign that's a sign.

OK, I mean, I get that this is supposed to represent the family that owns the car. There is a pencil-necked dad, and a vacuous mom, and a teen-age girl with a spiral on her t-shirt (representing that she's spiralling out of control, maybe? That she has an IUD? That she suffers from vertigo?), there's the roller-skating tween of indeterminate gender and rubber-armed boy who loves baseball.

My question is "WHY?"

Really. Why the fuck would you want to advertize that you have underage children available for abduction in the car, and even give strangers a chance to know what sort of bait to use? Who's business is it, anyway, how many people are in your family? Why should I give a rat's ass about the fact that you overbred?

And these things are everywhere... although I've never seen them for sale anywhere.

You can specify your recreational choices. You can add your pets: I've seen dogs, cats, fish and birds. There are toddler stickers and baby stickers. I've yet to see a pregnant woman sticker, or a car with two women and a child. Lots of single parents out there, advertising that they can be met at any Little League park, ballet school or hockey rink.

The RLA and I want to produce add-ons, so that we can vandalize these things, which almost always sseem to be associated with Jesus fish or W bumper stickers. Maybe that's the secret: they are handed out at tent revivals and Republican party meetings.

Yeah... stick-on piles of dog poop, S&M paraphenalia, dreadlocks, jail house bars, beer bottles and bongs. You could accessorize strangers' car windows to your heart's content.

I've spent the last week powerless. Hurricane Wilma (who thinks up these names, anyway?) took out the power for most of Florida, topped my favorite mango tree, decapitated the grafted side of the avocado tree, and almost killed my koi.
The RLA and I were out there with bicycle pumps, trying to keep the koi aereated while our generator was being repaired. The koi are troopers, though, and came through just fine, unlike the awning over them.

For almost a week, I could go out at night and see the Milky Way, even though I live in an urban wasteland. The nights were cool and, except for the rattle and gasp of the generators, quiet. You could, if you were listening, hear the owl in the old tree next door, or the peeping of the tree frogs.

We need to rethink our cities, the way we live, so that you can always see the stars.

I rose with the sun, and went to bed with the sun. I knitted and read by candlelight. I took sponge baths with water that had been heated on the gas stove. The RLA and I were out in the yard all day, sawing up the downed trees with hand tools, because we don't own a chain saw.

I made coffee in a French press, and we kept our milk cool with a block of ice.

Everyone I know has been complaining of the horrors of being without electricity, but you know? I loved it. I loved being aware of the hours of the day by the location of the sun or the moon. I loved being able to walk in the street and talk to my neighbors who are usually in their own hermetically sealed cocoons. We shared ice, water, flashlights, stories, alcohol and the experience.

I thought it was wonderful.

Frankly, the biggest hardship for me was having to watch America's Next Top Model on a hand-held, battery-operated tv with a screen the size of a matchbox.

Oh, there's more, of course. This was the first hurricane of my life where I actually felt fear. Well, what I felt was the roof lift. It is an indescribable sensation, but there was no doubt as to what the change in pressure was. The roof held. There are no leaks. The power is back on. People are started to be assholes to each other again.

Life as we know it, is back to normal.

I pass this sign every day. I know enough Spanglish to understand that the show is called "Ground Zero" and that these guys talk about sex and drugs and rock and roll and sex. But is it just me, or is Javier really Jay (Jason Mewes)?

What happens when an irresistable force meets an immovable object?

Well, nothing. Because it's a paradox. There can be no such thing as an irresistable force, nor an immovable object.

However, in real life, what happens is this: The (non)irresistable force is my rapidly foreward-moving foot. The (semi)immovable object is the leg of a heavy chair.

As Sancho Panza says in "Man of La Mancha", whether the stone hits the pitcher, or the pitcher hits the stone, it's going to be very bad for the pitcher.


And that is what my broken toe looks like two weeks after the force met the object.

It's not exactly that I'm a shut-in. It's more that I'm shutting myself in.

I don't feel fit for human company. I don't want to see anyone, I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to be around others.

Depression? Yeah. I suppose. Stress? Oh, definitely.
So what to do tonight and tomorrow? It's the two holiest days of the Jewish calendar. I don't have tickets for services, although Star has offered me one for tonight.

Tonight is Kol Nidre. I love this service. I can lose myself in the ancient melody. Which is precisely the point. But I just don't feel up to the rest of the ritual: the saving of seats, the gossiping about others, the false faces and air kisses. I don't want to get dressed up. I don't want to be with others.

I haven't been able to go to temple since my father died. Last year, there was a hurricane and it pre-empted services. This year the only thing pre-empting me is my own ennui and depression.

I did manage to get a rabbi to visit my mom on Sunday, and he read a blessing over her for the coming year. I cried and cried and cried.

No, I think I'll make a nice pre-fast dinner for the RLA and myself, listen to a lovely recording of Kol Nidre variations and stew in my own misery for another evening.

Off to run errands.

I love this. These delivery guys are all over my building in the morning, with steaming cups of cafe con leche, and aromatic Cuban toast (a loaf of water bread. split along its length, loaded with a dizzying amount of butter or oleo, then toasted flat in an aluminum foil-lined press).

But, if it's a Cuban cafe, and believe me, it is... why is their logo the Eiffel Tower, and the name of the place the Paris Cafe?

When I was just a yellow pup, ordering books from the Scholastic Book Service was always a big treat. I loved, and still love, buying books. It is an indulgence which nobody can fault. If you collect shoes (whistling innocently and looking up and away), people will find you self-indulgent and frivolous. Wasteful, even. If you have a fondness for more art supplies than you will ever be able to produce artwork from, again, you could be found guilty of avarice.



But nobody, ever, ever, looks askance at an addiction for books. Anyway. I digress.



One of my favorite Scholastic Books was "Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle" and it is an anthology of poetry.

I have loved so many of the poems in this book, for forty years or so now. And the other morning, when I saw this from the train platform, I was reminded of yet another poem from the book.







"Steam Shovel



The dinosaurs are not all dead

I saw one raise its iron head

To watch me walking down the road

Beyond our house today.

Its jaws were dripping with a load

Of earth and grass that it had cropped.

It must have heard me where I stopped.

Snorted white steam my way,

And stretched its long neck out to see,

And chewed, and grinned quite amiably.



Charles Malam"