Food For Thought

Fun With Tennis Balls

Honda Meets Rube Goldberg

This two-minute film called "Cog" is a Honda commercial that took months to complete. After 606 takes at a cost of $3 million, it worked. All it took was one gear, value or tire not moving as planned to start the whole process over. When the film was successfully completed, the film crew popped some champagne. It reminds me a little of Mousetrap, that game I played as a kid. No computer graphics were used in filming. It's a classic Rube Goldberg machine.

Spray Paint Art

TUESDAY. In my web meanderings this morning, I came across this fascinating nine-minute video. For more info on this Slovenian artist and his technique, visit his website.

Life Goes On

FRIDAY. I haven't blogged in a very long time, or so it seems. For me, blogging is akin to breathing. When I don't blog, I feel as if a piece of me is suffocating. The challenge is finding something to blog about when I'm either in the doldrums or feeling decidedly uninspired. I blame both for my recent wordless hiatus.

Telly's hormones have kicked in. She's been "in season" for the past week and a half. Evidently unaware he was neutered five years ago, Murphy has turned our backyard into an X-rated playground. In all honesty, the blame doesn't rest solely with Murphy. An insatiable and incorrigible tease, Telly aggressively encourages Murphy's participation in this ritual, despite his total inability to breed. He seems most willing, nonetheless. I've spent the better part of a week trying to keep them apart so they don't "tie." (For more info on canine reproduction, click here.) Today I threw caution to the wind and relaxed my vigil. No strange dogs or coyotes have shown up all week, so I think it's safe to leave her outside unattended, but the urge to check on her every 10 minutes consumes me. Our four-foot fence is quite jumpable for an eager male suitor. Telly, herself, demonstrates daily how easily she can scale the fence, but thus far she jumps only if we're on the other side of it. Otherwise she's content to remain prisoner on our property. However, that premise has not been tested with an intact male dog waiting in the street for her escape over the Great Wall of Confinement.

The worst part of this is the undignified diapers Telly must wear during this three-week cycle. We traded the poorly-designed disposable whites for a more stylish and sturdy flannel-lined blue denim garment with disposable liners. Tres chic! The denim keeps our off-white carpets stain-free and does double duty as a cotton chastity belt. [The latter function is, at best, dubious. Murphy is not the least bit discouraged by Telly's hotpants.]


The prospect of raising a litter of puppies in our too-small kitchen gives me palpitations and cold sweats. M has threatened to spay the dog in the back room if I don't take care of it soon, or at least before Telly's next heat. Veterinary responsibilities fall on my side of the tote board, as I'm the one with flexible daytime scheduling options.

I'm starting to get caught up on projects long overdue. Health challenges and computer setbacks have slowed my work flow for several weeks. My work doesn't go away when I fall behind. It waits for me. This is both a blessing and a curse. Projects pile up on my desk like mountains. Hopefully I'll be caught up in less than a week, though I'm sure it will require forfeiting part of my weekend.

Our Albuquerque weather has been unusually warm this past week. Relaxing in the back yard after work each day has been delightfully soothing. Deep blue, cloudless skies provide a restful backdrop for the hot blanket of sunlight that pierces the bone-dry desert air. I try to ignore the dogs, but I'm easily distracted by their irrepressible drive to mate, in spite of the apparent futility of their efforts. The polite thing would be to turn away, but my curiosity always wins out. Let the record show that male dogs do not (repeat, do not) lose their urge to procreate when neutered. Murphy is powerless to resist the lure of our young canine in estrus. Mother Nature must be laughing up her sleeve.

Our record-breaking winter in Albuquerque has been intense, but brief. The trees have taken on the pea-green hue of leaves joyfully unfolding in early Spring. Dogwood and forsythia blossoms hang from delicate limbs, and daffodils stand at attention in neighborhood gardens. Though cooler temperatures are predicted for the coming week, the welcome mat is (unofficially) out: Spring is knocking at our door. Even sparrows are mating in our dusty front yard.

Life goes on. It's one of the few things on which we can depend. The sun rises and sets, the seasons change like clockwork, creatures make babies, birds migrate, and time marches on, relentlessly. During moments when there's not much else going on, nature hums like a well-oiled machine, we the casual observers of perennial rhythms. All we need do is slow down and notice. I'm one who embarasses easily when asked, "What's new?" and I've nothing to report. I wonder--just maybe--if it's enough to be content with answering, "Nothing at all." There's great richness hiding behind the illusion of an uneventful and (erroneously-assessed) boring life. Spring is around the corner. (I know that sounds impossible to folks in the Northeast chipping away thick ice after yesterday's storm.) I invite you to "stop and smell the roses" with me. Look for the wonder in Nature and her unstoppable cycles. It can't hurt.

Two black dogs sleep peacefully this evening, side by side, Murphy's paws resting gently against Telly's back. Two peas in a pod, gentle giant and half pint, forever friends. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on.

Enjoy the tune. It's one of my favorites.

Casualties of War

We shall never stop war, whatever machinery we may devise, until we have learned to think always, with a sort of desperate urgency and an utter self-identification, of single human beings.
-Victor Gollancz

MONDAY. For the past year and a half I've been monitoring a website that accepts contest submissions to win a personal guitar lesson with Esteban. My job is collecting and reviewing contest entries, confirming submissions, and preparing them for consideration by contest judges. In January the Grand Prize was awarded to Dustin Gould, a young Marine serving in Iraq, whose contest entry told how Esteban's music and inspiration had carried him through a very difficult time. He was due home in early Spring from his fourth tour in Iraq. I promised him we'd delay his guitar lesson with Esteban until his safe return.

Early this morning, I learned that 28-year-old Dustin was killed last Friday in Al Anbar Province, Iraq, along with Navy Hospitalman Lucas W.A. Emch, 21. Both were scheduled to return to the U.S. this month. Though I'd never met Dustin, we'd exchanged several emails after I notified him that he'd won the contest. He was very excited and wrote that having the opportunity to meet Esteban was "a dream come true." He couldn't wait to get home and have the chance to learn from his idol, and hoped we wouldn't be inconvenienced because he wouldn't be home for several months.

I mourn the loss of another sweet, innocent, brave soul who died supporting Operation Iraqi Freedom. I keep asking myself why--half expecting an answer, but knowing at the deepest possible level there simply ARE no answers. Staff Sgt. Dustin Michael Gould, a bomb technician, was killed instantly while handling an explosive device he discovered on the road. He died trying to save his platoon. Over the weekend, his mother told the AP that her son was a kind, gentle man who loved animals and was very generous. She went on to say her son was proud of what he was doing as a Marine, but was "sick of the way things were."

A native of Norman, Oklahoma, Dustin attended high school in Longmont, Colorado, where he enlisted in the Marines ten years ago. Assigned to the 7th Engineer Support Battalion, 1st Marine Logistics Group, 1st Marine Expeditionary Force, Dustin was stationed at Camp Pendleton, California.

Dustin's contest entry reads:

My review is not about winning the contest even though it would be such an honor to thank the person that helped me through the most difficult adjustment in my life through his music. I am a U.S. Marine and my job, in civilian terms would be best described as being on the bomb squad. I have done over 2 deployments, equaling around 18 months in Iraq. I have seen things most could never imagine; or want to. Anyway, this last time I came back around May I was having a hard time adjusting back to our society. The amount of depression and anger I locked inside of me was unbearable. Including the nightmares. On a Saturday mid morning I pulled myself out of bed and turned on the TV. As I flipped through some channels I caught the end of Boogie Woogie on HSN and listened to Esteban talk about this great deal. It was his Limited Signed Edition Midnight Steel Acoustic/Electric guitar with amp, stand, and instructional DVD's. Well I had always wanted to learn to play but I wanted to see how good of a deal it really was. So I got onto the internet and found the Esteban website I heard the two songs that had meaning and poised fire into me. The songs were Fernando and Malaguena. So I got on the phone and ordered the complete guitar package. I have been playing now for a month, and my guitar is never far away. Learning to play has kept my mind occupied but has given me a sense of peace and excitement each time I play. I can only imagine how I will feel when I can play better. The guitar I have, the Midnight Steel, is not only beautiful, but the sound is crisp and immaculate. The instructional DVD's are broken down to the lowest level to where anyone, even with no music background, can play. I strongly recommend everyone to get one of Esteban's guitars and instructional DVD's. Engulf yourself with the passion that is music. And to Esteban from the bottom of my heart. THANK YOU.

Dustin, here are the Esteban songs that inspired you, along with a few others, to carry you on your journey home.

I am one of those people who don't understand war. It makes no sense to me. The hardest thing is realizing that Dustin is one of over 3,100 Americans who have died in Iraq since this pointless war began on March 19, 2003. Every one of them had a story. Every one of them had loved ones whose lives were forever changed. Dying in combat seems the ultimate sacrifice, one that touches all of us. But I'm ashamed to admit I sometimes wrap myself in a veil of forgetfulness, like many others, just so I can function on a daily basis. Eventually reality hits me square in the face, like this morning, and I realize I can no longer hide behind my denial.

As we approach the four year anniversary of the start of the war, may we be mindful of how war ruptures our society, our families, our individual lives. There is no glory in war. May we all live peaceful lives and pray that somehow, sometime, our personal peace will translate to a global level. May this war end soon, so the dying stops. May we all embrace, as Victor Gollancz suggests, an attitude of "desperate urgency and an utter self-identification, of single human beings." Dustin Gould was a single human being, as are all casualties of war. The courageous freedom fighters in Iraq are heroes deserving our greatest respect and support.

A.J. Muste writes, "There is no way to peace. Peace is the way." As you contemplate terrorism, genocide, escalating crime in our cities, and conflict in Iraq and other parts of the world, consider the possibility that peace begins at home--in your family, in your community, but more importantly, in yourself. Find that inner peace. Live peace. Teach peace. Be peace. Who knows what might happen? You've nothing to lose. Expect the miracle of peace. As brothers and sisters in the human family, peace is our birthright.

Dustin leaves a wife of eight years, Elizabeth; his father, David; his mother, Karen; a sister, Bethany White; and his grandparents, Bob and Inez Gould. Dustin's half brother, Army Spc. Jason Corbett, 23, died January 15 of injuries sustained in a firefight in Karmah, Iraq.

Rest in peace, Dustin. Your mission is complete.

I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity.
-Dwight D. Eisenhower

A Lunar Eclipse

The lunar eclipse of August 27, 413 B.C., affected the outcome of a battle in the Peloponnesian War. The Athenians were ready to move their forces from Syracuse when the Moon was eclipsed. Frightened by this celestial omen, the soldiers and sailors were reluctant to leave. Their commander, Nicias, consulted the soothsayers and postponed the departure for twenty-seven days. This delay gave an advantage to their enemies, the Syracusans, who then defeated the entire Athenian fleet and army, and killed Nicias.

SATURDAY. I'm experimenting with a new streaming music service, and you, my faithful readers, are my guinea pigs. Today's audioblog offering is a potpourri of world music. If this genre isn't your cup of tea, you have my blessings to leave without listening. If you're up for an audio adventure to exotic places, welcome aboard!

I put this little broadcast together in honor of the lunar eclipse visible this evening on all seven continents, from all corners of the planet. I hope you enjoy this eclectic playlist of music from around the globe, hand-selected from my sizeable CD collection. I created this playlist so I could listen while I work. If you dare to join me, press the start button. If you don't like what's playing, drag the progress slider (that little turquoise bar on the left) all the way to the right to advance to the next tune. The volume control is at the far right.

A broadband connection is essential for listening. This broadcast is approximately one hour 45 minutes long.

OK, I get the message...

SUNDAY. People are getting nervous. I haven't posted anything for days. Emails are flooding in. "Are you OK?" some ask. "I'm worried," others say.

I'm parked in front of the TV this evening watching the Academy Awards -- something I rarely do. Don't worry because I haven't blogged lately. Worry because I'm watching the Oscars. Three hours into this show, my brain, I fear, is turning to pudding. A recovering TV addict, my appetite for mindless entertainment wanes daily, inversely proportional to my quest for inner peace. I know that sounds trite. The truth is, these days television is taking a back seat to personal work and a relentless search for meaning. Some days I don't have to look far.

The dogs are wrestling in my unlit bedroom. I hear them thumping about in the dark, batting marrow bones with their paws like hollowed-out hockey pucks. I think the doggie goalposts are somewhere in my closet. No longer a lap dog, our young pup is growing. She believes, however, she's still a lap dog. The sight of this exuberant bundle of glee depositing herself, ungracefully, on an empty lap is not for the faint of heart. We are increasingly reluctant to invite anyone to our home, until she fully understands she's a big dog, or more to the point, a baby dog in a big body. To make matters worse, she jumps on people and lunges on lead. Bad habits are hard to break. Lately, Cesar Millan is a frequent supporting actor in my dreams, which are eerily reminiscent of Cecil B. DeMille productions. I really must stop eating all that chocolate before bedtime. A hundred and one dalmations bouncing in my brain do not make for restful sleep.

On the plus side, Telly doesn't chew my shoes, beg at the table, or misbehave as puppies often do. She's completely housebroken. She's affectionate and plays nicely with others.

Dogs are great teachers. Murphy, my Canine Zen Master, continuously demonstrates patience and peace. He is my rock. Telly, an aspiring Master, always welcomes the day with tremendous joy, though her humans don't always grasp this concept before morning tea. Murphy and Telly live in the moment. They don't worry about their next meal, unpaid bills, deadlines, illness, war or climate change. My best days are those in which I fully embrace their enthusiasm and resonate with their simple joy, ignoring the mud they track on the carpets, tissues they pluck from wastebaskets and shred, furniture cushions askew, and puddles in the kitchen (they really are sloppy drinkers). Rather than endless reprimands to teach them to conform to our obsessive ways, I cover the furniture with sheets to protect each piece from dirt and mud. Carpets are vacuumed often, and once a day I pick up the scraps of paper and chewed toys off the floor, reminders of happy playtimes. I'm grateful they are both not only non-destructive of things that don't belong to them, but clever enough to know the difference. I love watching dogs be dogs and find comfort in realizing Telly will one day mellow and leave puppyhood behind. Only then can we have friends in for dinner.

N.B. We should have named the puppy "Adobe." Her coat is frequently caked with hard desert mud.

***

I've spent the past few weekends retiring one computer and preparing a new machine to be used for work. Data transfer is laborious and time consuming. Reconfiguring and reinstalling a lot of printers and peripherals, not to mention all that software, is taking way too much time. So for those who are wondering what's become of me these past several weeks, please know I'm waist-high in bits and bytes.

Maybe tomorrow will be the day I finish this data transfer. Maybe then I can take Murphy for a swim and dust off my camera again. I'll have time to begin serious training with Telly. She needs to learn that counter-surfing is not an endearing trait. Why have computers become so complicated? Files are much bigger now, and data invades hard drives like an octopus moving in on prey. Transferring everything from one computer to another used to take about 4 hours. Now it's taking ten times as long. I need to finish this project so I can get back to blogging, living, and enjoying my free time.

This is why people call Geek Squad. Perhaps I should have as well.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Building A Fire

TUESDAY. Yet another snowstorm crawling across the Southwest is headed toward New Mexico this evening. It's nothing like the monster Nor'easter (already dubbed the "Valentine's Day Blizzard") about to descend on friends and family in New York and New England. We'll see less than a half-foot of snow, but in my humble opinion, that's six inches too much. Recent history tells me schools will close and once again Albuquerque will be paralyzed until the sun has its way with the snow and reduces the white stuff to mere puddles.

The firewood is impressively stacked near the back door, a uniform corral of piñon and cedar. It's shielded from anticipated overnight snow by several tarps, braced for strong winds with two-by-fours rescued from the scrap heap in the back yard. I've been building more fires lately. Adjacent to the fireplace room, my office feels toasty in the dry, radiant heat. But building fires isn't about heat. It's about ambience. We don't normally sit in the fireplace room. There's nothing there but a fireplace and a tall tower of empty moving boxes in a distant corner. Bright flames are visible, however, from the far end of the long corridor that runs east to west in our adobe house. I glance at the flames each time I cross the corridor on my way to the kitchen.

There's something about building a fire that evokes an ancient, primal memory bursting with ritual and rich symbology. First, the wood is stacked--methodically, thoughtfully, meditatively. A carefully arranged cord of wood is a thing of beauty, the oddly shaped pieces wedged tightly like puzzle pieces. Next comes the fire building--the deliberate placement of tinder and kindling, applying flame to tinder, watching the magic happen as the flames grow, and then, at just the right moment, placing the first big log on the fire. For me, there's usually a prayer involved in this last step. Though my fire-building skills are reasonably adequate, I've built a few duds that fizzle, pop and die, leaving semi-charred logs in the fireplace. Divine intervention is occasionally mandated, and when the logs ignite, there's cause for celebration.

The aroma of smoke puffing from chimneys is different in this part of the world. Reminiscent of cinnamon, high-elevation piñon pine fires cast an intoxicating spell. When you see, hear and smell combustion in a New Mexican fireplace, you realize the experience is indisputably unique to the Southwest, and the distinctive scent enhances the romance of a well-crafted fire.

Gazing into a fire can be deeply spiritual. In addition to providing warmth and a means for cooking, fire is a metaphor for purification in many religious traditions, as well as a symbol for overcoming challenges and removing fear. Studying a roaring fire, watching flames flicker and dance hypnotically--seductively--is supremely soothing and cleansing. Even the dogs seem to enjoy a respectable blaze. Lately I've felt the need for healing at many levels. I'd like to think laying a fire at 6AM is going a long way toward pointing me down the road to recovery.

One wonders whether global peace might simply be a matter of gathering world leaders around a fire, where they could discuss their wars and conflicts in an atmosphere of peace, enjoying hot cocoa and Mozart.

I'm eager for winter to end, but I look forward to cold nights well into Spring. It will give me an excuse to build more fires. Let the healing begin...

Another Tune For Sammie

I'm too tired to write, so instead I offer you some calming music. This is a piece I listen to when I need to refresh and be peaceful. These days, with an insane young puppy, I'm tempted to record a loop of this and play it 24/7, even while I sleep.

A Little Night Music For Sammie

Bouncing Back

TUESDAY. Lately, a lot of people seem to be leaving the planet way before their time. The truth is, it's hard losing important people in our lives no matter what their age. That urge to pick up the phone and call them persists long after they've moved to that cosmic zip code in the sky. Somehow, though, we usually find the strength to carry on. In time the pain and shock lessens and we find the courage to delete their numbers from speed dial. I often keep numbers on my cell phone long after their usefulness disappears, as if deleting a number is symbolic of deleting all my memories of the departed. It isn't. If anything, it's a gesture that says I'm coping. I'm moving on. I will survive.

I was introduced to Elisabeth Kubler-Ross's five stages of grieving many years ago, when "fun" meant curling up with a thick, juicy psychology book. (I'm happy to report that self-help and psych books no longer amuse me.) Kubler-Ross's five stages of grief are denial ("this can't be happening"), anger ("why me?"), bargaining (attempting to make deals to change the loss), depression (hopelessness) and, finally, acceptance. What I need is a self-help book that tells me how to skip stages 1-4. The tomes on grieving tell us we MUST go through the first four stages before reaching acceptance, and that takes a lot of time. Personally, I dispute this notion because, like everything else in our human existence, it's based on our belief. Because today is the first day of the rest of my life, I intend to zip through stages 1-4 by lunchtime, and hit stage five before sunset.

Watching the dogs live in the moment is a real education. There's no past, no future. Everything is in the NOW (especially it if involves food). Yesterday I realized it's time to have Telly spayed, after finding Murphy (neutered since 6 months of age) humping her in the back yard. I'm told this behavior is mostly about domination, not procreation, but it's hard to accept this explanation knowing how submissive Murphy generally is. To my knowledge, he's never mounted another dog (or human leg). I distracted them both with cookies and that was the end of it. Despite our male dog's inability to reproduce, other dogs in the neighborhood are quite fertile. Telly is able to jump our fence easily. This scenario does not bode well for a puppy who has reached sexual maturity. The last thing I want, or need, is a kitchen full of puppies.

Telly continues to be fiercely protective, barking and growling at perceived threats, like the meter reader, UPS, ringing telephones, the mailman, and neighborhood kids. She loves all people, and wags her tail while she barks and growls in a schizophrenic display of manic energy. Nearly seven months old now, her energy is off the charts. I keep slipping her "Mellow Mutt" treats I purchased at Bow-Wow Blues, our neighborhood pet food store. It's made with chicken, lavender and hops. It puts Murphy to sleep, but Telly continues to raid the waste baskets, shred tennis balls, and do her Stirling Moss thing around the house in spite of the soporific treats.

I'm thinking of crumbling up a Mellow Mutt treat to mix with my scrambled eggs this morning. I need a vacation.

Remembering Penny

IN MEMORY OF PENNY KINTZER
12/23/47-1/24/07

I met Penny in 1972, when we were both 24 and life was little more than one big party. We never imagined our friendship would last 35 years, through ups and downs, across thousands of miles.

Though her legal name was Margaret, she always went by Penny (pictured here on the right, next to her sister Gail). Penny delighted in telling people she was named after a dog who lived in her Buffalo neighborhood, always followed by a hearty laugh. I remember many road trips in the 70s to visit her parents, Peg and Art, and her younger sisters, Gail and D.C. Sometimes those long, 500 mile weekend drives from Brooklyn to Buffalo were organized (quite literally) at the eleventh hour on a Friday night. Always the night owl, Penny sometimes left at midnight and drove till daybreak to surprise her family. In spite of occasional squabbles and differences of opinion, Penny's devotion to and affection for her immediate family were deep and enduring.

A graduate of Syracuse University majoring in Art, Penny was a talented illustrator and graphic designer. After a brief stint working in the World Trade Center at the New York State Department of Disability Determinations, Penny accepted a job at Ziff-Davis Publishing. After a few years at Ziff-Davis, Penny spent many years exploring different creative opportunities, many of them as a freelancer. Penny was never afraid to take on a new task, even if she wasn't quite sure how to approach it. I remember watching her work late at night applying press-type to a children's book layout, painstakingly measuring each line and positioning each letter, not realizing the easier and quicker method was photo typesetting. In later years, we enjoyed many laughs reminiscing about the Letraset fiasco.

I will remember Penny mostly for her sense of humor and comic view of the world. Over the years, our phone conversations and visits were punctuated with much laughter, and we both felt we were the only two people on the planet crazy enough to enjoy the things we found amusing. I loved her penchant for the weird and bizarre. Many people considered her eccentric, but she never seemed strange to me. I understood her fascination with food packaging and Cracker Jack toys. We shared a common appreciation for roadside kitsch, and the apartment we shared in the early 70s was full of tacky souvenirs that made us smile. Finding humor in any situation was a mutual priority.

I moved to New England in 1975, leaving Penny behind in New Jersey, but we never lost touch. There were frequent trips to NY and NJ, and an equal number of trips to Boston to see each other. This photo of Penny and Ruth, circa 1974, was taken in a Lower East Side watering hole which bore a large sign out front that said, "The Bar," where she often played pool and spent time with friends. Shortly after I left the Tri-State area, Penny became an apprentice sculptor at the Johnson Atelier in Princeton. A true Bohemian, she lived in a house deep in the woods away from downtown Princeton with other apprentices. They dubbed their house Isla de Basura ("Island of Garbage"). The New York to Philly Metroliner regularly roared through the back yard, day and night. I learned quickly that sleep was elusive when visiting Isla de Basura.

Unencumbered by possessions, Penny moved about freely over the next several decades. She lived in Florida for a short time and spent many years in Seattle. We kept in touch by phone and the occasional letter. In later years we emailed. Penny bailed me out of many "graphic arts emergencies" over the years, offering suggestions and help with projects I'd taken on that were obviously beyond my skill set. She encouraged me to accept challenges and nurture my creative self. Penny inspired me to learn layout, web design, and video editing. She was one of the first people who urged me to write.

The laughter and good times came to an abrupt halt in early 1991, when Penny's youngest sister, D.C., died in a car crash at 28. This tragedy would forever change Penny's life. Haunted for years, she struggled daily with addictions and loneliness, and somehow found the strength to move forward in spite of profound sadness and self-doubt. As always, Penny's salvation took the form a robust sense of humor that carried her through even the darkest of days.

Las Vegas was her home for the last several years. Life was sometimes difficult, and this past year Penny faced major health issues. Through good times and not-so-good times, we continued to connect by phone and email, and she always had something funny to say, no matter how badly things seemed to be going. We shared our joys, accomplishments, and concerns. She always had something positive to report and made me smile.

Penny's bold laughter will forever be with me. I can't pass a souvenir shop without thinking of her. She was a fiercely loyal friend; her commitment to our friendship never wavered. We shared our deepest secrets and accepted each other without question, even though we didn't always agree or approve of each other's choices. Penny's support and caring were unconditional, no matter what.

I will forever remember Penny as a courageous spirit with indomitable resolve to face personal challenges with tremendous strength and determination. She faced even the most daunting of circumstances with conviction and stamina. Penny persevered when others would have folded. She never gave up, and when I was tempted to quit, she helped me stay the course. It's hard to imagine she's gone.

Penny died suddenly last week. She had just taken a medical leave from her job and was about to travel to Arizona to stay with her dear friend Dorothy--a move she was sure would restore her health and give her a fresh start. The cause of her passing remains a mystery, though the Coroner's report alludes to heart failure. Penny leaves a sister, Gail, a niece, Sasha, and her longtime companion Dorothy. The song you've been listening to, Blackbird, is from a Kenny Rankin album she loved and played constantly in the early 70s. It's a song about freedom. Always a free spirit, Penny is finally free from her earthly chains. Farewell, old friend, you're free at last. You're home now, with D.C., Art and Peg. Thank you for decades of joy, laughter, and love. I honor your courage and strength, and will miss you deeply.

No tribute to Penny would be
complete without this song.

The Gentle Giant & Half Pint

With each passing day, Murphy and Telly become closer and closer. They are very well-suited to each other, their temperaments meshing like peas and carrots. Tiring easily from keeping up with puppy energy, Murphy makes daily valiant efforts to respond to Telly's continual invitations to play. They frolic endlessly in the back yard. We took them both to the dog park this weekend, twice, and Telly loves it. Murphy looks after his little sis and Telly greets everyone--both human and canine--with great enthusiasm and unbridled glee.

At night they crash hard and sleep soundly--Murphy at my side, Telly in her comfy kennel several feet from my bed. After two somewhat trying weeks, she is becoming well-settled in her new pack. All is well in our recently-expanded family.

Both pups fit nicely on Murphy's Freecycled loveseat!

Weirdness Is In the Eye of the Beholder

SUNDAY. After reading over several "six weird things about me" posts that recent taggees have penned, I'm beginning to think I'm not nearly as weird as I'd thought. This is both a relief and a disappointment. That said, in my quest to prove my uniqueness to the world, I'm tempted to reveal more weird things about myself.

Like the time I decided it was a bad idea to fly to Jamaica to surprise a friend, and asked the stewardess (that's what flight attendants were called back in 1971) if she would please open the door and let me off a 727 moments before our 3PM takeoff. "What? You don't want to go to Mon-te-go Bay?" she asked with a tuneful West Indian lilt, her penetrating dark eyes wide with alarm. As it turned out, my boldness was eclipsed only by my naivete. Several minutes later, I was greeted at the jetway by armed Kennedy Airport security guards and federal agents who escorted me to a harshly-lit office and grilled me for hours in an attempt to determine exactly where I'd planted the bomb. A seasoned twenty-one-year-old traveler, I had packed only a small canvas carry-on bag with a change of underwear, a hot-pink bikini, a toothbrush, and a few miscellaneous toiletries. My interrogators found this more than a little suspicious and ordered a complete search of the aircraft and baggage hold, delaying the flight by two hours. Rumor has it, over 35 years later, that passengers on Air Jamaica Flight 823 are still looking for me. Fortunately, there was no arrest and by evening I was regaling friends with my escapades over Singapore Slings in our favorite Brooklyn Heights pub.

Or the time I lived in an apartment behind a New Jersey self-service laundromat. In lieu of curling up in front of a cozy fireplace, I watched, through large holes punched in the drywall, gas-fueled flames dancing in a bank of Maytag dryers on the other side of my bedroom closet wall. It was a strange, noisy apartment. Once, after a plumbing upgrade performed by our illustrious landlord (whose claim to fame was the role of Vernon in the 1958 film version of Damn Yankees), we discovered Mr. Linville had erroneously connected the hot water supply to the commode. I delighted in every steamy flush, assuming I'd never have to scrub the bowl again. Perhaps he should have stuck with acting. I always thought it odd that after a career in film and TV, the final chapter of Al Linville's life involved running a dingy coin-op laundromat in the bowels of New Brunswick, NJ. Odder yet was actually living in his dilapidated railroad-style hovel.

And then there was the time I donned trench coat and Groucho Marx glasses, made my way up Newbury Street in Boston's Back Bay--my gait wobbly, duck-footed and Chaplinesque--and silently handed fresh flowers to pedestrians for no apparent reason. The two friends walking with me were so embarrassed by my pantomime, they crossed the street and pretended to not know me.

I can't forget the time I flew to D.C., against my parents' wishes, to protest the Vietnam War in front of the Washington Monument. I was over 21, so I went anyway and told them otherwise. Unfortunately I found myself in a huge crowd unable to move, positioned directly in front of network TV cameras. So much for hiding in a crowd. OK, this one wasn't exactly weird. It was just really, really unlucky. Kids, don't lie to your parents. It will catch up with you, bite you in the posterior, and land you on national TV, where your parents, your entire extended family, and everyone they know will see you.

I don't know if these things make me weird, foolish, adventurous, or crazy. Looking back, though, I wouldn't trade one moment of my strange misadventures. My memory banks are rich with amusing anecdotes. They will serve me well when I'm 90, assuming, of course, I can remember them. There's good reason to record (and preserve) these tales in writing.

The dogs are have been insanely tearing through the house this morning since 7AM. They wrestled on a towel smeared with peanut butter from stuffed Kongs they enjoyed after breakfast. Not surprisingly, both dogs bear an unusual leguminous perfume. A palpable aura of Skippy permeates our living area. I consider this far more preferable to other possible household odors. However, gardenias would definitely be more appealing on this sunny high-desert morn.

I'm It

No, I'm not the "It Girl." I've been tagged by Wendy. I didn't even know I was playing a game. Evidently, I am, and now I'm it. As I understand it, my penance for being tagged is revealing six weird things about myself. Only six? Good heavens, "Weird" is my middle name. In the spirit of blogdom, I submit six strange things about myself, in no particular order, for your thoughtful consideration.

Six Weird Things About Me

1. I'm a nomad. I've lived in 32 different places, including one dormitory and two Brooklyn, NY transient hotels. That means I've moved 31 times. Oddly, it never gets easier. I lived in one apartment at two different times. Who moves out of a place and then moves back to the same unit 15 years later? (And after 15 years, the apartment was definitely worse for wear.) No, I've never lived in my car, a tent, or a tool shed (though the latter intrigues me). The time I've spent packing, unpacking, and setting up new utility services, not to mention the hours looking for new places to buy organic carrots and cheap gas, must account for at least five years of my life. In a perfect world, I would move only once more: to a funeral home. Amen.

2. I can wiggle one ear at a time. Other than providing an amusing diversion at holiday parties, this talent is really quite useless.

3. At fifteen I was told by a cute boy that my clodhopper feet looked like ferryboats. Since then I've been shopping exclusively at "Big Shoes 'R Us."

4. I talk to plants, trees and rocks. Like many other neo-Pagan Christian Buddhist Unitarian New Age Hindus, I've been known to celebrate the Vernal Equinox alone in the woods, dancing and singing praises to the Earth and Heavens. Generally, I keep my clothes on. It can be chilly in March, and sometimes it rains.

5. I often know when the phone will ring, and who will be calling. This is a tremendous asset for screening telemarketers. I often know what's in the mailbox, too. Unfortunately, this ability fails me when I'm puzzling over how I'll pay the rent.

6. I'm an alien. A sister from another planet. There's no other explanation for my apparent strangeness and inability to conform. My real home is in the Pleiades. I'm waiting for Verizon's Extended Network to include Erra, my home planet. If only they could find that wormhole...E.T. phone home!

Now the hard part. I need to tag six people. For starters, I'm tagging Al, Judy, and Mishy. Hey Russ, do you have a blog yet? I need to tag you. Start writing.

More Reasons To Be Cheerful: Part XXIII

FRIDAY. I was reluctant to write another blog entry because I've become hopelessly enamored with the Yeshiva Boys. Watching their little music video is a daily ritual now, and I just didn't want to see it buried in my Archives. However, it's time to move on and write something.

To my chagrin, the new puppy wakes up at six o'clock in the morning. I thought she was stirring to the sounds of another early riser in this household: a clock radio, water rushing to showerhead, coffee brewing in the kitchen. Evidently this is not the case. Telly simply likes to awaken at six with a weak, but perceptible, whimper that says, "Please let me out of this cage. I need to be near you, jump all over you, and generally create havoc." And she does.

Telly's first order of business is bursting out of her crate like a boomerang on speed, pouncing on Murphy (who pretends to be sleeping), biting his ear, and making a complete circuit of the house like Stirling Moss. It's hard enough getting up when it's pitch black outside. It feels like the middle of the night. The real challenge is speedily commandeering the puppy to the back door before she has an accident. (So far, so good.) At 58, racing is not something I do well at any hour, but especially early in the morning. The biggest insult is pulling on, with great dispatch, my thermals and heavy layers to repel the icy nighttime chill. Tying my shoes is pretty much out of the question, so I've taken to wearing my slippers outside for Telly's early morning peregrinations. At least they're warm. I never have time to get my coat from the coatrack at the other end of the house, so I wrap myself in a cozy fleece blanket. Murphy always joins us in the dark cold, but soon returns to his sleepy retreat on my bed. Telly, on the other hand, is off and running. Next stop: The Breakfast Bar.

Our 20 degree morning will soon warm to nearly 50. The sun has been especially warm lately, though shaded ground still bears patches of ice and snow from recent storms. Murphy has taken to sleeping outdoors in the sun during the day, in part to escape the Telly Monster's incessant attempts to engage him in puppy play. Nearly six, Murphy has a limited appetite for puppy wrestling, but will chase tennis balls for hours. When Telly arrived, puppy play was a novelty and he couldn't get enough. Now he seems to prefer sleeping.

It's below zero in Carroll County, NH this morning. Wind chills are expected to plunge to minus twenty-five, and the warmest part of the day will be but a single digit. This brief reminder--Albuquerque's winter pales in comparison to New Hampshire's Arctic cold--is as warming to my bones this morning as a bowl of hot chowder. These days I avoid comparisons to Florida, where the winter has been as warm and dry as the southwest has been cold and snowy. I guess I picked the wrong year to leave Florida.

Telly is gnawing on a "bully stick" this morning. For those of you who don't know what a bully stick is, trust me, you don't want to know. (If you must know, read this. But remember, you were warned...) My primary client has gone away for a few days, so my workload is light. It might be a good day to catch up on work that's been sitting on my desk for weeks (and in some cases, months). The dogs are quietly digesting their breakfast, but this temporary calm will soon give way to frenzy. I'd better have my second cup of Earl Grey now, before chaos sets in. Puppies are cute, but I'll be relieved when this one matures, mellows, and slows down a tad. So will Murphy.

I rather enjoy watching the sunrise, but at 8:30 in the evening I'm ready for bed. A confirmed night owl retiring mid-evening? Good grief.

The Yeshiva Boys

Hope you all enjoy this wonderful music video I found on the Internet, by the Yeshiva of Cleveland's Yeshiva Boys Choir.

Winter Storm Warning

FRIDAY. To paraphrase Paul Revere, The snowflakes are coming! The snowflakes are coming! And the crowd (or in this case, Albuquerquians) roared with delight. Obviously we are not among them. The dogs do love it, though, and that gives me joy.

Telly (no, we still haven't given her a new name) continues to keep Murphy on his toes. Mostly he's happy to play with the puppy, but on occasion he'll offer a loud bark or growl which says, "Not now, kid." He's teaching me all about setting boundaries. Surprisingly, she takes his cues all in stride and shifts gears easily. She seems to settle fairly easily and understands correction.

One major difference between Murphy and Telly is their line of vision. Murphy never looks up. When I toss him a ball or Frisbee, he loses sight of it unless it's close to the ground. Telly, on the other hand, is constantly looking up. At night she stares at the stars and watches lights in the sky. She's fascinated with birds perched in trees and geese flying overhead. Murphy keeps his nose to the ground. I've tried to teach Murphy to look up, to no avail. He prefers to look straight ahead.

Snow will be here in a few hours, six to eight inches they say. One of our overly-animated TV weather anchors informed us last night to expect a "powerful" storm that will bring "a lot of snow" to New Mexico, all the while jumping up and down, waving his arms. I half expected him to wail like a banshee. Let the record show that six to eight is not a lot of snow. Fifty inches is a lot of snow (Norwood, MA, Blizzard of '78). Forty-eight inches is a lot of snow (Tamworth, NH, two back-to-back storms, April 2002). But not six to eight.

That said, I'm off to the supermarket to pick up a few supplies, just in case the predictions are off and we measure our new snow in feet, not inches.