Chillout

Read the story here

Letter To My Unborn Child

by Young Dawkins

Someday you will want to know
and I might not be here,
so
this is how you were made.

It was a soft night
near the back of June,
clear, for a change, no rain.

Old women were out
gathering healing herbs,
fennel, dog rose and rhu.

Bonfires burned on all seven hills,
drunken young men
leapt through the flames.

Down in the bogs
the foxfire glowed,
will o' the wisps edged the meadows.

In our bed my wife laughed out loud
at the loving pleasure
of being a woman.

Like any man, I suppose,
I was proud,
and we fell to our sleep both smiling.

You were created
of passion and magic,
in Scotland, on Mid-Summer's Eve.

Here in the North,
that augers you special,
your mother and I believe.

UPDATE:

Whaddya know? I received an e-mail from the author: Thanks Young!

Dear Matthew,

Just a quick email to say thanks so much for posting my poem on your blog. I'm a huge fan of the Writer's Almanac, and it has been the biggest thrill of my poetic life to be featured on there.

It is available as part of a collection called The Lilac Thief - you may be able to get it on Amazon in the US. If not, and you're interested in a copy, drop me a note.

Background to the poem is that I became a first time father last year - at the age of 60 :)

Just back from the Jazzmouth Festival in Portsmouth, NH, where i read with Ray Manzarek, Michael McClure and Robert Pinsky. Also very exciting!

I'm on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Young-Dawkins/307107005688?ref=ts

Many thanks again for posting it on your blog.

Best wishes,

Young Dawkins

Traveling Tails

For example: I presume, when heading to the airport, that the security line will consist of three high-school marching bands, each member with his own array of steel pins and skull plates, and it will take an hour AT LEAST to snake through the line. I also presume we’ll have the farthest gate. It goes without saying that I presume heavy traffic en route.

My wife belongs to the school that looks at the time of departure, subtracts an hour, and figures that’s when you should start to leave. Or pack.

- Lileks

Nature-Deficit Disorder

One of my favorite podcasts recently examined the phenomena of children being increasingly cut off from the natural world.

Worth a listen.

Traveling Tails

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G9em-ZCddWk

Waving Goodbye

by Wesley McNair

Why, when we say goodbye
at the end of an evening, do we deny
we are saying it at all, as in We'll
be seeing you, or I'll call, or Stop in,
somebody's always at home? Meanwhile, our friends,
telling us the same things, go on disappearing
beyond the porch light into the space
which except for a moment here or there
is always between us, no matter what we do.
Waving goodbye, of course, is what happens
when the space gets too large
for words – a gesture so innocent
and lonely, it could make a person weep
for days. Think of the hundreds of unknown
voyagers in the old, fluttering newsreel
patting and stroking the growing distance
between their nameless ship and the port
they are leaving, as if to promise I'll always
remember, and just as urgently, Always
remember me. It is loneliness, too,
that makes the neighbor down the road lift
two fingers up from his steering wheel as he passes
day after day on his way to work in the hello
that turns into goodbye? What can our own raised
fingers to for him, locked in his masculine
purposes and speeding away inside the glass?
How can our waving wipe away the reflex
so deep in the woman next door to smile
and wave on her way into her house with the mail,
we'll never know if she is happy
or sad or lost? It can't. Yet in that moment
before she and all the others and we ourselves
turn back to our disparate lives, how
extraordinary it is that we make this small flag
with our hands to show the closeness we wish for
in spite of what pulls us apart again
and again: the porch light snapping off,
the car picking its way down the road through the dark.

I’ll take a 40 . . .

So next Tuesday, I turn FORTY. The big 4-ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh. No big whoop. Doesn’t really bother me. But you cannot get away from the milestone nature of it all. After all, 40 is the only birthday that has black napkins. Earlier than forty? No one gets it. Later than forty? HEY! TOO CLOSE TO HOME!

So forty it is. Another decade – done.

When you hit 10, it’s like, “How many more years until I am a teenager?”

When you hit 20, it’s like, “Finally! Only one more year until . . . you know . . .”

When you hit 30, it’s like, “Thank all that is holy that the twenties are over! Bring on the mellow!”

But when you hit 40 . . . . . We have crested the hill and it’s one log slog towards the bright light.

I don’t really feel that way. But it’s what you’re “supposed” to feel like so I offer my "homage".

First of all, the first twenty years don’t count – you’re a kid and then you are a teen and then you are a college student.

The next ten years don’t count because you spend all your time unwinding the nonsense you were taught in your first 20.

I think life begins at 30. Real. Life. It occurs between 30 and 80 – which makes middle age 55. I am calendaring my crisis on my google calendar as I speak . . . err . . . type.

So 40. Big whoop. To me it’s on par with ten. When you are ten, it is all about becoming a teenager. When you are 40, it’s all about becoming fiscally solvent. Pretty much equal on the angst scale, I think . . . .

Only now you have kids . . . . wondering how long before they turn 10 . . . .

Truck Garden

by Charles Goodrich

My first wife and I rented a little bungalow in the center of
town. We were young. Our furniture was nothing but apple crates.
The backyard butted up to a Ford dealer. There was a wall of
new pickup trucks at the end of our garden. We planted everything
we could dream of, even rutabagas. She had sweet peas climbing the
downspouts; I grew peanuts in buckets on the back porch. She
brought home two kittens, Basil and Sage, but they both died and we
buried them under the juniper.
Before anything was ripe, the Ford guy bought the place,
evicted us, bulldozed the house, and paved the yard. Thirty years
later, I still think of those cats buried under the asphalt. And who
knows what else.

Traveling Tails Gag Request

That's "Request" not "Reflex".

So a friend of mine suggested that I come up with some sort of gag or theme to mark my new travels.

My first thought was that I would hit a Starbucks in every state that I visit and have the barista hold up a hand-written sign indicating the state we are in - the only thing that would change is the sign - get it?!

But . . . . I almost never go to Starbucks . . .

My next idea was that I would buy a shot glass in each airport - take a photo of it filled with . . . . errrr . . . . soda . . . . and then leave the empty shot glass in my next hotel room next to the Gideon Bible (with photo evidence). That way, someone would open the drawer in St. Louis and find a bible and a shot glass from Portland and say W*F?

But then that would mean I would be doing shots in airports at 6am - which I am willing to do for the sake of my "art" but I don't think the wife would go for it.

So I am looking for creative ideas - if your job required you to visit 22 states and 3 provinces of Canada regularly, what gag would you pull?

Traveling Tails

I know, I have been terrible at keeping people up-to-date. As some may know, I now have a new job that requires me to travel every other week. Which means I am home one week and then I head out on Monday and return Friday the following week. It’s actually a pretty decent gig. It’s still WORK and so comes with all the usual frustrations and I almost NEVER have time to see any sights (unless you consider airports and hotel rooms sights). Places I have been to so far?: St. Louis, MO – Albuquerque, NM – Phoenix, AZ – Salt Lake City, UT – Denver, CO.

So let this be considered the first installment of "Traveling Tails".

First topic of consideration? Boarding and de-planeing.

Let me start by saying, “I get it”. People want to be first. First on, first off, first to get to baggage claim, first to leave baggage claim blah blah blah . . . . I understand, it is a natural human tendency. To me, these people are the equivalent of the lane-changers in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

I KNOW WHAT THE INSIDE OF A PLANE LOOKS LIKE AND I AM IN NO HURRY TO SEE IT AGAIN. NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU PUSH AND SHOVE, YOU BAG WILL HIT BAGGAGE CLAIM WHEN IT HITS IT AND NOT A SECOND SOONER.

Which means, when the boarding starts, that’s my cue to hit the men’s room. Usually by the time I am back, it is just me and the gate attendant. I travel alone so what do I care where I sit?

Here’s a tip: Many people travelling together will take the window and aisle seat – leaving the middle seat between them. When you board last, look for people who may be a couple – ask to take the middle seat and inevitably the person on the aisle will shrug, take the middle seat next to their loved one and leave the aisle to you.

So aaaaannnnyyyy waaaaaaayyyy . . . . I board last and I take my chances.

The other side of this is, I see no reason to leap from my seat as soon as the plane hits the gate only to stand in the aisle like some sort of schmuck. I keep my seat, when it comes my time to move I look to see if anyone around me needs assistance and then I make my way to freedom.

So on a recent flight I boarded last, I took the middle seat and endured the flight. Upon landing, the aisle schumck to my right LEAPS up and into the aisle as if it will make one bit of difference. I keep my seat, power up the phone, let the wife know I am safe and sound . . . that’s when the window schmuck, overcome by his schmuckiness, stands up – bent-over – under the over-head panel. HE'S JUST STANDING THERE - BENT OVER - GLOWERING AT ME.

Keep in mind, we are so far back in the pack that we can’t even SEE people in motion at the front of the plane yet. I just smile to myself at the lunacy of it all. That’s when window schmuck, not content to be standing doubled over, attempts to crane his arm over me and up around into the overhead bin so that he can grab his carry-on . . . FIRST!

10 minutes later, it came our turn to get up and get out.

Saw the guy at baggage claim – he was still waiting for his luggage as I headed out to pick up my rental car.

Guess he should have boarded sooner . . . .

What a schmuck.

Public Service Announcement

iPoem

by George Bilgere

Someone's taken a bite
from my laptop's glowing apple,
the damaged fruit of our disobedience,
of which we must constantly be reminded.

There's the fatal crescent,
the dark smile
of Eve, who never dreamed of a laptop,
who, in fact, didn't even have clothes,
or anything else for that matter,

which was probably the nicest thing
about the Garden, I'm thinking,
as I sit here in the café
with my expensive computer,
afraid to get up even for a minute
in order to go to the bathroom
because someone might steal it

in this fallen world she invented
with a single bite
of an apple nobody, and I mean
nobody,
was going to tell her not to eat.

Captain's Crunch French Toast

“Crushed breakfast cereal coats thick slices of egg bread in this thick, sweet breakfast treat.”

RECIPE HERE

Frat Boy vs Flip-Flop

I have always said it is a cruel trick that judgement is the first thing to go. If I were ruling the universe I would have made hand-eye coordination the first thing to go (or hand-foot coordination). That way, when you tried to put your flip-flop on and missed, your still intact judgement could say, "Hey, buddy. I think we have had enough . . . better sober up before trying to drive home . . ."

Almost Awesome

I thought this was hilarious as soon as I saw it. Instantly I was making plans to embed various versions in future posts. Alas, they do not offer embeddable code.

That makes this Almost Awesome.

Ode to Chocolate

by Barbara Crooker

I hate milk chocolate, don't want clouds
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don't want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,
James Dean in oiled leather, leaning
on a motorcycle. You know the color.

Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars
of Africa, hulled in mills, beaten,
pressed in bars. The cold slab of a cave's
interior, when all the stars
have gone to sleep.

Chocolate strolls up to the microphone
and plays jazz at midnight, the low slow
notes of a bass clarinet. Chocolate saunters
down the runway, slouches in quaint
boutiques; its style is je ne sais quoi.
Chocolate stays up late and gambles,
likes roulette. Always bets
on the noir.

Maple Bacon Pancake

“A sweet and savory oven-baked pancake with cheese, bacon, and maple syrup.”

RECIPE HERE

Brilliant

Man Love

I came across this site this morning: The Man's Guide to Love

The responses are all over the map.

Here's a tip - give more weight to the old married guys than you do to the young single ones . . . .

Quote of the Day

Those who are lifting the world upward and onward are those who encourage more than criticize.

~ Elizabeth Harrison

After a Noisy Night

by Laure-Anne Bosselaar

The man I love enters the kitchen
with a groan, he just
woke up, his hair a Rorschach test.
A minty kiss, a hand
on my neck, coffee, two percent milk,
microwave. He collapses
on a chair, stunned with sleep,
yawns, groans again, complains
about his dry sinuses and crusted nose.
I want to tell him how
much he slept, how well,
the cacophony of his snoring
pumping in long wheezes
and throttles—the debacle
of rhythm—hours erratic
with staccato of pants and puffs,
crescendi of gulps, chokes,
pectoral sputters and spits.
But the microwave goes ding!
A short little ding! – sharp
as a guillotine—loud enough to stop
my words from killing the moment.
And during the few seconds
it takes the man I love
to open the microwave, stir,
sip and sit there staring
at his mug, I remember the vows
I made to my pillows, to fate
and God: I'll stop eating licorice,
become a blonde, a lumberjack,
a Catholic, anything,
but bring a man to me:
so I go to him: Sorry, honey,
sorry you had such a rough night,
hold his gray head against my heart
and kiss him, kiss him.

Quote of the Day

I did the best I could at the time and when I knew better, I did better.

~ Maya Anjelou

OH THE HUMANITY!

1500 CASES of beer sent to landfill

Quote of the Day

"The best way out is through."

- Robert Frost

Kevin Young

Are You a Dawg Person or a Cat Person?

Awesome

A really nice post

Here it Goes Again

Good Stuff

Tommy

by Rudyard Kipling

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

Quote of the Day

I checked out the Suave – 95 cents, now with less caustic lye! – but was disappointed by the scents. They had some nice scents, but they just gave up. I ended up with Herbal Essence. Laugh if you must, because it’s pitched at women, but all I care about is a momentary olifactory interlude while I’m lathering up, and I can’t stand most of the scents that are supposedly Manly. I like a good classic Bay Rum, but most of the Manly scents are Axe-related crap that smell like someone drenched a dog in Old Spice, set him on fire, and put it out with horse hormones.

- Lileks

What do you get when you drench spam with processed cheese?

The Wizard of Dogs

Quote of the Day

Dogs don’t smell good in the usual human definition of the term, but the smell of a dog is a good smell nevertheless. “Wet dog” not so much, but ordinary dog, sure. Dog paws too. You bury your face in their fur, and you’re unaware of the concerto of aromas you bring down to their exquisitely calibrated snouts; you have no idea, really. Smell-wise, dogs think we must all smell like Elton John and Lady Gaga dress. Every day. All the time. We’re peacocks of the nose. Food, shampoo, soap, toothpaste, deodorant, oil from the electric shaver, coffee, wine, cigar, detergent, ink – it must be like living with creatures whose appearance is a constantly shifting kaleidoscope of colors and shapes. But as long our base note is still Us, it’s fine.

- Lileks

Quote of the Day

Hah: just as I said that the dog came in the room, and looked at me, as though Food might Happen, or something else that might relate to his interests. He stared at me. I stared at him. He did not break the stare. Idle curiosity overrode pack-order recognition. I stared. He stared. Finally I leaned forward and changed my stare to a glare, and he looked away and lowered his ears and put down his tail, and turned, and walked out of the room as casually as he had entered.

This is called “a conversation.”

- Lileks

Ahh . . . . Parenthood . . . .

(Language warning)

LINK

Creepy Goodness

HEY! Maybe I CAN Play Golf After All!

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

by Robert Herrick

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a flying:
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a getting;
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best, which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times, still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.

Okay, That's just Weird . . . .

Dark Chocolate Bacon Cupcakes

RECIPE HERE

Hilarious

Stare Down

Little Cheater

Kermie

A Love affair is born

For those who are interested:

So this is the family room (originally a garage). Buckley's Dawg door is on the left, which leads to the back deck. The fan was a gift during a triple-digit summer from a friend (who was helping us with the house at the time). Next, the Beeze, of course. Next to him, that's the base of a wrought-iron candelabra the wife picked up over a decade ago. The TV? A gift. The TV stand - $20 bucks to a former assistant of mine who was moving. The coffee table was bought at Costco in 1997. There's Annie in her proto-type wheels, of course, and the wife's easel in the far right (currently containing an unfinished oil painting of colored circles). Oh, and with the help of friends we cleaned and ground and stained and sealed the concrete floors ourselves.

Some day we hope to have a rug in here as well.

A Shoulder to Laugh On

Hands

by Jack Ridl

My grandfather grew up holding rags,
pounding his fist into the pocket
of a ball glove, gripping a plumb line
for his father who built what anyone
needed. At sixteen, wanting to work on
his own, he lied about his age
and for forty-nine years carried his lunch
to the assembly line where he stood
tightening bolts on air brake after
air brake along the monotonous belt.
I once asked him how he did that all
those years. He looked at me, said,
"I don't understand. It was only
eight hours a day," then closed
his fists. Every night after dinner
and a pilsner, he worked some more.
In the summer, he'd turn the clay,
grow tomatoes, turnips, peas,
and potatoes behind borders
of bluebells and English daisies,
and marigolds to keep away the rabbits.
When the weather turned to frost,
he went to the basement where,
until the seeds came in March,
he made perfect picture frames, each
glistening with layers of sweet shellac.
His hands were never bored. Even
in his last years, arthritis locking every
knuckle, he sat in the kitchen carving
wooden houses you could set on a shelf,
one after another, each one different.

Creamed Eggs on Toast

"This is my husband's favorite use of leftover hard boiled Easter eggs. Great comfort food!"

RECIPE HERE

One Good Dog

When I run out of things to read and nothing on my wish list is "doing it for me" I head the bookstore on my lunch break and browse the display tables.

This book caught my eye but didn't interest me enough and i ended up leaving the Border's book store empty-handed.

I hit Barnes and Noble and found the same book - I had just finished Bill Bryson's A Short history of Nearly Everything so I was in the mood for some fiction - brain candy.

Against my better judgement, I bought the book and I am glad I did.

The story is of a wealthy man who loses it all and a dog who is raised in a cellar as a fight dog. Their paths cross and they essentially save each other. one of the things that makes this book interesting is that portions of the story are told first-person from the vantage point of the dog. Usually, in these cases, you can count on a certain amount of processed cheese - but not in this case.

The chapters written by the dog seemed unusually insightful and they have caused me to look over at my own companion and think, "Huh, is that what it is like in your head?"

It's a great story - all the graphic violence of the dog-fighting angle is left out (thankfully) but the writer manages to grab your heart and squeeze without having to get into the muck and mire.

Great book - highly recommended!

The Sweet Spot

Happy Easter

Wondering What to Do With All Those Peeps?

How About Peepshi?


LINK

Wait a Minute, It's Makes Salsa??!!

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Stephen Gets a Free iPad
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor Health Care Reform

Ahhh . . . Fatherhood . . . .

I Can Quit Anytime - Its Just That No One Likes a Quitter . . . .

Fatty foods may cause cocaine-like addiction

(Health.com) -- Scientists have finally confirmed what the rest of us have suspected for years: Bacon, cheesecake, and other delicious yet fattening foods may be addictive.

Quote of the Day

"Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up."

- James Baldwin

Pushkin

by Marjorie Kowalski Cole

The old cat sleeps
in the newly arrived sun. One more spring
has come his way
dropping a solar bath
on failing kidneys, old cat bones.
I check for the rise and fall of breath.

Once he stalked hares
across the yard, tracked down
chicken hearts with split-lentil eyes.
Fearless, disinterested, a poseur, a demideity.
He and the dog are strangers still
after years of eating side by side.

I remember times of wailing
into my couch, alone
and utterly baffled by life,
when suddenly a cat
would be sitting on my head.

Last week I pulled him snarling
from under a chair in Dr. Bacon's office,
held him while she examined his dull coat,
felt his ribs. Pressed where it hurt.
Eight pounds of fur and bone and mad as hell
but "He's certainly less anxious in your lap,"
she murmured, astonishing me.
I had no idea. Old cat, old friend,
have I reached some place inside,
added to your life
as you have to mine?

Future Hairstylist

Just Not Right

Even I can't get behind bacon milkshakes for babies . . . .

LINK

Hi Sierras

This is one of the new roomies. Say hello to Sierra. Sierra is a 12-year-old yellow lab belonging a very good friend who is now a roomie as well. Times and friendships and finances being what they are, the stars aligned and I am happy to say, two-months-later, that the whole thing has worked out beautifully.

With Sierra being a 12-year-old yellow lab, the Beeze was thrown into serious confusion for a couple of days (his girlfriend is a 5-year-old yellow lab). But everyone has established their territories (or in this case - lack thereof) and settled down.

Both dawgs are overly affectionate but Sierra is definitely getting seniority treatment. I wouldn't quite call it alpha-dawg status but she pretty much eats out of any bowl she wants and sleeps where she wants and the Beeze spends a good part of his day showering her with licks.

i think it's not so much and alpha-dawg deal as a respect-your-elders deal.

Good to know we have raised at least one child who respects his elders . . . .

Let's Get Physical

Thanks to San Diego County Health Services, we have a wonderful therapist who comes to the house every Friday to work with Annie. How many 19-month-olds do you know who have a personal trainer? This is one of her recent workouts.

For those who are interested:

This is in the living room. The fireplace (which we are not supposed to use b/c it has a hair-line crack in the liner but we do anyway) is behind the ladies. That's also our "kids art wall". The whole wall is festooned with artwork from children (and people who used to be children) in our lives. And yes, the place of honor above the mantel goes to a finger-painting by a couple of pre-schoolers who are now becoming pre-teens.

BTW - I made the mantel myself - b/c I'm bitchin' like that . . . . (heh - sorta)