C is away diving for sea cucumbers today. I vaguely remember a kiss on the forehead this morning. I had better not get in too much trouble today- nobody to bail me out.
I scrounged a respectable brunch for myself. Rosemary potatoes roasted with shad roe(not a bad replacement for sausage), plumpiest plump cerignola olives, gorgonzola pizza, one yolky egg glugged down all without worry with gingerbeer. And now I am wasting a perfectly good Saturday blogging about it. Away I go.
Saturday, June 28, 2003
Thursday, June 26, 2003
Cranky sick but well scrubbed frog
Eating too much pork and sleep deprivation has finally kicked my immune system. When one is out of commission, little can bring pleasure- even the privilege of lying down on the couch and doing nothing. June says I am lucky I'm not on the east coast. Any Asian seen coughing and sneezing back east despite the WHO announcement gets no amount of suspicious glances.
There is no other luxury in life than having one's very own bathtub. The first ceremonial bath after much delay was today. I rubbed, splashed, bumped all my elbows. I was in heaven.
Eating too much pork and sleep deprivation has finally kicked my immune system. When one is out of commission, little can bring pleasure- even the privilege of lying down on the couch and doing nothing. June says I am lucky I'm not on the east coast. Any Asian seen coughing and sneezing back east despite the WHO announcement gets no amount of suspicious glances.
There is no other luxury in life than having one's very own bathtub. The first ceremonial bath after much delay was today. I rubbed, splashed, bumped all my elbows. I was in heaven.
Monday, June 23, 2003
Out with Chickenbetes
Dr. C has confirmed that I have a severe recurring case of chickenbetes. Peter Stewart first diagnosed this condition in the early eighties; nothing, absolutely nothing except the immediate consumption of chicken will relieve the sufferer's symptoms. Hence my relapse at the RoliRoti truck at the farmer's market Friday. My case appears to be triggered by a mounting series of external events:
In an odd interim on San Pablo, we visited a wedge of a store where an old Chinese man sold only cracked giant pots mended with epoxy. He followed us around everywhere- although the pots were already cracked, and no way we could heave one out of the store without commotion.
- 1. Unsatisfactory fried chicken special at Mel's Diner
- 2. The imminent opening of the new Berkeley's Popeyes on San Pablo. (The only time it's worth going to a fried chicken joint is when the grease is fresh. I'm lucky to have found at least 2 non-vegetarian friends in Berkeley. Sadly, K who would chomp down at Popeyes with me has left for Chicago yesterday. I'm afraid to ask A who gifted us our chickens.)
- 3. C's no slaughter policy. C looked me straight in the eye last week. He said "Let's get this straight. Nobody eats our ladies." I guess that nobody is not me.
In an odd interim on San Pablo, we visited a wedge of a store where an old Chinese man sold only cracked giant pots mended with epoxy. He followed us around everywhere- although the pots were already cracked, and no way we could heave one out of the store without commotion.
Friday, June 20, 2003
Dirty Bathtubless Frogs and the Obscure life of turtles
The tub has 7 more days to cure. The thought of having my very own bathing facility brings tears to my eyes. C's friend Joel was evicted from his studio a while ago; his art dealer(C's too) after months of nonpayment slipped him a few too many rubber checks. Joel told C sheepishly that he was so ashamed of himself. He had never sunk so low- his new studio lacked the most basic of facilities- no sink. Joel said that lately, he'd been given to washing his hand in the toilet!!! Joel promptly corrected himself, "Strictly upper deck man, strictly upper deck man!"
Meatball owns the pen. He doesn't want to be bothered with anything but bananas; even then he'll hiss in your face. Many days before, he would retract into his shell somewhat peevishly but cautiously keeping an eye out. Now he's part teenager and cranky old man. He's hangs about hidden under a clivia in the middle of the pen. Sometime during the day when he pleases, he checks it out. Then promptly back to central command.
Today I finally succumbed to the RoliRoti at the farmer's market. Who can guard against the hypnotic suggestion of 80 rotating chickens. The thing about such foods is that one simply gets greasy about the face just thinking about it.
The tub has 7 more days to cure. The thought of having my very own bathing facility brings tears to my eyes. C's friend Joel was evicted from his studio a while ago; his art dealer(C's too) after months of nonpayment slipped him a few too many rubber checks. Joel told C sheepishly that he was so ashamed of himself. He had never sunk so low- his new studio lacked the most basic of facilities- no sink. Joel said that lately, he'd been given to washing his hand in the toilet!!! Joel promptly corrected himself, "Strictly upper deck man, strictly upper deck man!"
Meatball owns the pen. He doesn't want to be bothered with anything but bananas; even then he'll hiss in your face. Many days before, he would retract into his shell somewhat peevishly but cautiously keeping an eye out. Now he's part teenager and cranky old man. He's hangs about hidden under a clivia in the middle of the pen. Sometime during the day when he pleases, he checks it out. Then promptly back to central command.
Today I finally succumbed to the RoliRoti at the farmer's market. Who can guard against the hypnotic suggestion of 80 rotating chickens. The thing about such foods is that one simply gets greasy about the face just thinking about it.
Monday, June 16, 2003
Secret life of stoves
Yesterday C took apart our Wedgewood gas stove. He showed me the manifold, a beautiful wiggly thing- all one piece of cast iron. It looks intestinal- the path to the front stove curls around so it travels the same distance as the back. One would not guess such a thing inside a square box which contains more boxes. I'm onto our stove.
Sunday was appliance day. We drove miles and miles to Sunnyvale Fry's to pick up a Korean refrigerator. I have decided that the Danish are not food-obsessed enough to make a worthy refrigerator and hence the CFC free Conserv is kicked out for the LG. C missed our turn to the Lawrence Expressway and ended in front of a parade. There is nothing worse than a tooting brass section blocking your pathway when you are hot on the heels of the appliance of your dreams.
It was meant to be, the fridge and I. I know this because I got the last one in a discontinued color: Noble Inox is displaced by the Titanium finish. They are near identical except the failed marketing name and subtle golden hue on the Inox. Being the last closeout item, the Inox was only half the ducats.
The new fridge is underwritten by the generous contribution of J who could not bear the thought of a biscuit colored clunker hoarding my provisions. The remaining half of the funds should really go to the man who heaved and hoed the fridge from the store into the house, also heaved and hoed the old fridge onto our sidewalk. What a man!!! He also spray-painted a sign "Free. Works Great!" Despite such promotional suggestions, the fridge sits outside still.
Yesterday C took apart our Wedgewood gas stove. He showed me the manifold, a beautiful wiggly thing- all one piece of cast iron. It looks intestinal- the path to the front stove curls around so it travels the same distance as the back. One would not guess such a thing inside a square box which contains more boxes. I'm onto our stove.
Sunday was appliance day. We drove miles and miles to Sunnyvale Fry's to pick up a Korean refrigerator. I have decided that the Danish are not food-obsessed enough to make a worthy refrigerator and hence the CFC free Conserv is kicked out for the LG. C missed our turn to the Lawrence Expressway and ended in front of a parade. There is nothing worse than a tooting brass section blocking your pathway when you are hot on the heels of the appliance of your dreams.
It was meant to be, the fridge and I. I know this because I got the last one in a discontinued color: Noble Inox is displaced by the Titanium finish. They are near identical except the failed marketing name and subtle golden hue on the Inox. Being the last closeout item, the Inox was only half the ducats.
The new fridge is underwritten by the generous contribution of J who could not bear the thought of a biscuit colored clunker hoarding my provisions. The remaining half of the funds should really go to the man who heaved and hoed the fridge from the store into the house, also heaved and hoed the old fridge onto our sidewalk. What a man!!! He also spray-painted a sign "Free. Works Great!" Despite such promotional suggestions, the fridge sits outside still.
Meatball has gotten comfy in his minimum security facility.
He no longer attempts escape and has fallen into herp complacency. J is right- turtles do love bananas. Meatball hangs about various leaf piles, time to time sniffing out the digs. As far as prison goes, Meatball is getting A1 deluxe treatment. C served him salmon glazed in balsamic vinegar -of course Meatball was too full from the banana to make a dent in the salmon.
He no longer attempts escape and has fallen into herp complacency. J is right- turtles do love bananas. Meatball hangs about various leaf piles, time to time sniffing out the digs. As far as prison goes, Meatball is getting A1 deluxe treatment. C served him salmon glazed in balsamic vinegar -of course Meatball was too full from the banana to make a dent in the salmon.
Sunday, June 15, 2003
Chickens- or rather chicks have arrived thanks to Miss A. C christened them Patrice and Charlene. He wanted tough jailbird names with the added mix of fecundity. We want these ladies to produce! J came up with Charlene. C had been saving "Patrice" for his bulldog....
No doubt they are his ladies as C fusses over them. Takes 'em out for fresh air, cleans the cages. There is no guarantee they are not roosters which would be very sad. Roosters are illegal in Berkeley, so they can be arrested and sent behind bars until deportation to Marin or some such county more friendly to roosters.
Yesterday my cousin died in a gratuitous car accident. He was 26. He had a prior car accident at age 13.
C and I labored for a hexagonal turtle pen for Meatball today. C hammered his shin by accident. Meatball after being released from his old compost box got very excited and starting cooking along the edge of the fence. Poor fellow. No escape is possible of course.
No doubt they are his ladies as C fusses over them. Takes 'em out for fresh air, cleans the cages. There is no guarantee they are not roosters which would be very sad. Roosters are illegal in Berkeley, so they can be arrested and sent behind bars until deportation to Marin or some such county more friendly to roosters.
Yesterday my cousin died in a gratuitous car accident. He was 26. He had a prior car accident at age 13.
C and I labored for a hexagonal turtle pen for Meatball today. C hammered his shin by accident. Meatball after being released from his old compost box got very excited and starting cooking along the edge of the fence. Poor fellow. No escape is possible of course.
Tuesday, June 10, 2003
Tom Sawyer Paints the Fence
Crouched and faux gunblued the side of the tub in C's sawdusty studio- applying just one thin coat of blue black enamel paint seemed to be just that appetizer activity one requires after a long day of computer work.
C spent his day grinding and polishing down the iron. C will grind down the highlights and repeat with another coat. His hair is all dusty full of drywall powder. I am guiltily resentful my tub is not ready for a proper bath. Bird bathing out of the world's tiniest sink is sure path to a concussion. It's been a marathon week of early morning meetings for me.
C has been chugging along. C moved the clawfoot tub all by himself with a dolly and few wooden blocks. Not a chip to be seen on the tiles. But as J says, "I'm tired of being impressed. I want to see results."
Crouched and faux gunblued the side of the tub in C's sawdusty studio- applying just one thin coat of blue black enamel paint seemed to be just that appetizer activity one requires after a long day of computer work.
C spent his day grinding and polishing down the iron. C will grind down the highlights and repeat with another coat. His hair is all dusty full of drywall powder. I am guiltily resentful my tub is not ready for a proper bath. Bird bathing out of the world's tiniest sink is sure path to a concussion. It's been a marathon week of early morning meetings for me.
C has been chugging along. C moved the clawfoot tub all by himself with a dolly and few wooden blocks. Not a chip to be seen on the tiles. But as J says, "I'm tired of being impressed. I want to see results."
Thursday, June 5, 2003
move-in blues
C and I have gone entirely legit- a land line and everything.
The problem with moving in is that the law of diminishing returns kicks in too quickly- so unpacking the last 20 percent becomes unbearable. It's those awkward knickknacks hastily packed that never had a true home in the last home that also has no place in the new home. Unpacked bags and boxes from the last 3 moves(some pre 2000) wait still.
C encountered one guy so serious about simplicity that he had a single washed out soupcan and spoon as his only tableware. His diet consisted of Grapenuts and coffee.
Weeks of manual labor and clutter, I simply have house fatigue. The constant state of undoneness everywhere. I cannot seem to banish the piles. My mind's landscape is probably far worse, but C cheerfully advances.
We have no tub, so we must trudge to the Y to get clean. There is always a story at the Berkeley Y, but the men's locker room always has more action than the lady's side it appears. It's pretty much lumpy bodies getting clean. When C was dressing after his shower, he overheard some nervous giggling in the stalls. The gist of the conversation was that the first man knew the other man's penis but not the face, the second man knew the first man's face. C thinks some SF club scenario where man #2 must have been masked. Anyhow man #2 wanted to strike up a connection and make small talk. They talked about vacation hours in Germany, but man #1 was ever eager to get away. Man #1 returned to his locker which was right next to C. C always wanting in on the action asked man #1, "Something good happening over there?". Man #1 said exasperatedly, "It's my terrible life as a wanted man. And I mean, I am wanted in the worst way. The worst possible way."
C and I have gone entirely legit- a land line and everything.
The problem with moving in is that the law of diminishing returns kicks in too quickly- so unpacking the last 20 percent becomes unbearable. It's those awkward knickknacks hastily packed that never had a true home in the last home that also has no place in the new home. Unpacked bags and boxes from the last 3 moves(some pre 2000) wait still.
C encountered one guy so serious about simplicity that he had a single washed out soupcan and spoon as his only tableware. His diet consisted of Grapenuts and coffee.
Weeks of manual labor and clutter, I simply have house fatigue. The constant state of undoneness everywhere. I cannot seem to banish the piles. My mind's landscape is probably far worse, but C cheerfully advances.
We have no tub, so we must trudge to the Y to get clean. There is always a story at the Berkeley Y, but the men's locker room always has more action than the lady's side it appears. It's pretty much lumpy bodies getting clean. When C was dressing after his shower, he overheard some nervous giggling in the stalls. The gist of the conversation was that the first man knew the other man's penis but not the face, the second man knew the first man's face. C thinks some SF club scenario where man #2 must have been masked. Anyhow man #2 wanted to strike up a connection and make small talk. They talked about vacation hours in Germany, but man #1 was ever eager to get away. Man #1 returned to his locker which was right next to C. C always wanting in on the action asked man #1, "Something good happening over there?". Man #1 said exasperatedly, "It's my terrible life as a wanted man. And I mean, I am wanted in the worst way. The worst possible way."
moved out blues
last Saturday night, everything except the landlord's cat scratched orange leather couch and dining furniture was cleared out of the old space. I sat on the couch for a few minutes for the last time looking at the empty spaces where our stuff had been. Two brazilian sisters had come earlier to clean it top to bottom with mops and rags. They sang a few pop songs, yelled rapid portuguese into their cell phone all the while making all surfaces spotless. C says their secret is ammonia, and clorax. My usual efforts of scrubbing with the wimpy ass 7th Generation Eco Friendly cleaners had left a serious layer of grime in the kitchen. And now that was gone too.
For once, the mental shift is too fast for me. I've done more than 27 moves, but now I finally feel the twangs. Something which meant so much to you-the one place in the world which has the most intimate meaning- it's now a place forbidden and impersonal to you. I think this is what divorce must be like. The fact I've boiled pasta one hundred times on that particular stove means nothing now.
But after sleeping one night in the new house, I've plum forgotten the joys of the old house. I thought how could I have lived as a troglodyte for so long. The bedroom, bath, and office lacked windows in our Camelia space. There is no room without a window in the new house.
last Saturday night, everything except the landlord's cat scratched orange leather couch and dining furniture was cleared out of the old space. I sat on the couch for a few minutes for the last time looking at the empty spaces where our stuff had been. Two brazilian sisters had come earlier to clean it top to bottom with mops and rags. They sang a few pop songs, yelled rapid portuguese into their cell phone all the while making all surfaces spotless. C says their secret is ammonia, and clorax. My usual efforts of scrubbing with the wimpy ass 7th Generation Eco Friendly cleaners had left a serious layer of grime in the kitchen. And now that was gone too.
For once, the mental shift is too fast for me. I've done more than 27 moves, but now I finally feel the twangs. Something which meant so much to you-the one place in the world which has the most intimate meaning- it's now a place forbidden and impersonal to you. I think this is what divorce must be like. The fact I've boiled pasta one hundred times on that particular stove means nothing now.
But after sleeping one night in the new house, I've plum forgotten the joys of the old house. I thought how could I have lived as a troglodyte for so long. The bedroom, bath, and office lacked windows in our Camelia space. There is no room without a window in the new house.
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