The Aerie
For years I've been threatening my boys in order to get them to clean
up their room. They are eight and eleven right now, so I understand
that cleanliness is for the oldest a challenge, and for the youngest
an impossibility. But one of the compelling threats has long been
this:
"Clean your room, or one of these days I'm going to clean it with a
snow shovel."
And it worked, to various extents, from time to time. However, as of
last week their room was, well, it was just a pit. An amalgam of
garbage, laundry, and toys that was quickly hardening into some kind
of new geomorphic stone.
"Ladatite," a sedementary rock formed by layers of dirty clothes,
toys, and post-Easter candy wrappers. Notable for a smell worse than
that of sulfur when burned. See also: comicalite, laundryroomalite,
and underbedatite.
Finally, this weekend, in the spirit of Spring Cleaning, I made good
on my threat: I walked into their room with a box full of garden-size
trash bags and an orange snow shovel, and set to work.
By the time I was done shovelling, about four hours later, I had half
a dozen garbage bags full of stuff, and two dozen full plastic bins of
the variety so mistakenly named "organizers". With few exceptions, I
made no attempt to separate or sort anything before it went into the
bags and crates. Just filled them up and dumped them in the living
room in a pile that eventually reached five feet in height.
Then I started sorting. Oh, the boys helped with some of this, to be
sure. I wasn't about to just slave away on their behalf while they
played and gamboled carelessly about. But they aren't capable of the
kind of ridiculous excesses to which I am able to extend myself on a
project like this. I sorted out bins of K'Nex, Zoobs, Hot Wheels, and
Playskool toys. The Legos box alone is two cubic feet, full of little
plastic pieces. I sorted out dirty laundry into two large baskets. I
sorted out bundle after bundle of pens and pencils. I sorted out the
miscellaneous toys, and tried to collect pieces of disassociated toys
to re-associate them. I sorted in the afternoon, I sorted in the
evening, and I sorted at night. To keep myself entertained, I put in
the "X-Men 1.5" DVD from Blockbuster and watched the movie with all
the director's edits, as well as all of the production tracks on the
second DVD.
I sorted these toys until 4:30 in the morning.
At one point I had one of those lovely moments: I was climbing through
the piles, making my way back to the Sorting Chair, when I put my bare
foot down and felt an excruciating pain in my heel. Narrowly avoiding
planting my face in the side of my wife's heirloom upright piano, I
collapsed into the chair and looked down to see what I'd crushed.
The small fabric pouch on the floor was labelled with one word:
"Jacks."
Eighteen hours after I started, I had the toys somewhat organized.
Then I threw out all the broken toys and garbage, dumped the laundry
in the laundry room, and set aside the two boxes of toys that I had
determined were likely to be ones that the boys wouldn't mind selling
at a garage sale.
Finally I headed off to sleep.
My youngest boy has an amazing supernatural power. He can tell when
I've gone to sleep. Since he was old enough to walk, he has been
waiting until I've fallen asleep, then coming up and climbing into bed
with us. When he was little it was sort of cute. As he got older it
got more annoying. Now that he's a bony bag of elbows and knees, I am
thoroughly tired of it.
And he never comes up until I've gone to bed. If I'm up reading until
1:30 in the morning, he doesn't try to come upstairs. Only a handful
of times in five or six years has he come upstairs while I was still
awake.
So last night (er, this morning) he came up stairs right at 4:50. I
had juuuuuuuuuust fallen asleep, and the squeak of the floorboards
woke me up. He climbed into bed with us, and having just had a twenty
minute nap, I could not fall back asleep. And I was hungry. And
annoyed.
It took a snack and an apparently endless period of time, but as the
sky was starting to turn light and the birds began their incessant
morning chirping, I finally fell asleep about 5:30 or so.
I have no illusions. By this time next week, a new layer of ladatite
will doubtless be forming in their room. Such is the doom of the
parent...
[1]Last
Ain't that a cheery title?
Well, went to visit Moldy on Tuesday night. When I got there he was
receiving a full body massage from a Native American masseuse named
Johnny. Blondie had me wait out on the front stoop, and we sat in the
fine spring sunset and talked.
Unfortunately I learned what I had not wanted to know: that they've
stopped treating his cancer weeks ago, that they're only giving him
palliative care until he dies.
I really didn't want to know this. I wanted to think that as long as
his mind functioned that there would be hope.
But I guess there is no hope. I guess his brain is riddled with tumors
and its something of a miracle that he woke up out of his coma.
Harder than learning what I already knew was to sense the feelings
running under the surface. She's a tough German girl, but I could
sense the pain through the cracks in her facade. I suspect this is a
facade that she has to maintain right now, in order to be supportive
for him.
Moldy is meanwhile coming to terms with his condition, too. He's
scared. He doesn't want to talk about it. And his wife is in the
unenviable position of not daring to hope herself. She's doing all she
can to accept what's happening -- if she starts toying with hope
she'll drive herself mad. Meanwhile Moldy needs hope just to get
through each difficult day.
This is harder for me than with my dad. My dad just shut down one day
and never came back. And, as an older fellow who's smoked all his
life, I guess I'd been prepared for something, someday: a heart
attack, or lung cancer.
But Moldy is only a year older than me. It's way too easy to identify
with him. To realize that there is nothing guaranteeing me freedom
from his fate: and if such a thing were to happen, I'd be leaving
behind not only a grieving widow, but three fatherless children.
Unfortunately when his massage was over Moldy was starting to get a
headache. Headaches themselves are bad enough, indicative of further
coma-inducing brain swelling. But Blondie gave him morphine and he
dropped off to sleep while we watched some "Rocky and Bullwinkle"
cartoons that Tim had brought with him. So our visit was somewhat
truncated by the fact that Moldy was doped up and asleep.
Well a lot of this stuff swirled in my head, and I ended up being
unable to sleep. I was up until 3:30 in the morning, dozing off
briefly only to start awake at the notion of me getting brain cancer,
my wife getting brain cancer, my kids... Ugh.
Wednesday was then a complete waste of time. I couldn't think,
couldn't concentrate, certainly couldn't motivate, so finally I put in
a video and ironed clothes in a stupor. Got nothing done all day.
Managed to sleep last night, but was plagued with dreams: I was an
infantryman patrolling a bombed out part of Iraq when we came across
two German looters. They were stereotype-Germans, a big walrus-shaped
"doktor" fellow with a monacle and a droopy moustache, and his weasley
sidekick. One of my troops got knocked senseless by some shrapnel to
the head and (for some reason) we let the German's take his body...
only to have him awaken all bloody and burned in the Doktor's
laboratory and curse me and my troopers out for abandoning him. "I'm
not dead!" he snarled through teeth limned with blood.
Other dreams abounded. Trying to sneak out of a house occupied by a
half-blind old woman. Others I can't recall. I managed to get a full
night's sleep, but it was work to accomplish it.
It's all part of the processing, I'm sure. Part of reluctantly
accepting the inevitable, and feeling the feelings. It has to be done,
but it's not good. Nothing good about this at all.
[1]Last
Whoa. Been a busy week.
The big news was when Moldy came out of his coma on Tuesday. Tim and I
stopped by on Wednesday night. I had met his older sister (someone I
hadn't seen for twenty five years) on Sunday, now I saw his younger
sister again (saw her last year at a school reunion), his brother, and
his mother. They were all present, fussing over Moldy while his wife
and a friend went grocery shopping.
In Minnesota, love is frequently expressed through food. Holiday
tables sag beneath potluck, and picnics look like outdoor delis, and
the happiest families have reunions featuring more calories than some
people get in a lifetime. Moldy's cupboards are bursting. You can't
fit anything into anywhere, and when you want to eat something you
have your choice of aged cheeses, pastries, meats, fruits, and veggies
that would have shamed a Roman emperor. Despite this, their friend
needed to take Blondie shopping for more food. Now that's love.
When we arrived Moldy was in quite the mood: slow, unsteady, and weak,
but man was he determined. He was going to get up out of that bed, he
was going to walk to his bedroom, and he was going to change into
normal clothes, and by gum there wasn't much going to stand in his
way. With Blondie out of the house there was little his family or
friends could do to convince him to stay in the bed.
So we helped him into a rolling desk chair (he refused to acknowledge
the existence of the wheelchair). When that came to the narrow back
hallway he forced himself to his feet and walked -- albeit slowly and
with help -- back to the bedroom.
We began to run into trouble at that point because he wanted to put on
ordinary jeans, but was in no shape to put them on or, later, take
them off himself. Fortunately Blondie came home at that point and in
her no-nonsense fashion convinced him that sweatpants were de rigeur
for the recently-comatose set.
Back out in the dining room again we passed the time with him while
their friend from California made dinner. The fellow is all heart --
he flew out for two weeks to be live-in help for them -- but my word
the man didn't seem to know his way around a kitchen. It took him over
an hour to fix pasta and tofu meatballs for everyone, and about the
time he was ready to serve, I had to leave.
But it was good to see Moldy in such a fighting spirit. Now that he's
not comatose, I am allowing myself to harbor a small spark of hope
that he can somehow pull through this. I almost have to, since in
order to go there and be supportive I have to be convinced it's
possible. If I try to fake it, he'll not only know it in my face, but
fabrications of false cheer seem to drain me of any energy.
Yesterday I spent the day digging through my memorabilia files. In
part this is in response to his sister's request for memorabilia about
him, and in part I did so because it really really needed doing. For
15 years I've been toting my oldest momentos about in a cardboard box,
and I finally figured out to transfer them to a portable plastic file
drawer that I inherited from my father.
It's funny the stuff you find. I found a love letter from a girl in
high school who had moved away to Florida. I can tell from reading it
that she was just lonely and pining for her old home, coming as it did
during the summer before her first day in her new school. I don't
really remember her, or anything that she described having happened
between us in the letter. I found a ribbon that said "Miracle Worker,"
but I have no idea where it came from or why I have it. I feel ashamed
that I can't remember where or why these supposedly important things
were in my memorabilia box, but I guess that's to be expected after
such a long time.
I also found a sketch I'd done of my wife while she was expecting our
twins. Despite the fact that I didn't remember having drawn it, I felt
good about it. That's because, viewed impartially in the moment before
I realized who the artist had been, I thought "Wow, good sketch!" I
may have swiss cheese for brains, but I'm a passable amateur when I
set my mind to it.
And I found several bits of pretty funny Moldy stuff. A birthday card
he made for me in 1982 (during our Dungeons and Dragons phase: it
showed a half-bird half-woman flying out of a cake and read "Harpy
Birthday!". Two concert reviews by him, one from our high school paper
proclaiming the virtues of the group Heart, the other from a fanzine
in 1983 complaining about the headbangers at a Husker Du concert.
Called last night and heard he was up and having a lobster dinner, got
an e-mail today from his younger sister saying he was having a pretty
good day. So all in all a better Sunday than last Sunday, that's for
sure. Tim and I or just I will go visit him again one of these days
here. And I'll continue to fan the little spark of hope in the damp
tinder of reality against the chance of his beating the odds.
[1]Last
The phone rang at 12:36 a.m. on Sunday. Moldy had become unresponsive.
Unfortunately, I was reading the final pages of "Flowers for Algernon"
at the time. Very poor chooice of reading, I must say.
Went over there on Sunday afternoon, luckily timing my arrival to
coincide with Tim's. The coffee table was gone, replaced with a
hospital bed. The shades were drawn against the glare. Moldy slept
heavily amidst a swirl of blankets, his dignity unprotected by a large
pair of Depends. Family and friends were gathered all around, coming
and going, trying to help out his wife. It was so reminiscent of my
dad that I wanted to scream.
On Wednesday last, the day after I visited, he went to the zoo with
the family of a friend. Thursday and Friday a little more dizziness,
but functional. Then on Saturday he apparently just shut down. Just
like my dad on December 6th: my dad went from
confused-about-the-shower to comatose in about two hours. Sunday as
mentioned Tim and I visited, but then Monday he came out of his coma.
Much to his annoyance he found himself surrounded by grieving family
and friends.
So Tim and I will visit again tonight and see how he's doing. My
understanding is that he's lucid but confused. What's difficult is
that I get the idea that everyone has steeled themselves to his
eventual fate except him. Now I'm certainly not going to be the one to
suggest anything that would threaten his determination to survive this
-- but it's also scary to get one's hopes up and then be disappointed.
As I've said elsewhere, a pessimist is never disappointed and always
pleasantly surprised. But this is a man's life here, so of course I'm
going to suck it up and be as supportive as I possibly can. If it
seems likely to help, I will don a cheerleader's outfit and shake
pompoms.
This is crazy-making. It's a good thing I'm an atheist, because if I
believed in God I'd have to track him down and kick his ass.
Meanwhile the wife and I went to see Melissa Ferrick, on Sunday night.
She was scheduled to perform at the Fine Line before that institution
decided to indulge in the bar-fire fad last February. Of course,
Minnesota being what it is, we unfashionably suffered no fatalities in
that fire.
But Ferrick shifted to the Cabooze, a bar located with three other
bars and a Harley dealership on an isolated traffic island near the
West Bank. Out in the parking lot were dozens of motorcycles. This was
one of the places I'd never gone when I was single, and so I didn't
know what to expect when my spouse and I showed up.
Inside was a much smaller stage and bar than I expected... and more
young lesbians than I would have guessed. Not that lesbians at a
Melissa Ferrick concert would be a surprise, just that they were all
so very young. They all looked like they could have just walked over
from classes at the U of MN or Augsburg colleges nearby.
Unfortunately, the concert didn't do a lot to dispel my Moldy-blues. I
kept flashing on the memory of being at the Triple Rock -- very near
the Cabooze -- at the moment when my dad died. I only found out when I
got to my friend Phil's house, but I know I was having dinner at the
Triple Rock when he passed away.
Stuart Davis opened for her, and he was actually a lot of fun: he
looked like Keanu Reeves fresh out of the tank in 'The Matrix', but
unlike Keanu, Stuart actually had facial expressions. His songs were
funny and literate, and I'm looking forward to listening to more of
them.
Ferrick then took FOR-ever to get onstage, and it was 10:00 p.m.
rather than the scheduled 9:00 when she started singing. On a Sunday
night when we had a sitter this meant we only stayed for about half
the concert. One of Ferrick's numbers lasted a full 25 minutes and
involved a lot of rambling, apparently impromptu lyrics based around a
central theme. None of which I recall at the moment.
I did slip my little Nomad IIc into my pocket to capture some of the
tunes, but I have no idea if the quality is acceptable at all. If it
is I'll link one in here later.
So we headed home at 11:00, regretfully, and missed the latter half of
the concert. Hopefully all the young women enjoyed themselves.
[1]Last
Today is going to be a mixed bag.
Well I've finally started to hit the gym again. I've recently had the
time to resume working out, and I'm trying to sticking to
every-other-day, giving my sore muscles and tendons a chance to
recover. It's pretty depressing seeing how much ground I've lost on my
workout numbers, but oh well, I've just got to do it. If I don't keep
myself in shape now I'll really hate it when I'm older and completely
out of shape.
This afternoon my wife wants the family to go to a Green Products
festival at the Minnesota State Fairground. All the usual
inner-city-middle-class-left-wing-save-the-whales types of products.
Not that I have a problem with all that, but it comes down to
"shopping" which, well, I'm male. It doesn't compute. Now strap some
of that biodegradable herbal shampoo to the side of an elk and let me
chase it down and tear its throat out with my teeth, now THAT'S
"shopping" that men can get into. Everyone who knows me knows I'm just
that kind of tough guy.
On the upside, I might get to ride a Segway. Dorky looking device, but
who wouldn't want to try it out? Now if the things only flew...
Tonight we're going to to see [1]Melissa Ferrick at a small local bar.
It was touch and go if we'd be able to attend, but we got a sitter and
we're on our way. Oddly enough, I was looking forward to hearing her
perform her Melissa Etheridge parody, "I'm a Lesbian." Then I read on
her website that she didn't write or perform the song! However, I've
also learned that she's way cool in that she keeps an online journal!
But looming over all of it is Moldy. I got a call from Tim at 12:30
a.m. this morning that his condition has gotten worse.
Have I mentioned that I loathe and despise cancer?
So at some point today I'll get a call from Tim and he and I will try
to stop by and see how Moldy is doing. This is all too soon after my
dad for me, frankly. If what I was told last night is accurate, Moldy
is about at the point where my dad was about a month before he died. I
just can't stand this stuff.
[2]Last
I have to admit, I was nervous.
The cancer treatments for my friend Moldy have been proceeding, and I
guess they've been going okay. As far as I know, he's responding to
the treatments, which is the important part. But apparently this is
going to go on for quite some time to come, maybe months.
His wife set up a mailing list -- actually a Yahoo Group -- and has
invited his friends to use it to sign up for nights to sit with him.
You see, she works evenings until about 1:00 or 2:00 a.m. He not only
has to take medication at 10:00 p.m., but his condition (brain cancer
for those of you just joining the program) makes his mental functions
uncertain.
When left alone, he has sometimes forgotten to take his medication. At
other times, he has forgotten THAT he has taken his medication, and
takes a double dose. Neither of these alterations of his medical
regimen are advisable.
So Blondie, (Moldy's wife) has set up the Yahoo Group to help
coordinate volunteers to come and sit with him and make sure that he
remembers his meds, doesn't take them twice, and doesn't suffer from
any of the other small symptoms from thrush to seizures that have
accompanied his condition.
I was ready and willing to go -- whenever asked -- and do whatever
needed doing. But one thing I was unconciously resisting was
volunteering to just take a night. Fortunately our mutual friend Tim
voluneered the both of us for Tuesday evening, or I might never have
gone on my own.
Because, frankly, it's just too soon after my Dad. All this shit with
memory lapses and thrush and seizures, it's just too fucking familiar.
(Regular readers will notice an excess of unedited expletives when
discussing this topic. The author begs the reader's indulgence, but
seems unable to discuss this topic without becoming somewhat vulgar.
This is because the author is furiously angry, which is apparently a
stage of the grieving process.)
So while I appreciated Tim's assistance in helping me step forward and
volunteer, I was very anxious beforehand. I was crabby to my family,
and as the time grew closer I became more and more headachy and
nauseous. I wanted to convince myself I was sick, but I knew the truth
was that I was just knotted up inside with anxiety. And the only thing
to do in such circumstances is to face it and get on with it.
So I prepared as best I could. I read a book about cancer that I found
while out and about. I printed out and reviewed his wife's
instructions, his list of medications, and the names and contact
numbers of his doctors and oncologists. I reminded myself that Moldy's
situation is rather different from my father's. And then when I could
wait no longer, I got in the car and drove over, my stomach doing
flips.
Fortunately, as is often the case when one worries oneself nearly
sick, the actual situation was anticlimactic. Really, it was fine. His
condition was not too bad -- puffy and a little creaky in the joints,
but overall he was the same old Moldy. Then when Tim showed up, well
it was the three Musketeers all over again. Well, okay, the Three
Stooges then.
We ordered pizzas, watched Tim's 'Underdog' CD (don't ask), an ancient
'Outer Limits' program ("The Misfits of Zantac" or something,
featuring aliens that were oversized ants with human faces), and
watched "The Brain that Would Not Die" episode of 'Mystery Science
Theater 3000.' (And no, the irony of the title was not lost on me.)
It was fun and relaxing after an initial difficult start for me. The
only "cancer moment" came when Tim ran across the street to a grocery
store to get a bottle of soda: halfway through this three-minute
process Moldy turned to me and said "Where did Tim go?" He had
forgotten: for him, Tim had simply vanished without explanation.
We wrapped the evening up with a weird 30-minute DVD of Blondie (the
singer, not Moldy's wife) performing in 1978 in a German nightclub,
then Steve kicked us out and headed off to bed.
So while nerve wracking, it turned out okay. Hopefully I'll have the
guts enough to step up to a few more volunteer evenings now that I
have done one. And hopefully this will all help Moldy and Blondie get
through the next few months a little more easily.
And, oh yeah, I hate cancer.
[1]Last
I was becoming increasingly upset at life.
I've said for many years that my life was like a runaway subway car,
and the weekends were all the stations flashing past. Time passes so
quickly that I'm still writing "19" on my checks.
So I was becoming increasingly disgusted with how quickly my children
were growing while I went on missing their lives. It's the typical
"Cat's in the Cradle" scenario: I'm working my ass off in order to
provide for the family and the future, and my kids are getting older
without me. Made me want to kick Harry Chapin down a flight of stairs
while shouting "Fine, YOU pay for their college education, wiseguy!"
But there was no denying it: my twins were allofasudden eleven, and my
youngest was eight. Pretty soon they were going to be teenagers and
then, I assumed, my "bonding time" would be pretty limited.
So this year's resolution included something drastic. This year, I
simply decided that I'm taking each of my three kids for an afternoon
once a month, and we're going to "do something." A movie. A sports
event. Just a long walk. Whatever we do, we'd do it together.
Well three months into it I have to say it's pretty successful. I've
taken my kids, one at a time, to wander the infinite hallways of the
Mall of America (always good in the winter), to Chuck E. Cheese for a
migraine-inducing several hours of electromagnetic stimulation, to
movies such as "Swept Away", and this weekend to [1]Mech Wars
It's definitely not "simple", and it definitely involves placing a
high priority on actually taking the day and going out, but it's well
worth it. It's kind of like having kid visitation, without the
difficulties of divorce. And it's offered the opportunity for good
conversations with all my kids, including my daughter.
In fact, we were getting in the car on the way back from the Mall of
America on our first trip in January when my daughter said to me "Dad,
did you and Mom have sex together before you were married?" Startled,
I could only stammer, "Well, uh, yes." which led to a discussion of
whether premarital sex is a good idea. This from an eleven year old.
It makes me glad I scheduled these now, so she could ask ME -- rather
than her middle school peers -- about the topic.
[2]Last
I was summoned at the last minute to photograph the wedding of my
friend, Cidney to her partner, Cindy. Yes, this couple is actually a
couple so-named, and the only reason Cidney isn't Cindy too is that
she started going by the name Cidney when she came out years ago.
I was driving through the night-emptly streets of the Minneapolis
Warehouse District when the call came, and soon arrived at Cid's
apartment (Cid has never had a downtown Minneapolis apartment). A
small crowd was already in place in the small apartment, mostly seated
in overstuffed white sofas.
The floors were shininy black stone, the walls were white. The coffee
table and the dining table were a gray semitransparent glass with
brass legs. Small halogen lights glared from recessed ceiling cans,
small track-lighting spots, and the brightest shone through a gray
semitransparent umbrella shade suspended by a thin brass chain over
the dining room table, which was loaded with fancy hors d'oevres. (The
last time that I saw Cid and Cindy, at their housewarming party, Cindy
spent most of the evening occupied with the creation and arrangement
of fancy snacks.)
Cid was herself too busy to greet me, being intent upon the
last-minute arrangement of the hors d'oevres, which occupied her most
of the time.
I divided my attention between the two rooms of the apartment. The
crowded white living room featured a square of white leather
loveseats, the kind so large and cubical and soft that each person
resides so deep within these great marshmallows that rising or even
leaning forward is impossible. All were arranged in an inward-facing
square around a low glass kidney-shaped coffee table upon a white
angora-shag rung.
Among the guests were two couples: the parents of the marriage
partners. Each couple was, absurdly, dressed as chess pieces from
'Alice in Wonderland': Cid's parents as a pair of black and white
chess pawns, and Cidney's parents as a rook and a bishop. Both couples
were quiet and elderly, and attempting to maintain as much dignity as
they could while being the only persons in costume at this small,
crowded event.
My friend Clark was there as well, which was odd since I don't believe
he knows Cid. He greeted me from the depths of one of the overstuffed
white arm-chairs, a watery drink in his left hand and a damp-ringed
cocktail napkin across his knee. He told me all about his new job with
CNT, a trucking company, and gave me his card (Clark actually remains
firmly entrenched at Well Fargo as far as I know.) But when I asked
the chances of Clark getting my consulting company into CNT, he simply
said "None," with the dismissive shake of his head which indicated
that his boss was entirely prejudiced against outside consultants.
"So your boss is the kind of guy who thinks he knows it all?" I asked,
trying to angle a photo that wouldn't make him look ridiculous in his
armchair.
"Let's just say that he thinks the computer is the only one who does
any work," he replied with a snort. In a nearby couch, a black woman I
didn't recognize laughed as if his remark was hilarious.
Then a cowled priest arrived and positioned himself standing amid the
white couches. Cid was still hurriedly tending to everything (even
though nothing seemed to need doing in particular) while her guests
sat: topping off drinks, rushing over to the (unoccupied) hors
d'oevre's table, rushing into another room, etc.
She was dressed merely in black pants, a white silk shirt, and a black
vest with colorful embroidery. As the priest read the marriage vows,
Cid would run in to stand briefly before him and answer, then rush off
again. When he got to Cindy's parts, Cid would rush up in an oversized
white wedding dress (Cindy stands head and shoulders above Cid, being
about six-foot-two) and answer for Cindy, who was off at work and
couldn't attend.
In this manner and all the while tending to the food, Cid managed to
marry herself.
All through this experience I was experiencing a certain mild umbrage:
I knew that the only reason that I was present was because Cid knew
that I had a fancy Olympus C-2100 digital camera, and that at the last
minute she had realized that she had no photographer. That my friend
Clark was present was additionally annoying, as I wasn't aware that
they knew one another. And I felt pity for the parents of the
partners, who seemed to know no one, and who struggled to maintain
their dignity in the odd, bulky, and somewhat insulting outfits that
they had been asked to wear.
And then I woke up...
[1]Last
The chicken mole (pollo con mole) had to be yesterday's high point.
Our host drove us 20 miles out from downtown El Paso to this obscure
little restaurant about half a mile off the interstate. It was
decorated in classic "70's Spanish" stile, with the pulled stucco
walls, Mexican bric-a-brac, and license plates from all over the U.S.
Perfect. Just the kind of "insider" place you want to know about.
The proprietor greeted our host by first name in Spanish and showed us
to a nondescript brown linoleum table. The iced tea was fine, and the
guacamole showed up in minutes. And what guacamole! So fresh it
tingled on the tongue, so tasty it made you think of springtime.
Then our orders arrived. My Chicken Mole was served in a manner I had
never seen before -- a whole split chicken breast in a bowl of sauce,
with black beans, shredded lettuce and tomatoes, and rice and
vegetables on the sides. A plate of tortillas showed up next, hot off
the griddle.
What can I say? The mole was rich and sweet and hot, the black beans
superb and piping. I tore up some chicken with my fork, soaked it in
the mole sauce, an wrapped it in a tortilla with some black bean paste
and rice and lettuce. Heaven!
The portions were immense. I couldn't finish my whole plate, and ended
up skipping dinner -- I was still sated six hours later!
The meal passed all too quickly, and unfortunately one of my
companions wasn't feeling well and hardly touched his plate. Looks
like a touch of the flu, and we're sure hoping we don't catch it too!
The weather is holding -- our host is nervous that a springtime dust
storm will come in before we can leave. I'm just hoping I can get back
to that restaurant for lunch first!
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Greetings from beautiful El Paso Texas, deep in the heart of nowhere!
I've never thought much about El Paso before. If anyone had asked, I
would have said I thought it was on the Gulf Coast. As a glance at any
atlas can tell you it's not. Very not. It's farther from any open
water than many places.
It's a dun little town, sprawled across a mindboggling space, and all
of it brown. Low hills jut up here and there, with rocky crests
covered with radio towers. As we were driving back to the hotel last
night one of the hills bore a huge lighted star, possibly half a mile
or a quarter of a mile across. Apparently it was a Christmastime
decoration that the public demanded be lit every day.
It's very clean, and very quiet. Whole multistory office towers stand
empty, and traffic moves smoothly through the streets, testaments to
the economic times. Apparently the city suffers a 9% unemployment
rate.
The city is located on the Mexican border, and where I'm sitting right
now it's just four blocks to the bridge. The pedestrian sides carry a
constant flow of people into and out of Juarez, across the river.
The weather is gorgeous. It won't be this nice in Minnesota for two
more months. Sunny, clear, and mild, with none of the dust storms that
(apparently) plague the city this time of year.
Of course, my net access is limited, so hopefully I can post more
later. I wish my hotel had wireless access!
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