Los Angeles, California
I write a lot about cake. And I write some about faith and religion. I probably even write occasionally about sex, though not so much. One thing I don't write much about is politics, though it wouldn't take a fine-toothed comb to sift through the information contained in my posts and figure out where I stand on the conservative-liberal spectrum.
It's not that I don't care about political and social issues. It's not as if it is a missing link in my life, like visual art seems to be. It's just that, in my life today, I can't throw enough attention at it to be really knowledgable. I don't devote the time to keep up. My news comes to me through NPR, the NYTimes online, and other print and online sources. But, when I am not in Carmel, I simply don't read news cover-to-cover. Other interests, responsibilities, and, let's be honest, distractions take precedence.
But I am not unaware of the movement of LGBT rights. And it is important to me. And would be, even if Billy and I didn't have several friends who are gay, including one couple who are very close friends. I know this is wrong, but I don't think I've ever really stopped to think that they are denied anything in life and society, because that seems so incomprehensible to me. Denial is not just a river in Egypt?
Not that it should be an issue when it comes to rights, but I believe that each of the couples we know are in every way as close and committed as are Billy and I. I don't accept preference as making much of a difference when it comes to our human emotions, including our love for another human being. And, frankly (here comes one of those times when I will bring sex into my blog), our sexuality is only one aspect of our lives, intimate or otherwise (albeit an important one). Lastly, when it comes to marriage equality, I am always reminded of what I once heard Tom Selleck (I think it was Tom Selleck--I know it wasn't Tom Cruise) say: Why shouldn't they be as unhappy as the rest of us? That's a joke, people!
Years ago, Billy and I watched a documentary entitled Eyes on the Prize. It was a profound piece of work about the civil rights movement. And even though it was only three or four decades after the movement, what we saw in the footage--of children being severely knocked about by the force of firehoses held by grown men, was shocking and appalling. You forget, after the movements have accomplished their goals, how hard it was. How wrong the pre-movement thinking was. I don't often think about the fact that my gender has only had the vote for less than a century. I don't reflect upon the fact that we were thought too stupid or too emotional to be given that right and responsibility.
As I look about my community of friends and fristers (and frothers), I realize that there is a great deal of diversity in all areas of my life. I remember that when I was a Brownie and Girl Scout, in Burbank, California, we sold fund-raising calendars with pictures of racially and ethnically diverse Scouts. But that didn't represent my troop. We had no Latinas, no African-American nor Asian girls in my troop. We had one Jewish girl. We had a quite a few Italian-Americans, but the rest of us were mostly of mixed middle and northern European heritage. My high school had one(1) African-American student attending, and I did not get to know him. I remember looking on him with curiosity, nothing more. As I've aged the diversity amongst my community has more or less just unfolded, and I think I've taken that for granted. In fact, in the community where we live, Billy and I are in the minority, except in the obvious, but nevertheless all-important, sense that we are all of the human race. All. Important.
When I first saw the symbol for equality on someone's Facebook page, I had to surf for the meaning of it. When I saw the cake version of it, shown above, I had to download it. The truth is that this movement for LGBT rights should be so accomplished already. And maybe that's why I tend to forget that it isn't. And that is wrong of me. I should show support. I should show that I care. Because, like the movement for women's rights, and the movement for civil rights, this should have been done already. In fact, it should have been a piece of cake. Thank you for reading my blog.
Los Angeles, California
My favorite Dr. Suess book is The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. SpoilerAlert: In this book, a young lad attempts to doff his hat when the king is passing, but discovers that there is another hat under it...and another under the next, and so on. The hats are increasingly ornate including the 499th hat which he removes before the executioner, after he is sentenced to death for dissing the king by not removing his hat in the king's presence. Great fun, eh?
The above picture of my friend, Christopher, was taken on Christmas night in Carmel. We had attempted to make balloon animals, and actually, Christopher and Carole quite capably made balloon dogs, as I recall. Dachshunds. But most of us just had fun twisting the balloons into odd shapes and, ultimately, party hats. And what does this have to do with the subject of this post, which is about reaching five thousand hits on my blog? Absolutely nothing. But it's a great photo.
And so. And so my blog has hit the high water mark of 5000 hits. And this is what I have learned: Writing a blog requires some perseverance. You don't always feel like writing. You start off with some ideas in mind, like my idea to include recipes in, as I recall, every other post (really? Really?!) or to try to make the posts humorous (nice try--some of the posts have been downright dismally depressing, I'm afraid). Truth is that no matter what you think you're going to make, something else will come out. And in blogdom, that, as my friend Lydia often says, is ok.
I recently noticed that a couple of the blogs I've read in the past have been abandoned. The other whatwouldsandrado blog (whatwouldsandrado.com) is one of those. Sad, that, for I enjoyed her writing. But I get it. I don't always come to my Macbook raring to write. And that shows in the posts, I know. But I do like to surprise myself--sometimes even in a good way. Writing is like other forms of alchemy. You start with a blank page or a blank canvas or a space on the dance floor, and, for better or for worse, you create. This is my 105th blog post since I started my blog back in early 2010. I doubt that three years is a long span in the life of a blog. But I cannot think, at this time, that I will stop writing it. And, I am sorry if that is bad news to you, for...
I might leave by the door
After writing some more.
But I will be back,
To write on my Mac.
For this is my blog.
Where I write in my fog,
or I write in my sleep,
When it's cold or there's heat.
I won't write in a day,
But I won't go away.
While you might find it poor,
It just will not be o'er...
...at least not for awhile! Thank you for reading my blog.
Los Angeles, California
Ever seen Albert Brooks' film, Defending Your Life? There is a scene during his hearing to defend his life where his prosecutor runs a reel displaying times during his life when things went wrong. A few have to do with power tools, and one, if memory serves, has him falling off the roof while attempting to fix his TV antenna (shows you how old that movie is). I often think about that scene. It was hilariously funny when I first saw it. And frankly, it reminded me of Billy, who could have a reel of his own like that, for example: putting extra spark-arresting screens on the chimney of our first home so that smoke backed up into our freshly-painted living room; dropping a bottle of Eau Savage cologne into the toilet of our apartment, while it was flushing, causing it to lodge and ultimately causing the toilet to have to be removed and replaced; shipping our clothes to the Kona Village so they would arrive on Sunday, except there is no FedEx delivery on Sunday and he didn't pack any back-up clothes (as had I, smugly) to get him through the next day-and-a-half. Please stop me here, because I got a million of 'em.
This is not to say that I don't do similarly mindless things myself. Believe me, I do. It's just that it's more fun to recount the things that Billy has done over the decades we have been together. However. However, lately I have been saying and doing a lot of idiotic things. And I thought, for a change, I would focus on a few of my own stumbles.
Now, of course salsa dance is going to be in this litany, because it's something I do. A lot. It's a jungle out there on the dance floor, and we've all been hit, kicked, and stepped on. I have caused some damage myself, though not generally by stepping on people because I no longer take those large steps that mark the beginning stage of all salseros. And I don't have big feet; I'm more or less average-sized. Also, I don't wear spike heels which can really do some damage, as in the case of my friend, Joy, who fell on the dance floor (it happens), and then had someone skewer her hand with a spike heel. Yikes. And I'm smart enough to stay away from a certain salsera who allegedly slaps other salseras deliberately. She came to salsa by way of roller derby, we think. But here is what I did Tuesday night: I stepped on my own foot. Yep. I don't know how I did it, but one of my feet got under the other, and I stepped down fairly hard. Ouch, and how stupid is that?
I also notice that as I get older, my tongue occasionally gets tied, or my thoughts become verbalized before I have a chance to run them through my brain's filter. Case-on-point when recently Billy and I were talking about North Korea's ability to shoot an armed missile at the US. I had remarked that if they can only reach Texas (as I had heard on NPR), what were we so worried about? Even judging only by the political figures who have come out of Texas, I think Texas is, more or less, well, expendable? But then Billy said that they didn't have that range, but that they could probably reach Hawaii. Hawaii? I exclaimed. That's ridiculous! Who would attack Hawaii? Who indeed? I've always thought geography was one of my weakest areas of knowledge; but evidently history is creeping up.
Lastly, I was hanging out with my salsera frister, Carol, last week when I uttered a phrase in response to feeling overwhelmed: My eyes will turn to pinmeals. Now, I'm not sure if I was hungry at the time, or if my tongue twisted, or if I just decided to turn that W upside-down to an M. Regardless of reason, we got a good laugh out of it, and it became part of our lexicon for that day, and beyond.
Mind you, I am only sharing a few recent faux pas(es?). The older, and more stressed I get, the more I lose things; say ridiculous things, and display that non-discriminatory curse of aging--forgetting things. Actually, the items on that list shouldn't all be attributed to age. For, I have always lost things since I was a little kid. I recently left my favorite coat behind at the Canary Hotel in Santa Barbara. We phoned when we arrived in Carmel, our next stop on the trip and the place where I really needed the coat. Luckily, they did recover it. But the stories of backtracking in an attempt to retrieve things (and, happily, usually successfully) that I have left behind is pretty-much legendary amongst Billy and my inner-circle fristers.
Maybe I get scattered because I spend a lot of time writing. Not, sitting-down-at-the-computer, or with my journal on my lap, writing, but in-my-head writing. I love words. I love combining them into sentences. I love the play of them. So, I guess it's not such a stretch that I would try to create my own language, with the first word being pinmeals. It will be an interesting, vocabulary-driven language. One with no real structure nor grammar. It won't be easy to learn. Don't even try. If you do, it will, most certainly, turn your eyes to pinmeals. You must trust me about this. Thanks for reading my blog, and if you are from Texas, I apologize. Kinda...
