. . . A Picasso or a Garfunkel?

I once took my grandparents to see the touring production of Show Boat when they came through St. Paul, Minnesota.  Grandpa had MS by that time, and he used a cane to walk. We had balcony seats, and it took him a while to amble to our front row overlooking the stage from above.  I will never forget when the actor, who played Joe, belted out "Ol' Man River, " and his amazing baritone reverberated throughout the theater. Goosebumps prickled up my entire body to the top of my head. I held my breath while he held the last, long note. And when he finished, and the audience went crazy,  my grandpa jumped to his feet, wobbled a bit, and clapped and hollered like he was at the '91 Twins World Series win (he was actually there - so he should know). My boo-boo was grabbed - big time. After that, if he was asked to name his favorite song, my Grandpa always said, "Well, I suppose 'Ol' Man River.' That's a good one. "  If you're ever browsing iTunes, check out William Warfield's original version of that classic. It's worth so much more than 99 cents.  

This blog piece is meant to be more than a plea to "support the arts." Lately I've been seeing and hearing works of magic that I never might have noticed before.  The way a DJ performs at beatmatching or scratching; turntablism is an art of its own.  The rhyme scheme, cadence, and intonation of a rapper MC. Old school break dance, poppin' and lockin', or  lyrical hip-hop.  These are expressions from the artists through their  brain and their bodies. When I see or hear of an up and coming artist who has the guts to get out there in the world, make some noise, and do their thing, I literally well up with tears, excitement, awe and a little bit of envy. I think it takes a great big set of marbles to put yourself out there, for all the world to critique (or ignore) and DO YOUR THING.  

I always give a buck or two to the musicians standing outside the Metro station. I've seen acoustic guitar guy, violin duo, harp lady (that's something to see, for sure), and awesome electric guitar guy (Rudy Rivera - check him out on YouTube!). There is also a  group of young men from a local university band that perform about once a week outside my train stop in the morning.  They are called Dupont Brass, and their Facebook page says they are " Howard University Music Students working to uplift the spirits of the people in Dupont Circle (Washington, DC)."

On my first week at my new job (mind you, I was highly emotional and feeling very alone), I emerged from the underground Metro station and was greeted with the final strains of "Pachelbel's Canon in D." Dupont Brass  then broke into a surprising rendition of "Hava Naglia."  I found myself choking back tears for the next few blocks. Why was I crying? Because in the midst of rush hour and dirty train car seats and pushy crowds, I hungrily stumbled upon this musical feast played with hope and passion by these talented guys on the street corner.  Please check them out on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/DupontBrass) or Twitter (@DuPontBrassHU). Thanks, guys, for always making me smile (or cry, depending on my mood that day).

My friend, Jerry, has had an interest in comics ever since I've known him. He currently sells collectible comics on his eBay store. I recently asked him who his favorite artists are and why; aesthetically speaking. He said,  "Picking a favorite artist is like picking a favorite movie. Too many to chose from. I like how Jim Lee draws Batman, Eric Basaldua & Adam Hughes draw women, Kenneth Rocafort uses dynamic color, Frank Miller creates atmosphere, Michael Turner drew Witchblade ... and I could go on and on."

Courtesy of Eric Basaldua

Of course when I think of comics I still remember fondly my Scrooge McDuck, Richie Rich and Archie & The Gang comics from when I was a kid. The comics Jerry is referring to are in a league of their own. A completely different world. I thought Betty and Veronica were a little risqué back in the day, with their booty shorts and cleavage drawn with one curved line in the middle of their v-neck crew. The comic ladies of today are the most colorful, bodacious, curvaceous creatures I've ever seen.  Check out this Grimm Fairy Tales comic book spin-off, a modern day Robyn Hood. Me-ow. For more info, check out Jerry's  eBay store at: www.3204auctions.com and Eric Basaldua's fan page at http://www.facebook.com/ericbasaldua.



Courtesy of Danielle Mastrion

Through my love of all things Beastie, I have discovered a New York City artist named Danielle Mastrion. She created the beautiful MCA tribute mural that can be seen at 5Pointz Aerosol Arts Center & Graffiti Museum in Queens, NY. I made the trek over from Manhattan to 5Pointz to see for myself, and was blown away at the color, detail, passion, and funk that goes into each of those special pieces. Danielle has been an artist her entire life, but only within the last four years has she started showcasing her work in world-wide live art competitions. Aside from these giant wall murals, she is also a painter, graphic designer, and photographer. A self-described "Jill -of-all -trades," she also completed a 12-foot high all brush-painted mural tribute to the Beastie Boys near the East Village of New York. Photos of this piece were featured in the NewYorkTimes.com as well as in RollingStone.com. This tribute to Notorious B.I.G. is crazy cool. I love her unexpected use of color and shading. I can't wait to see what else Danielle has in store for the world. Please check out Danielle's website at http://www.daniellemastrion.com/. 

Courtesy of Michell Lawlor/lucky17photography.com

Another local artist that inspires me is New Jersey native, Michelle Lawlor. I met her on the Beastie Boys fan tour in New York City in August. She was there to photograph and document our journey from strangers to friends, as well as our shared passion for a group of New York musicians that continue to rock our collective world. It turns out Michelle is a thriving young artist in her own right, with her own photography business, where she captures the energy and sweat of live rock concerts, creates artistic promos for the bands, and also does wedding and portraiture work. A snippet describing why she is a rock photographer appears on her website:



Courtesy of Michell Lawlor/lucky17photography.com



"I love rock and roll. It's as simple as that. . . . I believe watching someone play their instrument with all of their heart and soul is one of the most beautiful forms of human expression and is worthy of being documented. Honesty doesn't exist in many places in today's world, but I find it between fretboards, kick drums, and knotted-up cables." 

Damn. That's cool. I wish I'd written that. 

Michelle is a working artist. That means she's lucky enough to have found a passion, a niche, a hobby AND a job. Check out Michelle's portfolio at http://www.lucky17photography.com/and her blog at http://therocknrollpictureshow.com/. 

Honesty. Heart and soul. Passion. Beauty.  I think I see a trend here.

Not all of these artists have achieved the same amount of commercial success. But they are expressing themselves, creating, are involved in their communities, and are doing something to bring beauty into this world. Look around you. Take it all in. Where do you see beauty?

I recently met Venice Beach-based photographer Sunny Bak. She made a name for herself as a fashion photographer in New York in the early 80s. Aside from hanging out with super models, she also befriended a group of young punksters whom she met through a mutual friend. Sunny Bak and the Beastie Boys will be forever linked through her iconic images of the band that are still as relevant and recognizable today.   
  

Courtesy of Sunny Bak



I asked her if there is a weird feeling when you create art, and then you sell it. She told me there is nothing wrong with earning a living. We all need to eat. And if you have a talent that allows to express yourself AND you can feed yourself, then I guess you’re pretty lucky. 



Courtesy of Sunny Bak

Sunny was gracious enough to take the time and meet with me when  I purchased a few copies of her prints. Her sunny (pun intended) studio, doors and windows flung open wide to embrace the late-afternoon California rays, had a calming and centering effect on me. We talked about not dwelling on the past and not obsessing about the future. We talked about how it's often difficult to live in the moment, and we pondered how one is supposed to make plans to do or be something great. Then we agreed that sometimes you just have to do it. Don't think about it - do it. Sometimes our dreams will manifest themselves, right before our eyes, without stressing too much about it. Just do it. (I hope Nike doesn't come calling . . . ).  I told her I wanted to write a book one day. She said, "So, write it." And I said, "Well, I guess it ain't gonna write itself." Duh. Thank you, Sunny, for your time, your wisdom, the Corona, and for sharing a glimpse into your Beastie world. Please visit Sunny's website at: http://www.sunnybak.com. 

Courtesy  of My Mom

I have resigned myself to the fact I’ll never be a famous (or even working) painter, dancer, or 4th member of the Beastie Boys. But it’s possible I could earn my box o’ wine allowance by selling my photos or even writing a real book someday. My mom is an artist. Over the years she has completed beautiful oil, watercolor and charcoal paintings. She creates bone art, continually takes art classes, makes fancy bathtub Virgin Mary statues, and has had her poetry published in several anthologies. She may not make a living as an artist (she’s a retired nurse), but she is giving back to the universe in a positive and beautiful way. All of these artists are. Support them. Support these artists who have the guts and passion to put it all out there.

And if you have a desire deep within to create, to spread beauty and joy, whether through an Instagram photo or poem for a loved one, a mural, a dance, a new tattoo, a scrapbook or rap book, then just do it. 

And I'll leave you with this . . . When is the last time you were singing along with a song that you love so much - and you choke up and can't even get the words out? When you see something so beautiful your heart explodes with joy and tears spring to your eyes? Think about it. For me there are few moments that come to mind: 

• Singing "I Dreamed a Dream" - Les Misérables (Oy. Gets me everytime)
• Driving in the Jeep, feeling content, and then hearing  I Don't Know - Beastie Boys (sung by Adam Yauch)
• Hearing "Cover Me" (Reprise) - Jesse L. Martin, from the original Broadway cast of Rent. (It helps to know that his lover has died, and he's singing to his memory. Try sitting in the theater and hearing this song. It will definitely grab you in the boo-boo).
• Watching the snow scene in The Nutcracker Ballet live on stage. The snow swirling, the glittering tiaras, the choir in the background . . . and maybe the fact that my ballet days are over . . . always delivers a huge sugarplum lump in the back of my throat.
• In my hip-hop classes, when I don't care what I look like, and the beats are pounding through my chest, and my body rolls and leaps on its own - I am perfection and art in that moment.

I wish you all a lifetime of spontaneous, sugarplum lumps of joy when you experience the art that moves you. 

Until next time, with peace and gratitude. A little bit of Garfunkel.

 

You Can't Judge a Dork by Her Cover (Or . . . Weird is the New Normal)

My thoughts for the past few weeks (who am I kidding - past few decades) revolve around judgment; the judgment I perceive I get from others, the judgment I have about others, and the judgment I place on myself. You see, part of my mid-life crises experiment involved getting a new tattoo last week. The what or why isn't important for my story. What is important is that it matters to me. I think it's a beautiful tribute in light of all that has happened this year, and I now have a constant reminder to be grateful for every moment.

My other tattoos are hidden from public view. The new one is on my forearm, for all to see. So as I take the train to work every morning I wonder, do people notice? Am I now regarded as less-than professional? Do I really care what these train people think? Am I not judging those 20 year old girls (yes, the same ones from hip-hop class are also on my train every day) and wondering if they're vapid, spoiled rich kids who miraculously landed an internship or consulting gig? Why do they wear pearls and no makeup, but have tan legs and giant Coach purses? I know I judge because I'll never be one of them, never was one of them, and never desired to be one of them. All the Coach purses in the world would never give me the sort of aloof and easy confidence they exude as they maneuver gracefully through the train cars and up the escalators in their commuter flip-flops and pencil skirts. I'm usually sweating and cursing under my breath while I fumble with my bags or trip on the laces of my untied Chucks. Business men never offer me their seats on the train or hold the door for me at Starbucks. Maybe they're stunned by my effervescent, womanly beauty and only gravitate toward the Pearl Girls because they look like their daughters.

I've always had these feelings, though, before my new tattoo. I've sort of always felt like a hot mess. Maybe that's why I got the tattoo in a such a visible place. Maybe I want to appear more punk, more fringe, more cool than I feel inside. But yet, I don't really fit in with the cool Tattoo Girls either. They would consider me "mainstream." I'm too weird to be normal, but I'm not weird enough to be cool.

I'm stuck in the middle with an average wardrobe, an arm tattoo, a house in the suburbs, a college education, several Coach purses crammed into the back of my closet, 14 pairs of Converse All-Stars, a set of black pearls from the Philippines (that look more like Wilma Flintstone as opposed to  . . . Blythe Danner     or . . . Princess Grace), and a mid-life crises that has lured me into guitar lessons, chatting on fan message boards, and a new set of vanity plates for the Jeep. Even my iPod is stuck in the middle. Sure, I love my Beastie Boys. And there is probably a ditty or two by N.W.A., Tupac or Notorious B.I.G. (True hip hop fans know that I just committed a HUGE faux pas by placing Tupac and Biggie next to each other in that sentence. Maybe those big dumb lugs will feel the love and kiss and make up. Or fist bump. Or whatever). But my iPod also contains way too much John Denver, Neil Diamond and Highlights from Andrew Lloyd Weber Musicals to be cool. I won't apologize for Chris Isaak and James Taylor, though.  I love them both equally and weirdly.

But does any of this matter? Not really. I know that. Do I really go through life seeking the acceptance of others. Not really. (YES. Yes I do!) Do I have a strange obsession with seeing the little red notification symbol that pops up on Facebook whenever a friend validates me with a "Like" or a comment? (YES. Yes I do!) Am I the only one who feels this way? I haven't looked at Facebook in years, because I always ended up with Facebook envy. Come on, I can't be the only one who feels this way (i.e.: She looks so Skinny on her Vacation in Somewhere Exotic, after getting her Doctorate, and running the Boston Marathon and saving Orphans in Africa and Zip Lining through the Jungles of Somewhere Else Exotic . . . blah blah blah). Ok, just in case you're wondering, I don't have any Facebook friends who just received their Doctorate. (Yay!) But after my recent Beastie-trip to NYC,  I've been on the FB a lot more, suddenly addicted to that stupid cartoon "Thumbs Up" symbol. (i.e.: Way to go! I  made a funny joke! People like my blurry photo that I posted so they would know I don't always sit home on Friday night! So what if it was a Barry Manilow concert?) (I wish).

I truly believe that Facebook is a place where people post what they want others to see, not who or what they really are. I'm absolutely guilty of it too. But here, on my blog, I strive to be an example of unabashed honesty. See below:

My  "Not Cool" Confessions: I don't smoke dope. I used to be terrified of Iron Maiden when I was 12. I still watch t.v. (I feel there is a new surge of non-t.v. watchers out there. I'm certainly not an addict, but I do have my shows that I love). I dressed like Laura Ingalls in first grade (complete with pinafore and bonnet). I was an English major, but I don't sit around reading "the classics" for pleasure. I don't do yoga. I don't know what a Bikram is. I still have a flip phone (thought we might get new fancy phones next weekend. Whoa, Nelly!). I don't Tweet. I'm a vegetarian, but I still eat carbs and gluten. And cheese. And wine. (What? There's no meat in wine). I say I'm a hip-hop dancer, but I'm more of an old ballerina (with too much derriere) that tries to get her funk on twice a week. I don't listen to NPR. I still call it The Google and The Facebook. The last time I saw the Beastie Boys live was in 1994. Uncool.

Who am I trying to impress? Me? Am I my biggest critic? (Probably). When I judge others, is it really because I'm being critical, or because I'm feeling envious? (The latter). So, if I feel envious, why don't I give that person a compliment? For instance: "I like your giant Coach purse" or "Your hair is so shiny . . . do you mind if I smell it?" or "Your tattoo is super cool and very punk rock. You appear very confident in your demeanor. Way to go."

I actually did give a compliment to a young woman on the train once. I told her I liked her style and that she didn't dress all uptight like most DC women. She looked very "New York" (sort of Desperately Seeking Susan - 1980s - with a little Pat Benetar). She seemed happy and surprised at my friendliness. (Most people don't talk to each other on the train, much less give out compliments like they were Free with No Strings Attached). But I think she felt weirded out when I told I saw her on the train every day, but not to worry, I wasn't stalking her. I thought it was funny. She now avidly avoids me and will get off before her stop if she ends up on my car. I'm too weird to be normal . . .

Crap. I didn't want this post to be a confessional of my insecurities. I'm curious to know if anyone else feels this way inside, even if your Facebook tells a more confident story, or if you wear your pearls proudly, or if you're tatted up from head to toe, or you actually are Pat Benetar. Do you ever feel like people are judging you, even though we all say, "Who cares"? My mom told me that feeling starts to fade away once you hit your 60s. Oh joy. Well, by then my tattoo will be faded and sagging and James Taylor will be over 80 years old. I guess she's right - nobody will care by then.

Maybe the actual point of all this (aside from not judging others by their appearance, because they're probably as screwed up in the head as you are), is not to judge yourself so harshly. My external appearance and habits have no bearing on who I am inside. Nobody on a train, or at a concert, at the mall, or even on The Facebook, can see who I really am inside. Only I am privy to that information. There is a lot of noise going on in my head, which I'm constantly trying to quiet. When you find that quiet moment, and just BE, you realize it doesn't matter the size of your ass or your Coach purse, the quality of your pearls, or the deep symbolic meaning of your tattoos. If you're a good, caring and genuine person that thinks of others, shows more empathy than sympathy, loves with reckless abandon, and is conscious of your place on this earth and the footprint you leave behind, then I think you're just fine the way you are. I guess that makes me fine just the way I am. Untied Chucks and John Denver and my constant search for Buddhist mindfulness are just some the un-cool parts of me that I love.

What un-cool parts of you do you love?

iPod TEST: Put your iPod on shuffle and list the top 10 songs that come up - no editing! Give your Facebook friends something to ponder. Here is mine. You can't make this shit up.

1. "Groove Holmes" - Beastie Boys

2. "Tell Me Something Good" - Chaka Khan

3. "Don't Get Around Much Anymore" - Harry Connick Jr.

4. "A Nest for Two" - Blinker the Star

5. "Burnin' For You" - Blue Oyster Cult

5. "Ain't it Funny (Murder Remix)" - J. Lo & Ja Rule

6. "Tennessee" - Arrested Development

7. "Flowin' Prose" - Beastie Boys

8. "Tadlock's Glasses" - Beastie Boys

9. "I'm a Believer" - Neil Diamond

10. "Me and Bobby McGee" - Janis Joplin

Until next time, with peace and gratitude. And a little bit of weirdness.

Gratitude . . . For Real

Lately I've seen some pretty crappy news reports about crappy people doing crappy things in the world. Did you hear about the poor turtle that was duct taped to a bunch of helium balloons and sent flying over Oceanside, CA? What about the charming folks that work at the daycare in Dover, DE who encouraged their 3 year old charges into punching each other, in a weird sort of baby fight club? Cell phone video shows an employee telling the kids, "No pinching, only punching!" What about the drunk guy that stumbled into a poultry farm in Maryland and turned off the light switch to three chicken houses, consequently killing 70,000 chickens who died from heat exhaustion?

I've seen these negative news stories over the last few weeks, and I intended on doing a piece about overcoming the negativity out there in the world by seeking positivity. I had written a great paragraph about my daily commute on the Metro train that I share with the depressed, impatient, and often hostile workforce of Washington, DC.

That might have to wait another week or so. Somehow, after the day I had today, my Metro ride and the kidnapped turtle and baby fight club all seem so trivial. Not because they're not important. Not because the crappy people won't get their comeuppance eventually.  But because today the news I heard had nothing to do with crappy side of man or woman-kind. It had to do with the cold, harsh reality of life. And death.

I heard today that a friend of mine, a former co-worker, lost her battle with cancer. She was in her early 40s; close to my age. She was married to another friend of mine, another former co-worker, and they were totally and completely in love. He watched her suffer through, get treatment for, and beat breast cancer a few years ago. Not long after they set off to fulfill their bucket list of adventures; Flamenco dancing in Spain; kissing the Blarney Stone in Ireland. They saw U2 (his favorite band) play live in Dublin.

Last night my friend watched my other friend die. His beautiful wife, his poetry muse, his flamenco partner . . . is gone. He is now a 42 year old widower.  Pardon my French, but that fucking sucks.

So, I won't regale you with stories about my Metro rides or the sad-sational news story of the week. I am going to take this opportunity to document the things I am truly grateful for. Because, as we all keep saying, year after year, death after death . . . life is short. Be grateful for what you have and seize the bloody day.  My list of Gratitude is as follows:

·         A job that affords me the luxury of a simple vacation a few times a year, repairs on my old Jeep when necessary, cat food, a Starbucks Chai Latte twice a week, a trip to the record exchange whenever another Sugarhill Gang or Ella Fitzgerald vinyl comes in, and our house in the 'burbs that is way too extravagant but is utterly charming and delightful. Christ on a bike. I sound shallow. Read on.

·         A relationship with a mature, funny, intelligent, well-rounded, silly, nerdy, fiscally responsible, agreeable, mellow, tolerant, patient, ethical and drug-free man. Ladies . . . as I've said before. Step aside - he's mine. He's actually making dinner right now as I write my blog. I don't ask WHY I'm so lucky. I just thank Goddess I am.

·         My health. Despite my frequent headaches, stomach aches, shoulder surgery, mole removals, root canal, new eye glasses prescription, weird cramped toe-thing, moody depressed days occasionally and a lot of bloating . . . I'm actually in pretty good shape. I am trying every day to love my ever-changing body just the way it is. Lumps and moles and burps and all. And I'm grateful that my ever-growing ass can still booty-pop next to the twenty-something, lithe young women with long hair and perfect skin that dominate my hip hop classes.

·         My parents. What amazing patience those two have. As an only child, I was the center of attention, drama, disaster, financial strain, drama, etc. I required braces and ballet camp and Girl Scouts, and learned to shoot a gun, knit, appreciate Broadway musicals, got good grades, planted gardens, took the city bus alone to ballet class, raised rescued pets, recycled, country-western danced, played with frogs and snakes and lizards, wore cowboy boots, was an English major despite my father's pleas, had college paid for, drove a 1964 Ford Falcon in high school and a cherry -red Toyota Tercel in college, stood up to bullies, defended my friends, ate rattlesnake over a camp fire  . . . need I go on?

I am grateful for so much more, but this is only a blog - not the sequel to "Little Women" or a cabin-dweller's  manifesto.  But please indulge me with one last thought  . . . Last weekend Frank and I had a dinner party for 13 of our friends. It was lovely. Even though I was exhausted from cooking and cleaning for two days, I hope my guests know how much their presence meant to me. To us. I had never cooked a sit-down meal for that many people before. But it was smooth sailing. Martha Stewart would be jealous. I had also organized a "detective game" and our guests were there to help us solve a mystery and find a hidden treasure. I was surprised at the enthusiasm of these "adults" - as they tiptoed through our woods with flashlights, whispered in corners while huddled over clues, and cheered each other on after each new discovery. Our home was literally glowing with giddiness and chatter and new friendships and . . . gratitude.

My heart beats a little faster when I think back over last Saturday night's events. It all seemed to go by so fast. And just now, when I scrolled to the top of this page to proofread, the reality of today kicks me in the gut again. A friend is gone. Another is hurting so deeply that I can't even imagine his pain. Am I being disrespectful for gloating over my seemingly idyllic life? What do they have to be grateful for?

The Blarney Stone. Dancing in the moonlight. Each other.

Until next time, with peace and an abundance of gratitude.

I'm a Tree-Hugger . . . Big Surprise!

For those of you who know me, (and if you're reading my blog, there is a strong likelihood that you DO know me), you know that I am prone to hug the proverbial (and oftentimes literal) tree. I've been accused of being a tree-hugger since college. The fact that I've been a vegetarian for 20 years notwithstanding, I may have some other nature-friendly tendencies (gasp!). I believe in global warming (the result of which, in my mind, are polar bears floating away on tiny ice burgs while clinging to their baby bears); I believe in the Three Rs (Reduce! Re-use! Recycle!); and I believe that if you shoot it, you should eat it  - and if you CAN grow it, you SHOULD grow it! And then eat it!

Where did I learn such leftist, counter-culture behavior?

From my hippie parents, duh.

Oddly, my dad was married to the federal government for 32 years, so you might not consider him a hippie at first glance. But then again, if you know my dad (and if you're reading my blog, it's entirely possible you DO know him), the ponytail and tie-dye shirt are more than just the result of a post-government act of rebellion. He eats what he shoots (squirrels, rabbits, elk and other "critters"), he loves a used coffee can to store his man-stuff in (the usefulness of the "stuff" is debatable), and he has created and implemented a water reclamation system in my parents' New Mexico backyard that would make the Corps of Engineers proud. Ahem. 

My mom, however, has never worked for the government. She used to play the recorder (songs like "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme"), bake her own bread (the kids at school asked me if my mom was an Indian), she eats what she shoots, and she has a garden that would make Laura Ingalls proud (refer to blog post #2). The point is, the hippie doesn't fall far from the tree that she's hugging.

I asked my mom if I could feature her garden and the water collection system on my blog. It may not be a random act of kindness in the regular sense. This kindness is directed toward another mother - Mother Earth. She is one bad-ass baby momma.

My mom has been developing her garden over the past 14 years. It includes beautiful vegetables, culinary herbs, medicinal herbs (don't get excited, it's not what you think), fruit trees and ornamental plants. About 9 years ago my parents put gutters on the roof and installed barrels for rainwater collection. They have several barrels, for a total of about 1,000 gallons of water collection potential, that they use to water the garden. Brilliant!

Mom also has dedicated two large sections of the front yard to xeric plantings (low water use plants). This reduces the amount of higher water-use lawn. These xeric areas are watered only once a month if there is no rain at all during that period. When watering the small pieces of actual lawn, she puts the sprinkler on during the cooler times of the day. Since  my parents live in the Southwest, they feel an obligation to use all their resources in a responsible, conscientious way. By conserving water in these ways, my mom can provide food and medicine for the family, increase the oxygen levels in the atmosphere (all green trees and plants add oxygen to the air), provide a cooler "green belt" around the house which reduces the need to use electricity to cool their house, and have a beautiful, colorful relaxing area to chill out. 

Don't you love it when you see some dumdum watering their front sidewalk instead of the grass because the sprinkler is screwed up or the wind is blowing . . . or it's raining??! Hellooooo?? Ever heard of a drought? I personally don't care to act out The Grapes of Wrath any time soon. That would be so depressing and dusty. Hence "dust bowl," I guess.

In July, a local organization called Gaia Guild sponsored a garden tour and competition to promote backyard food production. My mom's garden won the "Most Water-Wise Garden." My mom said, "To respect and honor Mother Earth, to use all her resources and gifts wisely to improve and enhance our daily life; that is my motivation in everything I do." Mother Earth kicks ass. So does my mother.

So folks, the moral of the story is, try to reduce your water usage in your yard, if possible. Grow amazing veggies and herbs to cook with, if possible. And always attempt a complicated and cumbersome feat of engineering in order to lessen your water usage . . . if possible.

I kid. Not everyone has the skills and wherewithal to construct a device that looks like the boiler room on the Titanic. A hippie with a Master's Degree and the skills of a carpentry ninja. Not too shabby.

One last thought . . . When I was in first grade, I used to collect aluminum cans from the playground and save them to take home and turn in for cash on the weekend. My dad helped me build a can crusher out of 2x4s and a door hinge (didn't every kid have one of those?). My teacher took me aside and asked why I was saving garbage. She thought we were poor. Guess she didn't know I was probably one of the richest kids she'd ever meet.

Thanks, Ma and Pa (again, Laura Ingalls -  and in case you truly have never met any of us before, that's really what I call my parents); thanks for teaching me to appreciate a crock-pot squirrel (I wasn't ALWAYS a vegetarian), a bountiful harvest, and for instilling in me respect for our environment and our natural community.

Until next time, with peace and gratitude.

Go hug a tree. 

New Yauch City

Now, here's a little story I've got to tell . . .

I promised my friends and family I was almost done with Beastie Boys posts on my blog.

I lied.

There is no way I could NOT write about the incredible weekend I just experienced. However, I wondered if it had a place on my blog, considering my goal is to post stories about random acts of kindness and highlight noteworthy causes. My recent trip to New York City seems so self-indulgent at first glance; it was a pilgrimage, a celebration,  a fan-cation. But upon closer reflection, I realized I was on the receiving end of a HUGE act of kindness. There was no celebrity auction, no money was raised, no finish line was crossed (although, a metaphorical finish line was crossed, but I'll get to that later).

It started out as an invitation to all Beastie fans via Facebook and message boards. The host, Jason, created a walking tour of infamous Beastie Boys/New York City sights to help celebrate the birthday of our dearly missed Adam Yauch (MCA), who would have turned 48 on August 5, 2012.

When I first saw the invite, I thought, "That's cool. I wonder how many weirdos are going to show up for that?" Speaking as a weirdo, I talked to Frank (my way-better half), and threw out the idea to him.

"So, what you think about going to New York for the weekend, to hang out with people I've never met, and have no idea what their real names are, to walk around and look at the outside of buildings that Beastie Boys either wrote songs about or maybe lived in once upon a time?"

He said, "We should go!" (This man is a gem. Ladies . . . back off).

So we ditched work a few hours early and drove up this past Friday afternoon. Saturday morning we were late to the meeting site, but soon caught up with the group (of random strangers). Before long, they weren't random OR strange anymore. They were (and are) a perfectly lovely group of normal-ish people, just like us, who adore the Beastie Boys and wanted a chance to be with other like-minded fans to pay tribute and celebrate.

And so, we walked.

And walked. And then we walked some more. I think we walked for nearly 8 hours straight, except for two breaks: Bad Burger (former BB recording studio was located upstairs) and Iggy's Keltic Lounge (near Ludlow and Rivington - famous BB corner. Google it). Oh, and it was about 90 degrees with 90% humidity. But we kept going and nobody complained. (I complained the next day of shin splints. How does Frank put up with me)?

Jason had created a detailed itinerary, complete with subway stops, distance between locations, and a brief history of the importance of each site. It was like a graduate thesis project. And did I mention he doesn't even live in New York? Or the U.S., for that matter? Cripes! That's talent!

Our tour also took us past Oscilloscope Laboratories (film and music production), 59 Chrystie Street (former BB residence and BB jam), and ended at the amazing and breathtaking MCA tribute mural in Brooklyn. Hot and tired, our little group gathered on the subway platform and silently stared, took a few photos, a wiped away tears. Somehow, looking at the mural made it all seem so real.

But we weren't ready for the day to end. Though a few folks opted for a quick nap and shower, Frank and I went with the rest of the group and walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. Never thought I would ever do that - and it was awesome. (Finish line  - didn't need spectators cheering - I was all smiles all day).

We all met up again that evening at a Manhattan bar called Overlook  for more Beastie revelry. The DJ (thanks, Pat!) was spinning non-stop Beastie Boys tunes, and drink specials included a Brass  Monkey and bottles of Miller (Google it). Soon after we arrived, Jason herded the fans outside, saying we had to look at something "really cool" and Beastie related. The ooohs and ahhhhs echoed down the street corner as fans trickled out of the bar. In front of us was an amazing homage to MCA, with a shout-out to Jam Master Jay (Run-DMC). This rolling tribute is a 1976 Cadillac, covered from hood ornament to fins with Beastie Boys art work, photos, quotes. It was a beautiful sight to see. The fans snapped pics and took turns posing by the beast(ie). Then it got quiet. Nobody was talking; many were crying. So much time and energy and patience and love went into that car. And though the car is a celebration of Yauch's life and the Beastie Boys legacy, it was also a breathtaking reminder that he is really gone.

Yesterday was Adam Yauch's birthday, and yet he keeps on giving gifts to us; the fans. A few of the gifts we've received from Adam:  

*The knowledge that life is short - so do what you damn well please!

*The courage to do it with grace, class, and style (finesse and debonair. Ok, that was quoting Adrock - but it still counts).

*That it feels good to do something for others - but that shouldn't be why you do it.

*That art  . . . in any form . . . is beauty. Create something beautiful!

*His music and his message. The gift that keeps on giving.

*That it doesn't have to be expensive, or fancy, or commercial in order to be loved and appreciated.

Thank you, Adam Yauch, for inspiring Jason to create a weekend that we'll never forget. This random group of stranger-friends will always have those moments; gazing up into the windows at O-Scope to read the Gratitude tribute that Yauch's friends hung for him, standing silently on the Brooklyn subway platform, or seeing the Caddy for the first time.

Thank you, Jason, for your HUGE act of kindness, and for helping me take a risk to go on this  adventure. Not something I would normally do and a little outside my comfort zone. It would have been so much easier to stay on the couch with my box o' Cabernet and watch "Scarecrow and Mrs. King" reruns. The reward definitely outweighed the risk. It was a great tour, a great day, and you made everyone feel so welcome.

Now that's grace and class. With a little bit of debonair.

'Til next time, with peace and gratitude.

 

This Should Get Your Tails Waggin’!

I recently read an online article about a woman who rescued a 21 lb. lobster from becoming the guest of honor at dinner party for 20 of his closest frenemies. She (the woman, not the lobster) entered a raffle in Massachusetts and spent $600 to ensure the win and rescue the lobster from certain death. It turns out there was such an outcry of crustaceous concern from the local community, the restaurant in question decided the winner would instead be able to help set the lobster free or receive 21 individual lobsters (how is that better??).  When the lobster-friendly woman won ($600 later), she instead opted to donate her prize to the New England Aquarium in Boston. The Aquarium has granted her special visitation rights when she’s in the area in early August. Perhaps he’ll wave his giant lobster claw at her while she presses her face against the glass, knowing in her heart that he is safe from future capture. Although, if I were the lobster, I might prefer the freedom of the ocean as opposed to a tank, but now I’m just being picky. One final note to this story; the proceeds from the raffle were donated to the Dana Farber Cancer Institute in Boston. Pretty cool.

I don’t know that it would even occur to me to try and fix a raffle so I could save a lobster.  Maybe I’m just lazy . . . or don’t think outside the box . . . or don’t know how I would drive a lobster around in the back of my ’96 Jeep. (Fish tank? Card board box? Car seat?) But I do have a friend who is pretty creative when it comes to advocating on behalf of animal rights. Danielle and I have been friends since college, and we are both suckers for all things cute and furry.  But over the years, Danielle has continued to impress me with her knowledge and passion about these issues.

Aside from donating her time at local animal humane societies, she is also quite vocal about calling out the heinous business practices of puppy mills. She posts disturbing videos on her FaceBook page or in emails. Puppy mills often abuse, abandon, or murder the mothers, and  they also leave the puppies and mothers in piles of their own filth in horrible crowded conditions. The only way they can make a profit is to inevitably increase the dogs’ suffering. This makes me sick – and it really pisses off Danielle. We both believe that adoption (versus breeding) should always be the first choice. There are millions of dogs euthanized every year because of shelter space issues. Chuckles, one of Danielle’s dogs, came from a puppy mill rescue group. These groups will frequently show up at auctions to bid on puppies and mothers that would have otherwise been sold to less than savory characters. (Kind of like the lobster!) Danielle is torn about these groups; because on one hand the dogs are rescued, but at the same time the rescue group is financially supporting the business at auction.

On a personal note, I don’t have dogs, but my two cats are former strays who are ever so grateful and spoiled. My parents have rescued all of their brood as well, and they are currently living with two cats and black lab puppy. My brothers and sister. (Not-so subliminal message: ADOPT!)

Danielle has also fostered puppies. She gives them a home while they are awaiting adoption. She said, in all honesty, that it’s a lot of work. There is puppy poo everywhere and they have to be sequestered from your own animals. It takes a lot of patience, but it’s worth it when you meet the new family and know they’ll be going to a good home.

One last thing. Before you settle down in front of your big screen to watch your Magnum, P.I. DVDs, with a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and a plate of foie gras, ponder this:  To fatten the goose or duck (in order to make his liver extra ginormous and “buttery” – gag), they force feed him with a tube down his throat (known as “gavage” – look it up). It sounds torturous. Oh wait – it is. Anyway, there is an animal-rights group called Farm Sanctuary that created business cards meant for restaurants that still serve foie gras, originally a French delicacy. (Do we really NEED that on our menus? I ‘m just wondering). Danielle has handed out these cards to restaurant managers, with a message that indicates that you (the duck or goose lover) will not be dining at their establishment in the future because of the presence of foie gras on the menu.  Pretty cool.

Once again, maybe I’m lazy . . . or chicken (no pun intended) . . . or don’t typically eat in places that serve foie gras (unless it’s a new menu item at the Cheesecake Factory that I’m unaware of). But I think it’s great that Danielle has the guts (also known as tripe – gag) to take a stand against animal cruelty in such a public way. Kudos to Danielle and the animals in her life, and thanks for helping make our world a safer and more comfy place for them to live. Woof. Meow. Honk. Quack. Glug glug glug. (Lobster sound)
R.I.P. Tori and Mozart

With peace and gratitude. And a little nip! (Good dogs don’t bite)