Fairy Godmothers are real! Dixie's new cowboy boots came in the mail on Thursday.
5.31.2008
QUOTE OF THE DAY
Now I arise.
Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
Here in this island we arrived, and here
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princes can, that have more time
For vainer hours and tutors not so careful.
-The Tempest, I.ii.203-8
Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
Here in this island we arrived, and here
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princes can, that have more time
For vainer hours and tutors not so careful.
-The Tempest, I.ii.203-8
5.30.2008
Hair Today . . .
I've been a little bored with my hair lately. A little dissatisfied. So I've started looking into my options for either cutting it off or styling it more interestingly.
Here are some ideas I've had to spiff up the long hair look if I decide to keep my sultry locks.
The Bunhead. A little matronly, perhaps? Still, there's something appealingly quaint about it.
The Flamehead. Very ancient-culture chic. Like an Emperor's concubine c. 1980.
The . . . I'm not even sure what to call this. Mists of Avalon meets Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure.
Here are some ideas I've had to spiff up the long hair look if I decide to keep my sultry locks.
The Bunhead. A little matronly, perhaps? Still, there's something appealingly quaint about it.
The Flamehead. Very ancient-culture chic. Like an Emperor's concubine c. 1980.
The . . . I'm not even sure what to call this. Mists of Avalon meets Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure.
Winter Poem
The quivering wings of the winter ant
Wait for lean winter to end.
I love you in slow, dimwitted ways,
Hardly speaking, one or two words only.
What caused us each to live hidden?
A wound, the wind, a word, a parent.
Sometimes we wait in a helpless way,
Awkwardly, not whole and not healed.
When we hid the wound, we fell back
From a human to a shelled life.
Now we feel the ant's hard chest,
The carapace, the silent tongue.
This must be the way of the ant,
The winter ant, the way of those
Who are wounded and want to live:
To breathe, to sense another, and to wait.
-Robert Bly,
Eating the Honey of Words (1999)
Wait for lean winter to end.
I love you in slow, dimwitted ways,
Hardly speaking, one or two words only.
What caused us each to live hidden?
A wound, the wind, a word, a parent.
Sometimes we wait in a helpless way,
Awkwardly, not whole and not healed.
When we hid the wound, we fell back
From a human to a shelled life.
Now we feel the ant's hard chest,
The carapace, the silent tongue.
This must be the way of the ant,
The winter ant, the way of those
Who are wounded and want to live:
To breathe, to sense another, and to wait.
-Robert Bly,
Eating the Honey of Words (1999)
Mystery #127
I'm in my car, driving to work. I'm stopped at a stop sign, waiting for traffic to pass so I can pull out onto University Avenue. Perpendicular to me, a truckload of redneck laborers drives by (six in front, six in the bed). The truck slows. They all lean over each other trying to get a better look at me. They smile, wave, beckon, and catcall. I wait, checking the clock, hoping they're not going to make me too late to work. Finally they see that I'm not going to jump out of the car and into their truck, and they drive away, making those faces and gestures with which unsubtle men, frustrated with their whoring, show the women who don't find them irresistible just how much they've missed.
Now: I understand when this happens when I'm on foot. Walking down the street, when a truck like that passes, I know what they're hoping for when they slow down and yell at me. It makes a certain amount of sense. But do they seriously imagine that I'm going to abandon my car at a stoplight at a busy intersection to jump in the truck with twelve guys all hoping for early-morning bj's? It baffles me.
Now: I understand when this happens when I'm on foot. Walking down the street, when a truck like that passes, I know what they're hoping for when they slow down and yell at me. It makes a certain amount of sense. But do they seriously imagine that I'm going to abandon my car at a stoplight at a busy intersection to jump in the truck with twelve guys all hoping for early-morning bj's? It baffles me.
QUOTE OF THE DAY
The fiend-like skill we display in the invention of all manner of death-dealing engines, the vindictiveness with which we carry on our wars, and the misery and desolation that follow in their train, are enough of themselves to distinguish the white civilized man as the most ferocious animal on the face of the earth.
-Herman Melville,
Typee (1846)
5.29.2008
Flavor of Love
I recently discovered a disturbing new use for Facebook: Hunt down, print, and cut out pictures of ex's and people you slept with. Keep them in an envelope labeled PRIVATE. I will spare those potential readers of both my Facebook page and this blog the pleasure of those pictures (for the sakes of their wives and current girlfriends), but let me say this . . . the envelope is already quite fat, and I could ruin a lot of lives. Many of these dudes were--ahem--"otherwise engaged" when I "engaged" with them. So sweet, just to know you have that power. Maybe I too will start wearing a large clock around my neck.
Fire Ants: Scourge of God
These things, a new invasive species in Florida, attack like legions of tiny hellions, stippling legs, feet, and ankles with blister-like bites. If you are lucky enough, like me, to be allergic, two bites create hard, hot, red hives that can swell your leg to twice its normal size. I was going to show pictures but the leg was too hideous.
Not A Stripper
Contrary to rumors floating around, Dixie Starr would like to state once and for all that she is NOT and never has been a stripper. Not a paid one, anyway.
5.28.2008
The Springs
Yesterday Todd and I drove from Gainesville to Fort White, Florida, home of the famous Ichetucknee Springs. The hour's drive was worth it. For five bucks you get access to eight named springs (two more are underwater) in the Ichetucknee River. The Head Spring, also just called Ichetucknee Spring, is one of the most beautiful in North Florida.
Although we couldn't see it, this spring, like the others, has access to a chain of underwater caverns. (Remember, all of North Florida is a flooded network of underground caves and tunnels.) Each cavern, we were told by a friendly park ranger named Fester, is connected to another cavern. Divers have explored up to three leading off this spring, but were unable to access the fourth. The hole into it was only big enough for a man to get through if he slipped off his diving tank first and pushed it through. But the force of water coming out of the hole just kept pushing the tanks back out. Some sources are supposed to remain mysterious.
Todd and I enjoyed the brisk 72-degree water. That's not as warm as it sounds. But your skin feels amazing when you get out.
Todd was even brave enough to jump into the just-as-cold-but-less-lovely Blue Hole Spring, the one featuring a forty-foot cave. He swam out across the dark, reedy bottom to actually tread water above the hole and peer down into it. No thank you. I stayed safely on the dock and took pictures.
Although we couldn't see it, this spring, like the others, has access to a chain of underwater caverns. (Remember, all of North Florida is a flooded network of underground caves and tunnels.) Each cavern, we were told by a friendly park ranger named Fester, is connected to another cavern. Divers have explored up to three leading off this spring, but were unable to access the fourth. The hole into it was only big enough for a man to get through if he slipped off his diving tank first and pushed it through. But the force of water coming out of the hole just kept pushing the tanks back out. Some sources are supposed to remain mysterious.
Todd and I enjoyed the brisk 72-degree water. That's not as warm as it sounds. But your skin feels amazing when you get out.
Todd was even brave enough to jump into the just-as-cold-but-less-lovely Blue Hole Spring, the one featuring a forty-foot cave. He swam out across the dark, reedy bottom to actually tread water above the hole and peer down into it. No thank you. I stayed safely on the dock and took pictures.
Indy: Again
Go see it. Ignore all these nay-sayers. It's Indiana Jones! Just go with an open mind, have fun, and try to watch it independently of the three originals.
QUOTE OF THE DAY
"How, unless you drink as I do, can you hope to understand the beauty of an old woman from Tarasco who plays dominoes at seven o'clock in the morning?"
-Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano
-Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano
5.27.2008
Signing Off . . .
Well, that's it for me for today. T. Styles and I are off to Ichetucknee Springs as of two o'clock. We'll be back tomorrow to resume our regularly scheduled programming.
Tiki Dreams (Part II)
CONCERNING THE TRANSFORMATION OF AN ORDINARY PIECE OF FLORIDA EARTH INTO A SOUTH SEA ISLAND PARADISE.
Todd checks to be sure the lights work.
Todd arranges his light strands.
Todd lights the first torch--now we're really on the way!
The second torch.
Todd works with his strands of tiki head lights.
So cute and happy . . .
Ahh . . . this is the life.
Todd checks to be sure the lights work.
Todd arranges his light strands.
Todd lights the first torch--now we're really on the way!
The second torch.
Todd works with his strands of tiki head lights.
So cute and happy . . .
Ahh . . . this is the life.
Song of the Week
THE HUKILAU SONG
© 1948
Lyrics & Music: Jack Owens
Oh, we're going to a hukilau
A huki, huki, huki, huki, hukilau
Ev'rybody loves a hukilau
Where the laulau is the kau kau at the big luau
We'll throw our nets out into the sea And all the ama ama come-a swimming to me Oh, we're going to a hukilau
A huki, huki, huki, huki, hukilau
Ev'rybody loves a hukilau
Where the laulau is the kau kau at the hukilau
What a beautiful day for fishing
In the old Hawaiian way
All the hukilau nets are swishing
Down in old Laie Bay
Oh, we're going to a hukilau
A huki, huki, huki, huki, hukilau
Ev'rybody loves a hukilau
Where the laulau is the kau kau at the big luau
© 1948
Lyrics & Music: Jack Owens
Oh, we're going to a hukilau
A huki, huki, huki, huki, hukilau
Ev'rybody loves a hukilau
Where the laulau is the kau kau at the big luau
We'll throw our nets out into the sea And all the ama ama come-a swimming to me Oh, we're going to a hukilau
A huki, huki, huki, huki, hukilau
Ev'rybody loves a hukilau
Where the laulau is the kau kau at the hukilau
What a beautiful day for fishing
In the old Hawaiian way
All the hukilau nets are swishing
Down in old Laie Bay
Oh, we're going to a hukilau
A huki, huki, huki, huki, hukilau
Ev'rybody loves a hukilau
Where the laulau is the kau kau at the big luau
The Hukilau 2008
Things come together in odd ways. Coinciding with the rise of Todd's and my newfound interest in tiki culture came the invitation from my friend Jen to the annual Fort Lauderdale gathering called The Hukilau, a "little Polynesia" festival for all "tikiphiles."
This event has apparently been going on for about half a decade and lasts from June 12-15 of this, its "best and final," year. Weirdly, the co-organizer and mistress of this event is the former Internet girlfriend of a friend of a good friend of mine in L.A. Tiki Kiliki
was mentioned to me by this L.A. friend under a different name several weeks ago in an email unrelated to The Hukilau. Apparently Tiki Kiliki was bi-coastally dating this friend of my friend's, who is on the "tiki circuit"--meaning that he frequents bamboo bars for rum drinks (like L.A.'s Tiki Ti), knows of obscure Polynesian restuarants like BAHOOKA, and collects wooden heads and vintage Hawaiian LPs.It's always fascinating to stumble upon these little subcultures, but it's even creepier when they find YOU.
5.26.2008
Tiki Dreams (Part I)
CONCERNING THE TRANSFORMATION OF AN ORDINARY PIECE OF FLORIDA EARTH INTO A SOUTH SEA ISLAND PARADISE.
It began with a simple phrase: "I have a dream . . . a tiki dream."
Todd
and I recently decided that the bare concrete platform out back of our apartment complex was the perfect zone for a tiki-style lounge, one we can enjoy now that the nighttime weather is so cool and refreshing.
We began by making a list of "Tiki Items" necessary for transforming the stone foundation surrounded by bracken into a tropical den.
Tiki torches
Tiki lanterns
Tiki oil
Wicks
Citronella candles
Christmas lights
Extension cord
Chairs
Footstools/crates
Giant wooden Indian
Small statuary
Kiddie pool
Firepit (can wait till fall)
Grill
Plants
We made our first foray into the world of "tiki hunting" by visiting The Orange Lake Antiques Mall (hours: "if the gate is closed, we are closed") on 441, just south of the town of Orange Lake. Be sure to bring cash (they have never heard of credit cards), a camera (for slyly taking pictures of the acres of amazing junk), and an open mind when you visit. The weatherbeaten family presiding from their lounge chairs look like cannibals, but are actually quite friendly, and if some of the pieces you encounter in searching the grounds give you nightmares, or the screaming chickens in the unseen coop frighten the daylights out of you, it's quite likely that you'll still come away with some worthwhile finds. Whoever said treasure hunting was easy?
For $10, we acquired the following items:
The Golden Laughing God
The Sunfish
The Nutty Squirrel
The Lobster Claw Ashtray
These items, in my view, take care of the "small statuary" requirement. We have yet to locate the giant wooden Indian, but when we do, I have the perfect place for him to nestle in some grapevines and look appropriately creepy.
Todd also made this amazing find, one that kind of defines the glory of the Tiki Haven--four strands of colorful tiki head lights. Only three of the bulbs didn't work, and those were easily replaced. Amazing, considering they've been sitting out in the junk yard for God knows how long.
For the torches, oil, wicks, and candles, we made a late-night excursion to Wal-Mart on Archer Road.
Stay tuned for more to come!
It began with a simple phrase: "I have a dream . . . a tiki dream."
Todd
and I recently decided that the bare concrete platform out back of our apartment complex was the perfect zone for a tiki-style lounge, one we can enjoy now that the nighttime weather is so cool and refreshing.
We began by making a list of "Tiki Items" necessary for transforming the stone foundation surrounded by bracken into a tropical den.
Tiki torches
Tiki lanterns
Tiki oil
Wicks
Citronella candles
Christmas lights
Extension cord
Chairs
Footstools/crates
Giant wooden Indian
Small statuary
Kiddie pool
Firepit (can wait till fall)
Grill
Plants
We made our first foray into the world of "tiki hunting" by visiting The Orange Lake Antiques Mall (hours: "if the gate is closed, we are closed") on 441, just south of the town of Orange Lake. Be sure to bring cash (they have never heard of credit cards), a camera (for slyly taking pictures of the acres of amazing junk), and an open mind when you visit. The weatherbeaten family presiding from their lounge chairs look like cannibals, but are actually quite friendly, and if some of the pieces you encounter in searching the grounds give you nightmares, or the screaming chickens in the unseen coop frighten the daylights out of you, it's quite likely that you'll still come away with some worthwhile finds. Whoever said treasure hunting was easy?
For $10, we acquired the following items:
The Golden Laughing God
The Sunfish
The Nutty Squirrel
The Lobster Claw Ashtray
These items, in my view, take care of the "small statuary" requirement. We have yet to locate the giant wooden Indian, but when we do, I have the perfect place for him to nestle in some grapevines and look appropriately creepy.
Todd also made this amazing find, one that kind of defines the glory of the Tiki Haven--four strands of colorful tiki head lights. Only three of the bulbs didn't work, and those were easily replaced. Amazing, considering they've been sitting out in the junk yard for God knows how long.
For the torches, oil, wicks, and candles, we made a late-night excursion to Wal-Mart on Archer Road.
Stay tuned for more to come!
Happy Memorial Day!
It's May 26th, which means it's . . . get ready for it . . . MEMORIAL DAY!! Woohoo! Yeah . . . um . . . cool . . . I always thought Memorial Day just meant it was time for a picnic and that you were allowed to wear white shoes for a few months.
In actuality, this is a real U.S. holiday (which is why we don't have work and school today, thank GOD--our first long weekend since Martin Luther King, Jr., day, all the way back in JANUARY).
According to Wikipedia: "Memorial Day is a United States Federal holiday observed on the last Monday of May (in 2008 on May 26). Formerly known as Decoration Day, it commemorates U.S. men and women who perished while in military service to their country. First enacted to honor Union soldiers of the American Civil War, it was expanded after World War I to include casualties of any war or military action."
Personally, I prefer "Decoration Day." Maybe I should start a pointless Facebook group to advocate for a switch back.
Also Reading . . .
Maybe it's my newfound love of all things tiki, but I picked up Herman Melville's autobiographical novel/travelogue TYPEE: A PEEP AT POLYNESIAN LIFE (1846) at Books, Inc., for five bucks and am so far heartily enjoying this adventure story about cannibals, coconuts, tattooed naked people, and tiki torches galore. Good stuff. It's the first of a series of South Sea "novels," which include OMOO, next on my tiki reading list.
As a side note, Melville was, like me, a native New Yorker. He also got to be friends with Nathaniel Hawthorne, the lucky guy.
5.25.2008
Hell's Kitchen
As night descends, we stop
for Chinks' at our favorite hole
on Tenth, across from the gas station.
It's summer, so I sit on the sidewalk
to wait. A bald man in pale pink shorts
offers me his dog, a mangey thing I pet
reluctantly. Our super, he complains, he's changing
the rules to no pets. Around the corner,
a homeless woman sprawls
against the bricks of the deli, muttering
about a man who wronged her once.
Two cops enter and place their order--fried rice,
lo mein, kung pao chicken, fortune cookies. The shorter
cop insists, Fortune cookies. Don't forget.
A guy comes in to tell them about the woman, a look
of loathing smeared across the canvas of his concerened face.
The cops agree to check it out and the guy takes off,
his duty done. Their food comes first, before ours,
and they go get in their car, towing horses that kick and whinny
in their trailer, and depart. On our way back to the apartment,
the woman's still there, still mired in her filthy pile
of bags and rags, still accusing
her long-lost lover.
In July, in Hell's Kitchen,
the tourists stream between
Times Square and the Intrepid all day long
till dusk seeps in between the buildings.
Then, after that, the streets are ours,
these avenues above the railroad tracks
littered with clothes, toys, broken bottles, rusted
metal, scraps of life. As dusk descends,
a warm breeze, like tropical, ripples
in from the river, softening the torpid heat and bringing
sweet relief. The sky, too, takes pleasure
in its own darkening. Blue leaks into
lighter blue, till dusk has stained
the whole sky to New Jersey, leaving us
night, Eighth Avenue, pimps, whores,
dancers, dealers, and the gaudy circus of the doomed
under the racy neon billboards.
Starbucks, Chase, Walt Disney smile down
like T. J, Eckleburg in a story long forgotten
by this milling populace.
We think nothing of where we are
till we are gone, and then we miss it.
We complain of the heat, the crowds,
our lack of money, of room,
of air conditioning and dignity,
of the city we fight to live, and yet love,
never once suspecting this is all there is--
this breeze, this darkening sky between
the tenements sloping toward the river,
and that old black man's voice crying out,
down on the street, through all the hours
of the livelong night,
"I'll fuck your mother, motherfucker!"
-November 1st, 2002
for Chinks' at our favorite hole
on Tenth, across from the gas station.
It's summer, so I sit on the sidewalk
to wait. A bald man in pale pink shorts
offers me his dog, a mangey thing I pet
reluctantly. Our super, he complains, he's changing
the rules to no pets. Around the corner,
a homeless woman sprawls
against the bricks of the deli, muttering
about a man who wronged her once.
Two cops enter and place their order--fried rice,
lo mein, kung pao chicken, fortune cookies. The shorter
cop insists, Fortune cookies. Don't forget.
A guy comes in to tell them about the woman, a look
of loathing smeared across the canvas of his concerened face.
The cops agree to check it out and the guy takes off,
his duty done. Their food comes first, before ours,
and they go get in their car, towing horses that kick and whinny
in their trailer, and depart. On our way back to the apartment,
the woman's still there, still mired in her filthy pile
of bags and rags, still accusing
her long-lost lover.
In July, in Hell's Kitchen,
the tourists stream between
Times Square and the Intrepid all day long
till dusk seeps in between the buildings.
Then, after that, the streets are ours,
these avenues above the railroad tracks
littered with clothes, toys, broken bottles, rusted
metal, scraps of life. As dusk descends,
a warm breeze, like tropical, ripples
in from the river, softening the torpid heat and bringing
sweet relief. The sky, too, takes pleasure
in its own darkening. Blue leaks into
lighter blue, till dusk has stained
the whole sky to New Jersey, leaving us
night, Eighth Avenue, pimps, whores,
dancers, dealers, and the gaudy circus of the doomed
under the racy neon billboards.
Starbucks, Chase, Walt Disney smile down
like T. J, Eckleburg in a story long forgotten
by this milling populace.
We think nothing of where we are
till we are gone, and then we miss it.
We complain of the heat, the crowds,
our lack of money, of room,
of air conditioning and dignity,
of the city we fight to live, and yet love,
never once suspecting this is all there is--
this breeze, this darkening sky between
the tenements sloping toward the river,
and that old black man's voice crying out,
down on the street, through all the hours
of the livelong night,
"I'll fuck your mother, motherfucker!"
-November 1st, 2002
5.24.2008
Song of the Week
"Redneck Girl" by The Bellamy Brothers, off their album Redneck Girls Forverer (2002).
How I Know I'm Growing Up, #13
I have pointless conversations about the weather, peppered with remarks like "it rained pretty hard earlier" and "look like it's going to be a nice weekend."
5.22.2008
Sister Carrie, or: The Neverending Story
After a day of rising at five, manual labor, golf, barbecue, and riding personal motorized vehicles, there's nothing I enjoy more than relaxing with a classic novel. In the last five months I've made a dent in the body of unread literature I should have investigated in graduate school, reading cover-to-cover lookers like The Jungle, Uncle Tom's Cabin, Orlando, Oliver Twist, A Passage to India, and The Trial, as well as some lesser-known works such as Jean Rhys's Wide Sargasso Sea and Evelyn Waugh's A Handful of Dust.
Now I come to find myself stuck on Theodore Dreiser's 1900 novel Sister Carrie, a piece (read: glacier) of American "naturalist" literature detailing the risings and fallings of a small-town Midwestern girl in Chicago and New York, as the mistress of two men and a theatrical talent who finds success on the stage amidst material greed and changing mores.
Though this might sound promising, this 500-page novel (of which I have covered only 300 painful pages) just goes on and on . . . and on . . . slowing, ever slowing, like a train chugging painfully to its resting place in the next station . . . fruitlessly suggesting, wherever a possible conclusion might arise, that only more dense verbiage and "O legions of misery!" shall issue forth from its author's decidedly pursed lips. Seriously, when the writer of a book looks this bored . . .
. . . the only thing you can say is, "Lord make it stop . . . because I can't."
It's only my newfound commitment to seeing things through (books, relationships) that keeps me grinding away.
You Can't Get Any Awesomer Than Awesome
The highlight of this year's Turfgrass Field Day was the chance I got to ride a Segway, a mysterious, magical cart for one that's powered by merely the weight of your torso and the speed of your thoughts. Tanya, a very nice lady who organizes events at the Citra Plant Science Center, rides one of these babies at lightnin' speed (a full 12 mph) all over the grounds, and she says it gives your butt and thighs one heck of a good workout. Tanya was nice enough to let me and my boss's grad student take turns giving the Segway spins around the compound, and I have to say, riding that thing sure is harder than it looks--even in a cap that says UF Turfgrass Science. This is kind of what we looked like:
Our Segway was black, Batman-style, and really really hard to balance on. Basically you lean forward and it moves forward, you stand up straight and it slows or stops, and you turn it by the handlebars. Don't lock your knees or you're f*cked! Actually there was a moment where we didn't think Shweta was coming back--she just kept going and going, maybe back to Nepal.
Later, we golfed with rednecks on the Citra greens. I did pretty good from the 5th to the 9th hole--not bad for my first time ever holding a putter. We also participated in a chipping contest, trying to hit balls out to an island in the middle of a retention pond, to which a gentleman from Westco Turf will later row in a rowboat and see whose ball got closest to the flag. It wasn't mine, so I didn't win the three-day Disney vacation, but I did get a triple skip on the pond with my second ball and a rating of 10 out of 10 for my pre-swing "wiggles."
For those of you who like diagrams, see below. I'm hoping to persuade IFAS to ignore its current budget crisis and buy me one of these.
5.21.2008
Turf Day Comes But Once a Year . . .
I know it hasn't been quite a full year, but the Grass Consulate decided to hold its annual mid-Florida "Sod Wars" get-together a little early this year, for the sake of all the poor souls who fainted on the scalding turf plots last year and had to be hosed down by Marion County EMS. This year's field day includes gale-force winds, grills in pickups shedding sparks down dry highways, early risings, Dixie music, ugly shirts, research-plot retention-pond fish fry, and the usual cast of characters who like to pretend they are princesses and police officers instead of turfgrass entrepeneurs. Get out your ukulele and head down to Citra tomorrow for Day 2 of "Weedstock."
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