This really toasts my tits

I mean it this time. My brain really did pop. My head is completely empty now. Total obstreperal lobe meltdown. I stopped by I Blame the Patriarchy earlier and was appalled and utterly disheartened to learn that Twisty's tits may in fact and literally get toasted any day now. Or worse. Yeah, I know that breast cancer isn't nearly as lethal as it used to be, what with all the new treatments & so on, but it's gotta be unpleasant as hell -- the treatment, I mean.

I've never met Twisty in person, but she is after all a fellow spinster aunt and she's certainly, as I believe I've mentioned about a million times, a writer and patriarchy-blamer I admire deeply. And a hell of a cook, apparently.

I almost sort of wish I could stand outside her room & listen when some unsuspecting representative of the survivor's support group brings her a basket of fuzzy, be-ribboned pink crap. I'd want to be well out of the way, though, when she started hurling fluffy projectiles out the door.

I totally blame the goddamn fucking patriarchy. The fuckers.

Urban wildlife

Stella & I missed all the excitement at the neighborhood pub the other day. A friend of mine was there with his camera, though, & sent these photos of the box turtle he found in the parking lot. A beautiful specimen and apparently on some kind of mission, traveling obliviously across lawns and pavement and a gravel parking lot. A death-defying mission, you could say. After posing for these photos, the turtle submitted to the relocation efforts of kind-hearted pub patrons.

I've been thinking a lot about this turtle, and all the other turtles I've known. I'm afraid I've become a little bit numb with my rage at all the senseless death going on everywhere, and it did my heart good to know that somebody had bothered to try to keep this turtle off the road. Their beautiful and durable shells give them a perfect refuge from all but the most wily and persistent predators, but they are no match for cars. Plus they don't move very fast.

Looking at these pictures reminds me of a box turtle I once knew by the name of Fred; when I last saw Fred about ten or twelve years ago, he had been living for almost 30 years with this guy in my revolutionary knitting group. I think my friend felt a little bad about keeping him captive, but he was worried that Fred would end up dead on the pavement.

So Fred had his own aquarium with the kind of light he needed to keep his shell in shape and keep warm. There was a pool in it, and some plants and pretty rocks, and on one side there was a whole gallery of turtle-themed art taped to the outside of the glass for him to enjoy. He ate mostly cat kibble, with occasional bugs & stuff. He spent a few hours each day in the aquarium but was otherwise given free run of the house, much to the amusement of the cats. They loved to follow him around, but when they got too curious, he'd of course just pull inside his shell and freak the cats out.

I went over there one day to see the litter of kittens that a stray cat had showed up to deliver. They were all in a cardboard box being cute in that helpless newborn mammal kind of way. Several of us were standing around staring at them when someone said, "Hey, look at Fred!" He was moving pretty briskly, for a turtle, circumambulating the box (there's just no other word to describe what he was doing), stopping every now and again, craning his neck to try to see into the box. He seemed agitated. Worried? How to tell? My friend sat down on the floor and held Fred so he could see inside. He stared for quite a long time at the kittens. Finally he looked up at my friend, who put him down. Fred sat calmly near the box for quite a long time after that.

Obstreperitis & patriarchy blaming

Poor dear Aunt Twisty of I Blame the Patriarchy has had some serious problems of late. Not only did her freaking brain pop on September 13, her patriarchy-blaming vim has been seriously diminished. I gotta say I'm not surprised to learn that her obstreperal lobe has gone into acute failure & she's got nothing at all coming out her wazzoo at the moment. Will she ever blame the patriarchy again? Is she OK? What will happen if and when she comes back from St. Louis? How are the dogs?

See, here's why I'm so disturbed: Twisty is a goddamn canary in this fucking coal mine we're all trapped in. If her brain has popped already, just exactly how long do the rest of us have?

You may have noticed, if you are one of my eleven or so regular readers, that my posts lately have been infrequent and that I from time to time offer truly lame excuses about my absences, both here on the blog and to those of you who've so kindly emailed me about it: no computer at home, no time for blogging, I'm freaking out over all the bad news, too much work, I'm working on a goddamn site redesign (how fucking lame is that?), or I'm having carpal fucking tunnel problems for godssakes -- yeah, they're all true enough, but who ever said blogging would be easy?

The truth is I'm having some obstreperal lobe problems of my own. Inflammatory-type problems. Chronic ones. I think my fears that my own brain is about to pop are perfectly reasonable.

As a spinster aunt myself, I know all too well that there is a strong connection between chronic inflammation of the obstreperal lobe and the habits and responsibilities of the typical spinster aunt. Think about it: we don't have to suck up to the patriarchy every minute just to survive, and/or we're on our own a lot & have plenty of quiet time to think clearly. And thinking clearly nowadays is a hazard.

This obstreperal inflammation (commonly called obstreperitis, if you want to know), is frequently dismissed as mere crankiness, or it is thought (mistakenly, it turns out) to be causally related to certain sexual tendencies. I think you know which ones I mean. But at any rate -- as with any chronic inflammatory problems, it matters whether the inflammation is caused by infection or repeated insult (i.e., injury). I'm hoping that my problems, and Twisty's, are the result of the latter, in which case a temporary withdrawal from the irritation will bring some relief.

PS: In an effort to cheer Twisty up, I guess, and to raise money for Blame Aid 2005 ["All proceeds from this event will go to the Cooperativa de Las Muchachas Para Culpar el Patriarcado (Young Girls' Patriarchy-Blaming Cooperative)..."], Chris Clarke of Creek Running North, bless his heart, wrote The Corrido of Twisty Faster's Brain, which Twisty quite hilariously called "the world's first and finest patrinarco-corrido." I can't stop laughing at that for some reason.

A watched pot hardly ever melts

I woke up really early this morning. Like, five a.m. early. There was this funny smell in the house, and all the lights were on and I was fully dressed, including my shoes and my work ID tag, even. I wasn't even in bed, technically, just lying there on top of the quilt, glasses on, my face resting on the book I'd been reading. Front door wide open (screen door locked, like that'll help) and all the windows wide open. Porch light on.

It wasn't light yet, of course, but what was that fucking smell? On the way to the kitchen I remember ohmygodthechickenstock! In the pressure cooker! Bloody hell! I could've burned the fucking house down! I dash out there and shut the burner off. Part of the smell is melted plastic, part of it is deeply caramelized chicken and celery and onions and carrots. I put the oven mitts on and place the pressure cooker carefully in the sink and run cold water on it to release the pressure. There's a lot of steam on account of the pan is so hot, but surprisingly there is not any pressure to release. Trepidation is what I felt while opening the lid.

I very nearly gagged at the smell, and at the sight of the wretchedly overcooked carcass in the pan, resting on a bed of gummy, nearly black vegetables. I put the lid back on and realized there was melty plastic on the stove. Thank god that at least I'd left the ceiling fan on.

What had happened was this: I got home last night and had a chat on the front porch with my lovely ex-wife about tonight's "Gumbo Aid*" event that she'd planned. She had already made two gallons of chicken stock (which was in my fridge on account of hers was stuffed full of the components of gumbo for 50 people) and needed two more. There was one more chicken left, and just enough vegetables. I'd said that I'd make another gallon tonight, and I'd use the pressure cooker so it would be concentrated enough that we could add another gallon of water when we needed to. Ordinarily I would probably have used the existing broth and cooked another chicken in it, but I chose to use fresh water. Glad I did, or I would have had to make even more this morning.

But anyway, I have a gas stove, and so I used a heat diffuser under the pressure cooker so that it wouldn't scorch (a danger with pressure cookers on gas burners. It was taking forever to come up to full pressure. "A watched pot never boils" I kept telling myself, so I went out on the porch and read for a while, and then since I don't have a sofa and my bike was in the middle of the living room blocking my chair I thought it would be fine to just lie down on the bed. I knew that I'd hear the pressure cooker when it got pressurized on account of it makes so much noise. Obviously I'm an idiot. Either I didn't hear it or it never did reach the point where it makes noise. Lucky for me that these newfangled pressure cookers have this safety feature (apparently) that melts and releases the pressure if it stays too hot for too long. Bad luck that it also allowed all the water to escape.

So, I had some breakfast and took a quick bath & went to the store as soon as it opened to get another chicken, more vegetables, etc., but this time I couldn't use the pressure cooker & I had to use my only large pot to cook the chicken stock. It turned out really well, I'm happy to report, but since my actual assigned task for this event was to cook some red beans & rice for the vegetarians in the crowd, I had to immediately wash the pan (and all the strainers & auxiliary pans I'd used while combining the new stock with what I already had in the fridge) in scalding hot water and bleach lest the organic chicken taint the vegetarian beans. As one who was a vegetarian for most of twenty years, I take this sort of thing seriously.

And then I set about making the red beans, using a spice mixture that my lovely ex-wife had prepared but which turned out to be way too spicy. The beans were in the big pot, and I'd sauteed some onions and celery and green pepper in my wok & added far too much of the spice mix, so added more vegetables, etc. Still when I mixed it a little of it with some beans it was too spicy, so I drained off the bean cooking liquid and diluted the spice mixture, straining off the excess liquid several times, and added more vegetables, and got every goddamn fucking pan and bowl in the house involved in the process.

The good news is the red beans are fabulous and so is the gumbo. There are three beautiful cakes, a case of wine, more beer than you can shake a stick at, the guests are to arrive shortly, and it's time for me to go walk the dog.

If you want to find me later, I'll be in the kitchen washing dishes and mourning the loss of my pressure cooker, which I adore not only because of its usefulness and beauty, but also because it was an x-mas gift from my lovely ex-wife.

*[Copy this idea: Invite everybody you know to come over for a gumbo party and then hit them up for donations to your favorite disaster-relief organization. Warn them that you're going to ask for money -- we got several donations already from folks who won't be able to attend.]

Friday Random Ten: Contra apocalypse edition

I can't say this is truly random as it's a selection from a playlist that includes a subset of 317 songs I've been listening to a lot lately as I try not to freak out. It's got all the songs I could find that for one reason or another soothed the screaming & apocalyptic fantods gripping me of late. Some of them are kind of scary and ominous, others are funny & sweet; some are about New Orleans or Mississippi (or anyplace affected by Katrina), some are about anarchy & chaos -- you get the idea.

As you might imagine, the playlist is heavy on Alex Chilton (not, alas, represented below - but I did read somewhere the other day that he's been heard from after disappearing in New Orleans for a few days), plus a lot of my regulars like Lucinda Williams, Tom Waits, Warren Zevon, and Leonard Cohen. "The Great Event," which happened to be #11 in this particular sequence, is what my alarm clock is playing these days. Much better than the news.

1. "Lakes of Pontchartrain" Be Good Tanyas Blue Horse

   Classic folk music story of rich stranger/ traveler obtaining shelter & hospitality from beautiful local girl of modest means - he proposes marriage but alas her heart is pledged to another and she refuses him. He vows to remember her forever. Nice arrangement here from the BGTs. "... and I fell in love with a Creole girl/ on the lakes of Pontchartrain..."

2. "She Steers By Lightning" Richard Thompson You? Me? Us? (voltage enhanced)

   Quite possibly one of my all-time favorite songs. Certainly in the top 700. Very ominous. Might also explain why I drive the way I do. "My Maggie, she's got a loose one/ she uses Milton as a road map/ My Maggie, she is a bright thing/ She talks in couplets/ she steers by lightning."

3. "John the Gun " Sandy Denny Who Knows Where the Time Goes? (box set)

   This particular version originally appears on the 1974 Fairport Live recorded in Sydney. Jerry Donahue is playing lead guitar (not RT), but Dave Mattacks is on drums, Dave Pegg on bass, and Dave Swarbrick contributes some scary-ass violin solos: "Ideals of peace are gold which fools/ have found upon the plains of war/ I shall destroy them all..."

4. "Crescent City " Lucinda Williams Lucinda Williams

   "This town has said what it has to say/ now I'm after that back highway/ and that longest bridge that I ever crossed/ over Pontchartrain..." That's how far I get before I start to cry.

5. "Living in Babylon" Heartbeats Rhythm Quartet Spinning World

   I guess this one is the only song on the list that you could actually contradance to if you wanted to. Plus I like the lyrics: "... with every step you wonder who you are/ who is this frightened boy alone in his car/ listening to the music coming out of its dash/ taking his tired brain to a place in the past..."

6. "Walking in Space" Original Broadway Cast Hair

   I've been singing this one a lot lately, for some reason. " .. my body is walking in space/ my soul is in orbit with god face to face/ floating flipping flying tripping/ tripping from potsville to mainline/ tripping from mainline to this/ on a rocket to the fourth dimension/ total self awareness/ the intention/ my mind is as clear as country air/ I feel my flesh/ all colors mesh..."

7. "Black Sky " Sam Phillips Martinis & Bikinis

   Very nice ominous drums: "The trees are listening/ each time a missile's made/ they hide three mystics/ the earth sends from her grave/ to tell us the future/ has been stolen away/ by diggers, drillers and sellers/ we won't stop/ 'till we're underneath a black sky."

8. "Desperadoes Under the Eaves " Warren Zevon Warren Zevon

   "...all the salty margaritas in Los Angeles/ I'm gonna drink em up/ and if California slides into the ocean/ like the mystics and statistics say it will/ I predict this motel will be standing/ until I pay my bill..." I can't really add much to that.

9. "Alabama Song " Marianne Faithfull 20th Century Blues

   Marianne Faithfull can make anything sound vaguely apocalyptic of course, but Kurt Weill gives one a particularly good opportunity, I think. She released another recording of it on The Seven Deadly Sins which is a little smoother and there's a band behind her, but I prefer this live recording with just her and Paul Trueblood on piano. You know this song: "Oh show me the way to the next whiskey bar/ oh don't ask why/ oh don't ask why/ for we must find the next whiskey bar/ for if we don't find the next whiskey bar/ I tell you we must die..."

10. "Can't Feel at Home" Mud Boy & the Neutrons They Walk Among Us

    An only slightly demented version of this gospel standard (sometimes called "This World is Not My Home" or "I Can't Feel at Home in This World Any More") from Memphis luminaries Lee Baker, Jimmy Crosthwait, Jim Dickinson, and Sid Selvidge. ..."This world is not my home/ I"m only passin by/ my troubles & my hopes are all stored up on high/ all of my kindred have gone on before & I can't feel at home in this world any more..."

11. "The Great Event" Leonard Cohen More Best Of

    A seriously weird little piece; the liner notes credit the vocals to LC and Victoria, which happens to be the name of one of the synthesized voices (on my erstwhile Mac, anyway) you can set certain Instant Message programs to use to read the incoming messages out loud for you. I'm pretty sure it's her, um, singing (or whatever you call it): "It's going to happen very soon: The great event which will end the horror, which will end the sorrow. Next Tuesday, when the sun goes down, I will play the Moonlight Sonata backwards. This will reverse the effects of the world's mad plunge into suffering for the last two hundred million years. What a lovely night that will be. What a sigh of relief, as the senile robins become bright red again and the retired nightingales pick up their dusty tails and assert the majesty of creation."

Too much

I just can't get my mind around the news from the hurricane. I'm glad I don't have a TV in the house; I can't listen to the radio for more than a few minutes. I keep checking online, but I can't take any more in. There's a ton of great information out there. I'm too overwhelmed by it right now to think of anything useful to say. I might post some specific links later, but I think that Magpie is doing a great job, as is Shakespeare's Sister. Also Making Light.