Pinwheeling

In other news: I finally undertook last week- after having the recipe posted on the door of the fridge for, quite literally, years -to whip up a batch of my mom's excellent pinwheel cookies. It's a swell variegated chocolate-and-white shortbread that gets the two batches of dough rolled up in what the recipe calls 'jellyroll' fashion so it comes out looking like nothing so much a swirling pinwheel. Hence the clever moniker. Not only are they fun to look at they are another childhood fave 'sense memory' on the order of dryer exhaust, AM radio(Who remembers whistling Winchester Cathedral?) and my recently-recreated vanilla cream soda.

I'm pretty sure if I had a dozen pinwheels and a liter of cream soda while listening to CBS Mystery Theater Of The Air my head would likely explode from sheer nostalgic carbo- and sugar-loaded ecstasy!

They turned out well- SonBoy declared them 'better than Mammaw's' but I'm not going to tell her that! -so I gave about half the batch away fearing my lack of self-control(some would substitute 'absence' for 'lack' in that description)would have me eating two dozen by my own self.

I've stocked up on ingredients for another batch this weekend; I'm going to try white chocolate chips in the white half of the dough this time around(pinwheel pun)and see what happens. "Weird Cookie Science!" Yee-hahhh! Calling Rachel Ward! Who knows, if I don't make them too early in the day on Saturday there may even be some left by the time this week's midnight episode of Lost rolls around(another pinwheel pun!)...

The Circle of Life

...is a funny, funny thing. I guess it was 1985, '86 that my garage band days were at their zenith; playing every week in Denny's garage. I remember playing in the wintertime with a big propane heater that looked like a small rocket blowing superheated air, made it positively balmy despite the prevailing cold outdoors. Anyway, whenever I hear one of the maybe twenty, twenty-five songs we practiced for months- and ended up playing exactly one show -I say 'Here's another golden oldie from the Mean Steak catalog!' "Mean Streak" was the name of the band- we weren't bad dudes, just wannabes -but Denny's first stab at painting the name on a drumhead left out the 'r', hence, 'Mean Steak'. It was comical then and I still have to chortle whenever I think of it.

But I digress. If you been keeping up with newsy notes in my other web venues you know I've a new musical experience in the works. Last week's band practice excitement was the arrival of a potential 2nd guitarist, fellow of Rob, the drummer's acquaintance. Scott seemed to have some great dexterity and a nice crunchy guitar sound while he whipped out a handful of pieces and parts of songs he knew including Judas Priest's venerable early metal standard, The Green Manalishi(With The Two-Pronged Crown).

Gave me a super-retro 'circle of life' flashback and it's reinforced by listening to the song repeatedly this week with a view learning to play it again my own self. Shades of deja vu, indeed.

In another note, while casting about for possible overlap in our respective repertoires, drummer Rob said, 'How about some Van Halen?' Which made me realize that despite their being my fave band- in the Diamond Dave era anyway -I've only ever really learned to play a single VH tune, Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love. (Unless you count my pidgin version of Eruption, Eddie's guitar solo from the first album. Which I don't because I've seen at least a dozen teens play it with real skill on YouTube whereas I've always kinda faked my way through it.)

So I set about learning a couple for real. Dance The Night Away, probably the first song I ever heard from VH. No mindbending guitar spot but a great pop tune that still makes me wanna dance. (Hahaha, no, not really, I can't dance.) Somebody Get Me A Doctor, a power rock fave from way back. I just can't imagine too many bands doing a song like it and it features a cool guitar trick near the end that always reminds me of glass breaking. Beautiful Girls, the ultimate summertime girlwatching at the beach song. The leadoff riff outstrips Walk This Way for catchy guitar crunchiness and is more fun to play than almost anything I can think of right now. I haven't got all the finer points- meaning all the speedy noodling Ed throws in like it's the simplest thing in the world -of the latter two, of course, but I can play along with them without too much finger fumbling. Too cool! Who knows if they'll actually be something the band plays together but it's a major milestone for this former long-haired, bandana sporting, old school rock star pretender. Wheeeee!

What else is new? Man, the kittens are growing! I'll bet they're twice the size they were when they arrived a month ago. Tuco- a strange name for a little girl cat but somebody had to fill out the trio named for The Good, The Bad and The Ugly -is affectionately referred to now as 'Teacup Kitty' because she's the smallest of the three and could probably actually fit in one of the bigger teacups we have in the cupboard. Angel Eyes has warmed up considerably but can still make a beeline for cover when he's not in the mood for 'personal kitty time'. Blondie is just the simplest, sweetest of the bunch, proving that little boy cats are much more personable than their female counterparts. Skinny is alternately playful and determined to ignore their presence. I don't think she likes having to share the food, the couch, the litter box or especially the window ledge where she watches birds at the feeder. Poor 'Granny Cat', I guess she'll have to make the best of it.

Ooops... more later...!

Routine

Boy, I can't recall a time in my life when things have felt more routine. The weeks seem to be rushing by from spring toward the summer and while I get a few things done every week between eating and sleeping there's nothing out of the ordinary going on. I guess that's a good thing, actually, it means there are no car accidents to report or broken limbs on the mend so...

On the plus side I'm getting in lots of guitar practice lately, jamming around with my once and future bandmate, Jimmy, and a drummer of his acquaintance. The downside is that my lack of 'proper' technique- I once proposed 'monkey grip' as the name of a band I was in and that's kinda how I grab the neck of the guitar! -and practice, practice, practice has led to some serious hand cramping. An old woodworking mishap sliced open my left thumb and forefinger, mmm, must have been 1982, I believe it damaged a nerve because after not too much playing that hand goes all numb and tingly, kinda like a charlie horse of the hand. At least it's a pretty good excuse- along with my spotty playing habits -for never becoming a virtuoso on the instrument. But I blame non-musical genes more than anything. Some people just have 'it', my tin ear makes every note and chord a struggle. Fun, but a struggle nonetheless. There are just too many tewelve-year-olds on YouTube who make it look effortless!

Aside from those once-or-twice-weekly asides playing (what can only loosely be termed) music, the highlight of most weeks is Saturday night's schedule of re-run TV. I've even invented a mnemonic so I can recall what's on and when:

MINYHO MOCO GRL

Which is pronounced more or less like it looks, 'miney-ho mo-ko girl'. Looks like a big long vanity plate, stands for CSI:Miami, CSI:NY, House, Monk, Cold Case, Gray's Anatomy and Lost.

While marathon sessions of back-to-back DVD screenings have taken up more than a few of my Saturdays: Wild, Wild West, UFO, Star Trek, Superman, The Big Valley -this stretch of 'couching' is my wife's habit more than my own. I'll watch between computerizing- checking an email box, loading some photos for the Yahoo group, watching my auction items wind down -or crafting something- casting or painting a doll head, for example -until the big draw which is the midnight episode of Lost. A show I'd never watched first run but got drawn into watching late night when there was nothing else to sit and stare at. As I'm sure has been commented upon by many a TV pundit, it's an aptly titled series because after watching it for months I'm still pretty much clueless as to the exact nature of events and timelines. Predict what ultimately might become of these characters? Fuggeddaboutit! So as its network run winds down I'm trying to avoid 'spoilers' and wondering if the re-run schedule will include the last season's episodes or if I'm going to have to break down and buy it on DVD to see how it all turns out!

Ahhhh, now there's some exciting 'life stuff' to write about... "What are you watchin' on broadcast TV on Saturday nights?" Scintillating! Breathtaking! >gasp, pant<

Ohhhh, brudder! What's next?!? Bingo???

Seasonal Affective Disorder

I don't think I have that, not really. But 'cabin fever', maybe. The manager here refers to people who don't come out of their place very often as 'live-ins' and I'm sure that's where we fall on the yardstick of 'out and about-iveness' lately. I don't know if it's the recycled air or lack of sunlight or continuous exposure to the electromagnetism of the computer and television screens or what, something. But, wow, I never feel like leaving the house. Things gets done, I get the supplies I need, make the requisite trips to the post office, take out the trash, retrieve incoming mail from the mailbox and so on. But that's about it. And the recent pair of snowfalls have only intensified that compulsion. The first white stuff I was able to more or less wait until it blew and drifted away from the car before I had to move just a wee bit of snow. This time though I was forced by the second day after the event to actually shovel a good deal more of the white stuff. 'A good deal' meaning the tiny driveway on one side of the car where it was drifted in and almost certainly the tiny vehicle wouldn't have been able to power out from under without some shoveling. It really wasn't much of a job except for the advanced atrophy evident in all my snow-moving muscles. Yaahhh...

On the plus side I can add 'fried apple fritters' to my stovetop repertoire. Did I mention this already? Last big adventure- actually had to leave the house for it! -was a day trip with my pal, Jimmy, to The Green Dragon, a famers-slash-flea market over Lancaster way. Had a giant soft pretzel- I'm not a big soft pretzel guy but, wow, it was the best pretzel I've ever had, with honey mustard, drool -and an apple fritter. Which inspired me to give that confection a try my own self. Surprisingly super simple to do if you have some apples and 'just add water' pancake mix. That's it, nothing else. Just cut the apples into small chunks, mix into the batter and drop by spoonfuls into hot oil and >zing< you've made apple fritters. Just be forewarned, a little bit goes a loooong way and if you have two or three you'll have had enough apple fritters to last you for a while. So be ready to share if you mix up even a small batch. And they're 1000% better warm, right outta the oil, so it's a good treat for a handful of friends of an evening rather than handing them out the next day or the day after that.

What else is new? Well, my hole punches have disappeared. I'm serious, I need one especially today for a small gunbelt I'm working up for one of my doll men- Yul Brynner as Chris from The Magnificent Seven -and the plastic bin of hole punches- I probably have six or eight at least, different sizes and shapes -is nowhere to be found. I just don't get it. My workspace is a mess, no denying that, and it's hard to find anything, I'm in serious need of a day or two of nothing but organization, sorting and filing like materials and small objects, things in the works, molds, tools, brushes, paints and so on and on... but this is ridiculous. They should be in plain sight or at least found after a perfunctory glance in the usual places, under the stuff that stacks up on top of the printer, the stack of mailing supplies in this corner and/or the stack of miscellaneous containers and cardboard boxes of 'might be used one day' stuff in that corner... But I've been over the river and through the woods, looked in practically every drawer or box or bin and on every surface in the room, all to no avail. The punches, the whole lot of them, simply refuse to be found.

So if they don't turn up before I find something of interest in the Saturday night TV lineup- coupla CSI reruns and then Lost at midnight -and get planted on the couch, I'll just try again tomorrow. Of course, I'm working with the 'gunbelt box' on the couch so Yul Brynner will mock me from the coffee table as long as I'm in that room. They must be here somewhere, after all. Right? There are no such things as gremlins... Right???

Anyway... Here's a new cartoon I'm doing for a business card for some friends. Y'know, caricatures have always been one of my favorite things to draw... Until next time then, abby seein' ya!

Bittersville

Bittersville was- and still is, I suppose, seeing as the sprawl of suburbia from nearby York will likely never reach so far into the sticks -the name of a the place on the map- not a 'town' really, just a collection of houses and homes that once upon a time someone decided needed a name. A name like 'Bittersville'... -between Windsor and Craley PA. Adjacent to Martinsville- or just a stone's throw away, at any rate -it was one of the two places I referenced- the other being Martinsville -when I explained to people where my home was the last year of high school. And the year after. Actually, I had two residences because we shuttled back and forth between our place for the previous, mmm, twelve years and the 'new house', the house with the pool. Aaahhh, the pool. I never missed the too-hot-in-summer, too-cold-in-winter converted attic room which was mine(at last I didn't have to share a room with my younger brother so it was swell nonetheless)and I never missed the proximity of the road which led to the demise of one dear little black dog(Heidi)but the pool... that I really missed every so often.

But I digress. I'd get a lot of blank looks when I said I lived between Martinsville and Bittersville. Until I mentioned Windsor or Craley. Which were much larger metropolises(Or 'metropoli', whatever the plural of 'metropolis' may be)and then folks would nod knowingly, back on solid ground, geographically speaking.

But Bittersville has nothing to do with the name of this forum. That's another story entirely.

Situated in one or the other- Bittersville or Martinsville, I can't really remember which without Googling up a map and I'm disinclined to do so at the moment -was a little country store we knew as Hildebrand's after the name of the proprietor, Perry. He might just as well have called it 'Perry's' but I guess that might have seemed a bit, I dunno, self-aggrandizing. There might have been a sign proclaiming it 'Hildebrand's' but that I don't recall either. It didn't seem important then because we knew where it was, we knew what it was and we knew what they offered to the general public and passersby. Which was all manner of general goods, good both needful and inconsequential, things you couldn't live without- milk, bread,eggs and toilet paper -and things you didn't want to live without, especially if you were a youngster- trading cards, candy and soda.

Which brings me to my point: For some time I've bemoaned the absence in the modern world(nothing, I think, makes you sound or feel more like an old person than speaking the phrase 'modern world' and knowing it's a time and place you'd choose not to be given a reliable time machine and a suitcase full of money)of a good cream soda. Sure, there are plenty of options in the grocery stores, in the convenience stores that are called 'cream soda'. There are red ones and brown ones, clear ones and even browner ones. But try to find a yellow one. You can't. Or at least I haven't found one. What's the differnce, you ask? Well, admittedly it's the difference between a red apple or a yellow apple. They both still taste like an apple. But there's a shade, a sense, a nuance you get from yellow if you remember cream soda by Crass. Which was yellow. And which was more often than not the primary reason that as a youth I'd take up my portable cassette player, plug in Bad Company's Runnin' With The Pack and start walking, not running, the two miles from the home place in Bittersville to Hildebrand's store.

Crass cream soda had no bite, no edge, no sting behind your eyeballs or on your tongue. It was a purely soft drink and, as the name implied, creamy. It seemed more like a dairy product than a soda pop. It had no dynamic fizz or 'pop', in fact, a little, sure, but mostly it was just sweet, vanilla creaminess... mmmm... Some time ago something brought to my mind the thought of Crass cream soda and I began to make it a point to try out the various beverages labeled 'cream soda' when the opportunity arose, seeking one that perchance might rekindle that same smooth, yellow sensation that dwelt in the ethereal dreamland of my sense memory of long, long ago.

Naturally, nothing ever came close. There seemed a gamut from an 'earthen' root beer taste- why not just call it 'root beer', I'd wonder? -to a deathly sweetness that made even my sweet tooth recoil, squealing little toothy screams. So it was a boon, a swoon, a happy happenstance when, fresh from some medical errand at a local health campus, my spouse, her sister and I visited an adjacent roadside fruit-and-vegetable stand. Along with the fresh produce of the ground and the orchard, there were baked goods and snack items to be had and, what's this? A 'cream soda'? Reading Bottle Works Cream Soda. A light tan color. Hmmm, well, how about this, I sez to myself, it's worth a buck to test yet another so-called 'cream soda'. And, wow... it was good. Really, it was. Now, don't get me wrong, it wasn't a Crass Cream Soda. But it was pretty darn good. A little on the fizzy side but with a nice vanilla flavor, not bad, not bad at all. I'd be back for more, for sure.

Naturally, several subsequent visits found the supply lacking. So finally I determined to store up a supply for myself and asked the attendant if it were possible to order a six-pack or maybe two. 'Sure', she said took my name and number, promising to call when the stuff came in. Well, sad to say, that never materialized. Maybe the turnip truck turned over on the way from Reading Bottle Works. Maybe a breakdown in communications between vegetable helpers and another patron scooped up the supply, my supply. The details I do not know but the call never came.

So now I make my own. And may lightning strike me if I lie... it is... well, words fail. It is lightly sweet, it is so vanilla, it is sooo creamy. And not too fizzy. Yep, I'm my own cream soda maker and I like it. It's like recapturing a 'slice of life', as Mr. Klopp used to say, from days gone by. And putting it in a bottle with a drop or two of yellow food coloring. Naturally. Now I just need a copy of Runnin' With The Pack to complete the temporal transference. On cassette, of course. And a cassette player.

Since there's no way I can share something like that on the magic screen here is a picture of my newest sculpting effort. I originally made this head a few years ago and wasn't too happy with it so it languished in an egg carton since with lots of other castoffs. The other night I decided to give it another go and spent a few hours poking some new clay into place with this result, not finished yet but it's getting close. See if you know who it is. Meanwhile I'll say "Thanks for your attention!" and "Seeya next time!"

Mow, mow, mow, you goat!

So I'm mowing the grass the other day- with shoes on my feet, thank you. Or at least socks and sandals, I forget. No, it was socks and sandals, yeah. But that's okay because

(A) I've been cutting grass since I was eleven
(B) it's a flat yard for the most part, only a very slight incline in the back and
(C) the mower has an automatic shut-off when you release the pushbar and
(D) unlike my buddy, Don, who recently carved chunks from parts of two fingers reaching under a mower deck- He swears it wasn't running but I've never known a machine to rend flesh when it's not under power! -I never, but never put any part of myself under the mower. I likes my fingers too much and while my feet and toes give me fits of late I'm still partial to keeping them.

But I digress. So the mower is shredding pine cones right and left which are littering the ground, fallen from the row of coniferous boughs that reach above the tippy-top of the fence which borders the property. And it's a windy day, really blowing. I'd put out the trash can and picked it up at least three times in the course of the morning, bowled over by the gusty breeze, before finally wising up and putting it out of the wind instead of in its usual spot. But the trees apparently tried to revenge themselves by whipping a pine cone on the wind, missed me by that much... freaky.



I thought to myself, 'Wow. That could put a real hurt on if it nicked the side of one's noggin!'



The point is, I think often while mowing, 'A few goats and I wouldn't have to do this at all.' But we used to have goats when I lived at home. Mandy and Andy. I don't think we ever milked them, at least I never did. I guess they were the kind of goats who didn't put up with such nonsense. And they really didn't substitute for the lawn mower. They mostly just milled about the little area next to the garage where they were tethered and waited to be fed and have their heads scratched between their ears. They loved that. I sure can't remember what we fed them either. I'm sure, given the reputation of the species, they got leftovers and scraps from the table and the trash.

Here's a picture of my pal, Jimmy, making like he's riding one of them. Which is patently ridiculous due to his size compared to that of the goat. Which, of course, is why we posed the picture that way. He's wearing those big gray overalls so I'm sure it was taken when we were building my folks' log house just down the lane from the place where we kept the goats, right in the front yard, really. Whatta job that was, it's no small wonder that nobody got seriously injured putting up those beams. Straddling the unsecured walls while handing those monster chunks of wood over one's head, yow. I could never do it now and marvel that I did it then, my acrophobia was no less acute at that age than it is now.

Happily, lawn mowing doesn't generally involve any work on high. And looking ahead to the morrow- which is 'today' now, it's late -because the forecast is for rain starting on Tuesday, I'm thinking about what may be the last turn around my Mom's big mowing job, the one holdover from the days when my Dad and I went around with truck, trailer and tractor cutting yards for the fun of it. No, seriously, we got paid for it. But it was fun, I just didn't know it then. I had yet to slog through a succession of day jobs that I disliked even more than pushing a lawn mower and swinging a weed trimmer.

But the job is two hours of meditative bumping and turning, up and down, round and round. All tractoring, no trimming or handwork at all. Around the pine trees and shrubbery, the tennis court and along the rough, turned up edges of the adjacent farm field. Over and over the bumpus where the swimming pool used to be. More than once we were invited to have a dip when the job was done back in the day. I must have taken them up on it more than once but I have no pictures as proof. It's a coupla bucks on the side but mostly it's just a good time to think, in spite of the motor noise. It's so familiar, like an old pair of shoes, kinda automatic, and you can just drift off and reminisce and ruminate while weaving in and out, back and forth.

Anyway, I'll knock it out again tomorrow, talking to myself, singing out loud in spots, waving to the postman and UPS guys making their rounds. Thinking deep thoughts and wishing the grass would grow year 'round. Maybe I'll try to stretch it to two and a half hours...

Gnocchi

Pronounced 'knock-ee'. Or 'no-kee'? I'm not sure, but that's what the little doughy potato things are called that I added to the Turkey Bacon Club soup. A midget Italian relation to the Greek pierogie, you might say. Or you might just say, 'Whaaa...?'

Movies I watched during the last week:

Jack The Giant Killer, a heretofore unknown- to me, anyway -fantasy pic featuring some weird stop-motion creatures and special effects by Wah Chang, the effects genius who later devised communicators, phasers and tricorders for Star Trek. Not a great movie, nothing to rank with Harryhausen or Creature From The Black Lagoon... but diverting goofiness nonetheless.

The Terminal, The Family Stone and Atonement. My daughter sent these over for our amusement. I found elements of story and character to enjoy in each of them but was ultimately disappointed by the payoff- or lack thereof -in each of the three. I guess I'm always looking for the 'happy ending' or at least one that doesn't make you go 'Crud, that was really a bummer of an ending.' Tom Hanks doesn't get the girl, the mom dies and the young lovers you desperately want to see live happily ever after... don't.

Okay, if there are no horses, spaceships or strange creatures at least gimme a glimmer of hope for the characters when it's all over, fer cryin' out loud!