Thunder Beautifully Stolen.

Somebody has beaten me to the punch. I had so wanted to write a book just like this that I had begun interviewing my parents, friends and relatives who grew up farming in Arkansas and Oklahoma during the period depicted. It's a beautiful work, about which my Dad emphasized, "It is just so real." I recommend John Grisham's "A Painted House." Here is an excerpt. Now get up, seriously, find your car keys, go out, get in the car, drive to the book store, and buy this book. It's available in paperback. Or click here to order. I sincerely hope Hollywood makes the film. If it does, can someone please cast Clint Eastwood as Pappy, please?

Serious Wordplay.

For lack of anything better to post because I'm on vacation reveling in vegging out, I wanted to share a couple of humorous phrases I'd heard years ago, years apart, that cracked my brother up when I remembered them yesterday. We were discussing philosophy, of course.
I'm pink, therefore I'm Spam; and
To err is human; to moo, bovine.

A Cool Christmas Call.

We have this funny/weird little tradition in our family. I am not exactly sure where it came from, but the first person to utter the miracle phrase "Christmas Eve Gift!" on Christmas Eve was allowed to open one present on Christmas Eve. This made for some feisty competition when we were kids. Dad usually "got" us over the years, but as we grew older and wiser, we realized that Christmas Eve actually begins at 12:01 a.m. When we were all under one roof, we resorted to sneaking into one another's rooms just after midnight, waking them up and calling out, "Christmas Eve Gift!" to their bewildered sugar-plum faces. It got pretty bad. We did it by conference call this morning. All three of us ganged up on Dad at 7:30 a.m. from locations across the nation. Well, Colorado and California. The first two attempts, when we had finally gotten we three siblings together on the line, were forwarded to the answering service. Matt kept trying. On the third, Dad answered, "WhattT?!?" He had to have known it was one of us, but never suspected it was all three. A touching moment occurred when Mom got on the other line and we were all together again just like in the good old, ornery old, days.

Chanticlarification.

Ever hear Chanticleer? An honorable mens' chorus that to my complete delight are singing on commercial-free radio tonight. I'm back from out on the front porch, where the stirring scent of the neighborhood's collective fireplaces had me temporarily visualizing a blanket of sparkling snow in the yard. Orion hovers in a moonless night, as Sir Moon seems to prefer to wait until just after midnight to come high. To all my friends and family, here's a toast to you: You're all champs. Champions all. And precious, each and every one. Merry Christmas, you tremendous human beings, and to you all a deliriously Happy New Year.

A Windswept Moonwalk...

It was so cold and windy this morning (35°/35 mph winds) on our 6 a.m. walk that TJ had his ears slammed flat against his head the whole time. The moon is waning gibbous, humpbacked by the responsibility of winter solstice. The rain has stopped and the smog dissipated, making "invigorating crisp" the catch-phrase du jour. I am very glad I didn't spread myself too thin this holiday season, having decided early on to take a relaxed approach this time around. Said relaxed plans are dovetailing ever so well. I have a paying gig playing carols tomorrow night, thank you, then it's off to PML with the Parental Units to eat, drink and keep the bickering to a min.

...And A Little Shwoptwalk.
Always preferring to patronize mom 'n' pop shops around town, last Friday was able to take care of much in one fell California-Avenue-rainy-lunch-hour-swoop. First, a whirl-thru at Don Sherwood's Golf and Tennis World, then a speed-visit to a spinoff of the original Village Stationers where I did some major splurging on the nieces and nephews. What extraordinarily nice people, those Village Stationers, and so very merry were they to have me spend my money there rather than at Stanford Shopping Center that they treated me like the best customer they'd ever had. Royalty, even. I'll most certainly be back. All just a dash from the office. Smart to stay away from the mauls.

Shining Love From Up Above.

I wish you could all see the spectacular full moon shining right now: straight up, blinding white, a huge glowing halo surrounding it, casting surprise midnight shadows.

How to be Simultaneously Warm AND Cool.

Here is my excellent friend Michael modeling the Ramones sweatshirt I got him for Christmas. I am pretty sure he likes it.
MikeyRamone.jpg

Making Up For A Lost Moment (A Dedication).

To understand the beauty of my father and mother, you have to fully appreciate where they came from, and with whom: their brothers and sisters, my aunts and uncles. From Dad's side, there was ultra-handsome, ever-smiling Rex; graceful, sinewy Winona; and the unforgettable timeless beauty nicknamed Tommy. From Mom's side, there is a certain guardian angel who taught Mom how to be an angel herself, without whose fierce sisterly love and nurturing we children would probably not be here — a wellspring of faith and hope, Genita. My dad is a character, and my mom is an American beauty, born months apart in the lower midwest in the midst of the Great Depression. I say my father is a character because he came from a cast of characters, and a handsome group they were. Try playing cards with him some time. Jokesters all, each with an underlying playfulness always ready and willing to jump out at you and make you smile. Mom herself is the very portrait of an angel with all the wisdom, love and understanding a parent could possibly give. Daddy is too, of course, but he's more the portrait of a gnome. Both of them deserve full faith and credit for working so hard for so many years to build and maintain a lasting marriage and good life together out of the hardscrabble circumstances into which they were born. I've heard stories, and they are not pretty. I only wish I could have overcome my fear of public speaking at their 50th anniversary party to share my heart with all the people who came from all over the U.S. to attend their once-in-a-lifetime celebration. Sadly, I suppose that's what weblogs are for. I will always love you forever and ever and ever Mom and Dad, Grandmother, Grandpa, Uncle Rex, Aunt Winona, Aunt Tommy, Aunt Mary, Uncle Gene, Aunt Genita, Uncle Don. I will always remember your tremendously loving ways.

Someone's Thinking Ahead.

On the morning walk the other day, I saw a somewhat neatly arranged pile of G.I. Joe body parts left in the middle of the street, as if leaving him there to be repeatedly run over by cars would complete the cycle of torture. Nice kid, I thought. On further consideration I figured s/he was pretty smart, getting rid of old Joe like that just before Christmas. Making room and all. Out with the old. Too bad they don't make G.I. Eds.

FI-YAH.

Last night we had mighty cracking booms of thunder, just three seconds after ice-neon flashes lit the skies. I like thunder and lightning. I felt safe and warm snuggled in bed as I experienced the strobing flashes, pelting water and walls percussing each time the heavens rolled.

Classic Christmas Cool.

I received the most hilarious card ever. It's Kong, and he's flinging presents at everyone. From Abbey, of course.
KongX001.PDF <--- Click here to see Kong in action.

Spotted In A Panic.

When I was leaving work the other day, I saw the Dalmation Courier truck parked in the red zone, and the Dalmation Courier guy standing there digging in earnest at the door lock through the window with a wire hanger. I wondered if he was on a rush job. I was ever so glad it was not one of mine.

Almost Broke My Face.

Seriously. I was smiling and having so much fun Friday night, my smile muscles cramped and froze in the same position for a while, just like Ma used to warn us about crossing our eyes. What was I doing, you ask? Singing in a six-piece classic rock band for a boisterous doctors office holiday party in a gigantic ballroom at the Marriott, that's what. What a blast. We were good. We are The Colony Street Band. Our site's still under construction, but we're coming!

Slightly Chilled, Very Still.

It is a windless night. I am sitting in my back yard, the dog at my feet, listening to commercial-free jazz on KCSM. Word has it that another storm is coming in. Evidence of it hangs in low clouds above and, for the time being, the wind and chill are at bay. It almost feels like early Fall, but it is December in California. I test the perfection and rarity of the moment by lighting a single tall taper. It has been burning a straight flame without flickering for half an hour. Outdoors. My backlit wine glass resembles an enormous, glowing ruby.

Overheard at the Opera.

Young people are, well, just so darned cute. After a stirring performance of Faust by Opera San Jose last Saturday night, the performers came out one by one to blistering applause. The suffocating proximity of the nosebleed section affords little privacy, so when the conductor marched onstage in a modern tuxedo (a study in contrast to the players' costumes), I clearly heard the very young female seated in front of me whisper to her equally young male companion, "Who's that?" He said, in all seriousness, "That's the composer." She nodded with newfound clarity, as poor Gounod likely did a quick can-can in his Paris grave.