Shovelin' With Both Hands

A memoir is a fictional autobiography. You come out smelling like a rose, no matter how much fertilizer you shovel, and you have the luxury to edit yourself into something like intelligence.

Speck of Dust

down together
down together
down together
let's go down

together
down together
down together
let's go down

together
down together
down together
let's go down

together
down together
down together

yeah let's go

alright! alright!

we could find a speck of dust and scribble down our life stories

- The Refreshments

Conspiracy Theorists Please Stand Down

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was ten years old, and along with 202,676,946 fellow Americans and much of the world, I watched Neil Armstrong take that one small step for man. The microphone of my portable cassette player was draped over the tinny speaker of our black and white TV console as I recorded Walter Cronkite's coverage of Apollo 11. There wasn't a kid on this pale blue marble who didn't want to be an astronaut. And these guys did it with pocket protectors and sliderules.

I still have an original copy of Look magazine with a complete photo spread of the mission, as well as a commemorative set of 8 x 10 glossies issued by NASA. Mankind's most giant leap before or since!

CBS News Moon landing coverage with Walter Cronkite (7/20/1969):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3vVjyqkwrw

Spaghetti

This spaghetti recipe seems like a no-brainer, but if you've never had it this way, give it a try.

Ingredients:

olive oil
16 oz package spaghetti
4 lb 3 oz jar Prego Traditional spaghetti sauce
2 small cans sliced black olives
2 lb bulk Italian sausage
1 large green pepper, diced
1 large purple onion, diced
6 cloves garlic, sliced
1 lb baby portobello mushrooms, cleaned and sliced
dried oregano
kosher salt
cracked pepper
8 oz wedge fresh Parmesan cheese, grated

Directions:

Take out 2 Dutch ovens (one for sauce, one for pasta)

In Dutch oven for sauce, saute purple onion and green pepper in olive oil. Sprinkle with kosher salt while sauteing. When veggies just start to soften, add garlic and saute until garlic is lightly toasted. Transfer to Dutch oven for pasta.

In Dutch oven for sauce, saute sliced baby portobello mushrooms in olive oil. Sprinkle with kosher salt while sauteing. Saute until juice from mushrooms is evaporated. Transfer to Dutch oven for pasta.

In Dutch oven for sauce, brown bulk Italian sausage (use small amount of olive oil, if necessary).

Transfer veggies from Dutch oven for pasta to Dutch oven for sauce with browned meat. Add Prego and stir. Add 1 T dried oregano, and 1 teaspoon cracked black pepper. Stir. Add 2 cans sliced black olives, drained. Stir.

Slowly simmer sauce for one-half hour. Wipe out Dutch oven for pasta and start water for pasta. Cook pasta according to package directions for al dente (remember to salt pasta water). Drain pasta. Toss with enough sauce to coat thoroughly. Serve with freshly grated Parmesan cheese.

This recipe will serve 4 with enough sauce left over to make baked mostaccioli the next night.

1 - 2 lb hot Italian sausage can be substituted for a spicy alternative.

Save the rind from the Parmesan in a plastic sandwich bag and toss into the next recipe where you want to add a rich depth of cheese flavor. The rind will keep in the fridge for two weeks and up to two months in the freezer.

We accompany this recipe with a simple spinach salad and Italian dressing, and garlic bread strong enough to knock a buzzard off a shit wagon. Don't forget a bottle of Chianti (you can always make a candle holder out of it).

Finish with spumoni ice cream.

The Andy Griffith Show, "Dinner At Eight," original airdate January 9, 1967:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0o0B8zeogjA

Just A Random Thought

Despite the paralysis and pain, and the physical and financial hardships, there is so much love in my life - my friends (virtual and otherwise), my family, my sons and daughter-in-law, my grandchildren, my cat, my home, and, of course, my wonderful, beautiful wife. But more than all of these, what I love and cherish most is my marriage.

My marriage represents a commitment I made, and have always kept, without regret. It represents a foundation that I built my life upon, and that structure has weathered many perfect storms. It represents every moment shared with the one person I was destined to love above all others.

Some people refer to marriage as a ball and chain. And so it is. But the ball is made of crystal and we can gaze into it and see each other's minds and hearts. And the chain binds our two souls for all eternity.

Night Terrors

Focus. Why can't I focus? Mist, glare, shadows; vague misty glaring shadows. I don't have my glasses on. Where am I? AM I NAKED?

Why can't I focus?!!!!

Tidal waves of fear. Tsunamis of terror. Razor-winged butterflies flutter in my guts. I'm pissing blood, spitting blood, crying blood. Coppery, crimson blood. I must reach shelter. I must find my way home.

Dark corridors. Oil drips down the dank cement walls. The dim fluorescent tubes in the flaking ceiling cast pale yellow shadows. Shadows scared of the dark, scared of their own shadows. They hide. They watch. They bide their time. They note the shapely musculature of your back. Mark precisely where the daggers they hold in their begored claws will penetrate your flesh.

A ticket booth. A hole in the glass to talk through. A hole with metal slats so no one can stick a gun in. A notice. No buses run today!!! No buses! I only have enough money for the bus, not enough for the train. How will I get home? Signs on the wall. Hieroglyphics. Microchip maps. Turnstiles. I grab a round smooth steel pole in both hands. It feels good. Tumblers click – chickchickchickchickchick. But the pole burns. My shriveled hands overflow with brimstone.

I am in a train yard. There are lots of tracks that are close together. There are many big locomotives. They are black. They are mean. A train is coming. I jump off the track but there is another track next to it. A train erupts out of a tunnel. I kneel down and cover my head with my arms. I feel it coming. Trains keep coming. They move fast. I can hardly move at all. I am afraid to move.

I am hiding in a backyard. It is cold and raining. A dog howls. Houses, telephone poles, fences cast shadows on the wet clinging grass. Something is chasing me. I still don't have my glasses on. I run but move in slow motion. My feet are lead. It gets closer. I try to run harder. Blind panic seizes me. It is right behind me. I am afraid to turn around. I avoid the shadows but they are everywhere. I must get away. I can't climb the fence. My clothes are ripped. My skin is torn. I am dirty and wet. The ground is broken. I try to climb up a hill. My shadow is ahead of me. I can't keep up. I slip on the wet grass and trip over tree roots. There is a road at the top of the hill. I follow it.

Riding in a car, an old car, a beater. The pale headlamps only enhance the darkness. It presses in close. I transmit vibrations. I receive vibrations. A girl in the passenger seat. A white fur coat envelopes her, contrasts her long, raven hair. She's smokes a cigarette. The tip glows deep orange in the gloom. She doesn't turn around. That is good. I cannot hide my thoughts from her. The driver turns, he is someone I know. I start at the recognition. He doesn't acknowledge my presence. Speaks to the person beside me, a cripple, a palsy, a defect. “You have purple teeth.” Why did he say that? I turn and look out the back window. Directly behind us is Cinderella's Castle. Ah, we must be near the Magic Kingdom.

Standing on a corner. I don't know where I am. Apartment buildings surround me. Curtains drawn. Lights shrouded. Shadows hide the drama. There are no people out walking their dogs. Walking each other. The corner is forlorn. Like a black hole, the corner consumes light and life into its infinite stomach of nothingness. Breathes in love like a vacuum. Exhales a fibrous mesh of despair and hopelessness. Off to one side a cat in heat screams. My hackles stand at attention up and down my spine.

A few blocks up there is light and activity. Neon sizzles. Crowds of people bustle and barter. The sounds of human intercourse. Muffled, carried on a sighing wind, reaching my ears like gibberish. The smells of human interaction. Musky, carried on a bleak breeze, reaching my nostrils like animal exhaust and the spoor of automobiles. Jubilant with the feel of life. I will go there. Maybe I will be able to get home.

Lights glare. Horns blare. The crowd reeks of reckless frenzy, revels in wild catastasis. They seem to move in some primeval dance, beating out a ritual chant as they slap each other's backs and buttocks. What unspoken plan do they all cleave to? Their expressionless expressions express nothing. Bumper to bumper traffic files past the outdoor booths, flea markets, and bazaars. Tension rolls off me. People yell and curse out of their car windows, cars that reflect their master's personality. A stranger beckons me over to his car, offers me a piece of candy.

Pockets of people swirl in droves around the booths and squares like the cursed moneylenders and merchants who mocked the temple of Christ. Wild-eyed women, swathed in silken veils, spin and weave, in an opium dream from the Arabian Nights. Swarms of human locusts descend and devour the offered goods. Old women claw and scratch each other in the shops over sordid wares while hard bodily men gamble and cast dice in the muddy streets. Fighting cocks screech in darkened doorways and wolfish dogs bay and rend the flesh of fellow canines for fun and profit. Hellish men with green fire burning in pits where eyes should have been bask in the blood and pain and fury. Streamers and ribbons float on the stagnant breeze and pennants flap from the tops of yellow and white striped tents.

I wander in and out of the vending caves avoiding the scattered and littered tables piled high with sensually pleasing items and objects of torture. I keep away from the mobs and the tables. Why are they watching me? I haven't stolen anything since I was a teenager. I'm cold and quaking with self consciousness. Alone I stand out. The stench of hostility parches my throat. I try to fade away in the crowd.

They know I'm not one of them. They sense me. Feel my fears. Prey on my prayers. They shove me aside. Give me horrid, warning looks, make no attempt to mask their malice, the cruelty in their glances. They bare their dripping fangs. I hurriedly slip away as two brawling brewers crash through the window of BEN WA'S CHINESE LAUNDRY.

A tall man-child, in sleeveless t-shirt, Bermuda shorts, and Wieboldt's dress shoes, hops from foot to foot. His leering grin is frozen to his gritty jaw as he tickles a middle-aged housewife. Her arms wave wildly in the air. She throws back her head, neurotic smile laminated to plastic face. Her eyes are glazed like a mounted fish. Licentious giggles froth from her hickeyed throat. I see their features clearly, too clearly, painfully sharp, concussively concrete. Is that my mother and father!?!

No! Please God NO!!! The crowd turns. Malignant cells of the disease. Focusing. Finally focusing. ON ME! Their hate, their fear, their loneliness, their confusion, their doubts, their frustration, their regrets smash against me. My skin withers. My defenses dissolve into the mist and swirling time-chaos. I succumb. I fall in a swoon. They are upon me.

At the far end of the street there is a bus. Maybe it will take me home. Ah, this is a strange scene. People jostle and struggle to get on board. Stampede, stumble to get on the bus. Parents say goodbye to children, tears stain their battered faces. Their thin arms hang limp, clutch torn and soiled dolls in chapped hands. The children stand as parents kiss their foreheads leaving a skull and crossbones where lips touch flesh. The children stand alone as parents grope and slash to get on the bus. A woman falls, screams. The mob pays no heed, tramples her into a maimed bloody pulp. The steps of the bus are slick with her glistening entrails. People stream and scramble up the steps, into the bus. I am sucked into the whirlpool. Sucked up the steps. Sucked into the bus. I motion to the bus driver who sits facing forward, heedless or uncaring of the carnage at his feet.

The driver turns towards me and smiles a toothy grin. What else could he do? The silver badge on the cap on his fleshless skull says MASS TRANSIT.

The O Man

Yesterday afternoon my son Ben called for Nik with a computer question. A while later he called again and said he was coming out with Owen. The "girls" were all out shopping, and we could visit with our grandson while he and Nik rebuilt his computer.

We happened to be having whole trout for dinner. Shellie bought them when she stopped in at Whole Foods after work on Friday for their one day only sale on cherries. We had the trout laid out on a baking sheet at the table where I was dressing the fish (lemon slices, sliced garlic, fresh dill sprigs from our garden, coarse sea salt, cracked pepper, and melted butter).

Owen was sitting across from me and I said, "Owen, look at this." Whereupon I stuck the tip of my finger into the fish's mouth, then I pulled back and exclaimed, "Oooh, Owen, he bit me!"

He looked at my finger (which I was holding up) with this look of concern, then up looked up at me and we both started grinning, and his whole face lit up. Then, of course, we made a game of it. It was the cutest thing.