There is a god and it is a vengeful god

I don't know how, but I seem to have picked up another virus. Except for maybe three or four days, I have been with lurgy since December 17th! Luckily, this one seems to be of the 24 hour variety. This is good, too, because we're supposed to go to Disneyland this Friday.

Wed

I was giving advice to a Scottish man I know about how he and his fiancée could get married here in Bishop. They are coming out from Scotland for a climbing trip and thought it would be lovely to be married someplace as special as the Sierras. It made me sad to think that gay friends who actually live here are not afforded the same access to the simple forms needed to get married.

A thought for my Gung Gung

My mother's father passed away this week in Hong Kong, not far from the Donguan, China, where he was born some 86 years ago. He died in the city where he settled as a young adult. Circumstances found him in Southern California for 35 some odd years, but circumstances also found him back where he probably belonged.

At 40, he became the single father of nine girls, having lost the really capable, independent, and fierce wife he loved so much.

He was a husband and father who was ahead of his time. My mother, the oldest, remembered the letters of love and encouragement he carried in his pocket and gave to my grandmother each time a new baby - always a girl- was born. She also remembers that they were the only couple of their generation to hold hands.

My grandfather found himself in his 40s suffering a catastrophic stroke. Prior to the stroke, he had been very outgoing. After the stroke, he led a rather introspective life. He wrote long letters to friends with his left hand (a skill he forced himself to master. The Chinese, like many others, believe the left hand has sinister connotations, so folks from his generation were right handed). When he first moved to the States, he wept openly when he heard Chinese folks songs. He and my grandmother had been traveling performers during World War II. They went from village to village performing and doing things to subvert the Japanese presence in Guandong. As the years went on, he listened to the songs less and less, but I don't think a day went by that he didn't think of her.

In old age, he was very fond of basketball and mah jong. He was so good at mah jong, he could "read" a tile by running his thumb over the relief.

He is going to be buried with my grandmother's remains.

Dr. Perry released me from his care today

and, as soon as the lungs have healed, I'm going for a ride on my bike. I've missed watching the birds, and I've missed the sun.

Planning some Bishop Potluck Society Presents houseconcerts. Steven Schayer and Patria Jacobs, with dear friends in supporting roles, will do a variety hour for us come Easter. Bibi Gellert will fly out from Atlanta for it. Awesome!

Speaking of Bibi, it may have transpired that our hand clap debut survived my being in it. That, or the fellas in the Phoenix Foundation felt sorry for the chick w/ no rhythm (me) and overdubbed the hand claps until they sounded okay. At any rate, we appear on Track 3 "Forget It" on the release, Merry Kriskmass. The release is a big psychedelic wig out that has really grown on me. When I first heard it, I was reminded of the 8 track tapes that warped in the Southern California sun and that used to scare the shit out of me when I was a wee kid. Nah, it's heaps more melodic than that.

In other neat musical news, lovely Steve Carosello in St. Louis introduced KDHX DJ John Wendland to Humphreys and Keen's The Overflow and John has been playing tracks off it on his fine, fine show "From Memphis to Manchester." It's probably the first airplay H&K have gotten in the States. From little things big things grow, indeed.

Speaking of growing, we killed my four potted up Pimiento de Padron plants in the hard freeze we had, but I have germination from new seed! And so, a new year *does* begin.

The longest two weeks ever

Mid-December started with a virus, which struck me down like a fool and gave me a cold, two weeping pink eyes, and sinusitis. You know you have sinusitis when you beg for a wood chopping maul to come along to split your head open like a pumpkin - anything to relieve the pressure building behind your eyes, ears, nose....

I am still part of the walking wounded. As a party trick, my body decided to fake a pulmonary embolism on what was supposed to be my first day back at work. After a few hours of intermittent, painful, heart clutching stabs, I followed my dear friend Diane's advice and went to the ER. After an ECG and CT scans (the iodine contrast makes you feel for a few seconds that you might be dying. The heat from the iodine spreads over your body like a wildfire and your lungs feel very heavy. Glad that they warn you over and over that this will happen), it turns out I have pleurisy, which is just inflammation of the lung lining. It's another viral thing, probably residual from December. I'll take it. I feel silly having had all this state of the art testing done on me, but I guess in the end, it beats thinking that I will leave Babbo motherless.

Eh, enough whining about viruses.

How about that new year? We had some wonderful, wonderful visits from Jean-Michel and Lucie, Mayumi and Erika, and Motorcycle Michelle. The visit with Matty's mom went well and so, for all that, I have no complaints.

I am one exhausted mo-fry, though.

Bomber run to "Los Angelesh"* a success

• Diabetes: Babbo's A1C fell .10 to 7.1. This is fantastic news and still vindicates the steep learning curve that came with switching to the insulin pump.
• Gastro: Babbo still has GERD (acid reflux), but because he's thriving and growing, he can remain on Prevacid until the sphincters in his esophagus mature and start working.
• Ate pho noodles, 1/2 a slice of Costco pepperoni pizza, dim sum, and chicken curry ramen. We might have died and gone to heaven.
• My mom still has a good sense of humor and is in pretty good health. Same can be said about Auntie Tammy. I am grateful.
  
• Had beignets and my first real coffee since coming home from the hospital. We dragged my mom to Lamill. I love that the place is pretentious, but that the staff are nice. Clover coffee might be a bit too extracted for me. We had a Kenya peaberry and some Guatamalan.
  
• Saw Nik Brinkman, from Over the Atlantic, for a rushed espresso. He is recording a record in LA and staying close to Childrens (why don't they use an apostrophe?) Hospital. Matty, Babbo, and I dragged him to Intelligentsia, where he said he had his first Wellington style espresso drink since coming to LA nearly a month ago. It was fun to catch up on what he's doing and some extra New Zealand music news.
  
• Between Costco and Childrens, walked/zimmered/crutched the length of several football fields and way hey, survived! Prior to this, I think I managed three trips to our mailbox.
• Matty was a star and drove the whole trip. This is not an easy feat considering what a back seat driver I am. Oh, and I have a low tolerance for short breaking distances and am always bracing with my feet and hands. Give that girl a valium (not that I've ever had one).
  

*Babbo is playing with language and accents now. He calls LA "Los Angelesh" and sings his ABCs much like a singer with a vowel impediment would scat.

Chinese Ghetto Thanksgiving Stuffing

for my mystery Asian g'friend from years past:

cube and slightly dampen two loaves of cheap supermarket bread

Sautee together, sliced into 1/4" - 1/2" pieces:
chinese mushrooms
heart, gizzards, liver, etc. from the turkey
pack of bacon
sliced onion
whole celery
minced garlic (lots of it)
(you may add things like water chestnuts, chestnuts, etc.)

When all the items are wilted through, add (without draining the fat from the bacon, if you can stand it) the soggy bread and lots of oyster sauce to taste

press mixture into baking pans, place in oven the last 30 minutes of the turkey roast (350F oven)

I didn't use glass noodles, but maybe my dad did one year. It could be a nice addition, especially those fat Korean ones made out of sweet potatoes.

The trouble with referendums

Friends have dropped by. Friday night found us eating around the kitchen table with Marsha, Reed, Devon, Annie, Joe Lane, Stephen, Erik, Dave McGee and Janet. The conversations were everywhere and for the most part, gave us a good laugh - something we all needed.

I did feel sad when we talked about the referendum in Maine that revoked the right for same-sex couples to marry. I was sadder when Stephen said, "I'm just tired of feeling bad all the time."

Civil rights cannot be legislated by referendum. The masses can't be trusted. Less than 40 years ago, my marriage would have been illegal in certain states and Babbo would have been a bastard. There was a Southern judge who recently refused to marry an African American man to a white woman on the grounds that "those" kind of marriages don't work and the children resulting from them are fucked up. Surprise Judge, statistically, that's usually the case no matter the color!

Really, this growing crusade against access to basic civil rights (recap: there is theoretically a separation of church and state, marriage licenses are issued by a representative of the state, all citizens should have equal access to a license) is turning me into an uppity old Chinese woman.

Join us, it's bliss

Finished my Oxycontin. Felt sharper pain the subsequent day, but it's all good now. Percocet got swapped out for Norco (a stronger version of Vicodin) because I was throwing up or feeling queasy most of the time. Swiss Kris (a laxative you can find at any health food store) works like a champ - not that anyone really wants to know, but one never knows....)

Have only stepped outside the house twice in 17 days - once for a checkup/stitches removal. I am a fast healer the docs say. I have heretofore been blessed with that ability.

Plowed through William Boyd's The New Confessions, and I still believe that Any Human Heart is his best. Have started on the Mishima tetrology. So far, Spring Snow (which I have read before) is sprawling, and I find myself craving the succinct writing from his short stories in Death in Midsummer.

Reading, surfing the internet, folding laundry, bathing, and hanging out with Babbo or the odd friend - recovery is like being on holiday, really.

Will probably transition from the walker or crutches to cane just in time for Christmas.

Now with new and improved stitching!

Got home Sunday from a Friday surgery.
I didn't think I was ready for being released from the hospital, but Blue Cross only approved one night's stay. I think I stayed five nights last time. In the end, it all worked out fine. I continue to get stronger by the hour. Matty and Babbo are waiting on me hand and foot. Babbo wants to spend a night in my single hospital bed with me. I don't think so. I do let him pile in after school and watch cartoons before dinner or before bedtime.

I got taut little black nylon stitches this time. I am a bit allergic to the monocryl they sometimes use. They are handsome stitches, and Dr. Perry seems quite pleased with how everything turned out. I got an epidural (first time ever) and there are three wee bites in my lower back to show for it.

In addition to the doctors and their schedulers, I am indebted to the kindness and competence of nurses - as always.

I was shocked, again, at how useless my leg became. In in the first day post-op, it took a lot of focus, sweat, and help to move it even a few inches. Yes, they sawed the bone in half, but the muscles should have theoretically still worked.

Waves of mild nausea and sleepiness come over me several times a day. It's the painkillers, the four hours of anesthesia I was under, and the vitamin supplements. I will forgo the iron supplements - they make me really sick- and just eat like a piggie instead.

Surgery got moved up a week

Have been running around like a headless chicken. Surgery got moved up a week, but Doctors Mast and Perry will be there. I am really still incredibly touched that Dr. Mast will drive down from Reno for this. I am touched, too, that I work in an incredibly flexible workplace. I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

It was not a pleasure to wander around the streets of LA in the rain last week. I tried going to a Target in a large mall, but the sensory overload was too much, and I retreated to the peace of my car. My eyes also glazed over at a midsized Whole Foods, too. I'm such a hick.

I did run around Sunset Blvd. very late at night for two nights in a row to see two shows at the Echo. It'd been decades since I did something like that by myself. The adrenaline surge was huge. When I was getting gas at 11:30 at night off some unknown freeway offramp, all I could think was, "What the hell am I doing here?"

In the end, it was a huge pleasure to see Matt Salas' band, the Rhone Occupation. They are a young band, and they've been gigging hard. They have purdy songs and sound like a cross between Radiohead/Elliot Smith/the Phoenix Foundation. Their free set didn't start until after midnight, but they played as if their lives depended on it to a room of about 25 of us. I know Matt from going to the Phoenix Foundation shows in LA in 2006. He was with Sony digital music at the time and tried really hard to help the band out in any way he could.

It was even a bigger pleasure to see Steven Schayer, the Jazz Butcher, Downy Mildew, and the Black Watch the next night. It was a lovely treat to hang out with Marc Horton, Owen Harris (who was on a stopover in LA on his way back to NZ), John Andrew Frederick (the English prof and fellow William Boyd fan behind the Black Watch), and Steven Schayer in a Latino bar in the late afternoon before the show. Steven, Owen, and I met through the Able Tasmans/Humphreys and Keen/Puddle gig that Owen put on in Auckland in February. Marc and I met years ago through the Mutton Birds' listserve. I'd seen Steven's band, the Clay Idols, once when I was a teen. I wasn't prepared for how sad and lovely Steven's songs were and how well he could sing. There is something outgoing and endearing about Steven which reminds me of certain Lew cousins very very much.

Marc and I killed a few moments waiting for the Echo's doors to open by having some of the Glenmorangie Quinta Ruban I brought down. We sat in the heavy rain on Sunset Blvd. and toasted our lovely spouses and small children. Our spouses may not also be huge geeks, but they allow us to be. Bless.

So a group of us have become friends or have become better friends through geeking out over our love of New Zealand music. The friendships have gone from the days of going to the post office and sending blank cds so that somebody could make a compilation to the age of Facebook and Yousendit, where we can cut to the chase and crank the mixtapes out.

Motorcycle Michelle put me up in her fabby apartment in Glendale. I talked her ear off the first night, when I was hmming and huhhhhing about getting ready to leave at 11 pm for a midnight show. I did my best imitation of a a lump on her couch for the next two mornings in a row.

It would appear that boots and tights and skinny jeans are in with the in girls of the Republic of Silver Lake. The porkpie hats on the boys must go, though.

I am glad I got the chance to get out of Bishop for a few nights, glad that I missed Matt and Babbo and Bishop, glad I got to eat ramen twice, and glad I got to do something different before facing being laid up for a long while.

Undertheradar.co.nz : The Bats Virtual Show

The lovely Ian Henderson - whom I've known through things New Zealand music related - is putting on this show. He's fronted his own cash, and I wish him well!

Undertheradar.co.nz : The Bats Virtual Show

Mad neurotic scratchings

• I was not very zen this morning when I tore the house apart looking for my old Moleskine notebook. Yes, I guess I would have been very sad if I'd lost my mad neurotic scratchings from the past few years, but I would have lived. I found it in the very last place I would have looked- well, well, well under the couch. I have started a new notebook. It is sexy and red and unmarked. Clean slates and all that.

• I have temporarily damaged my fingertips from moving around frozen pyrex bowls.

• Going down to Los Angeles to see AT, Karen, part of the New Zealand music mafia.
  

Date with my orthopedic surgeons

Doctors Perry and Mast will do me the favor of giving me another femoral osteotomy - this time on my right hip. It's hurting like hell in this low pressure system we're having, and I'm ready.

The left hip still has some arthritis, but that was always going to be a given.

I don't remember letting Ian Frazier into my home

> The New Yorker
>
> Shouts & Murmurs
> Easy Cocktails from the Cursing Mommy
> by Ian Frazier September 14, 2009


> Those high-priced bartenders in their red vests and white shirts who your caterers recommended to serve at your last party may know a thing or two, but for entertaining on a smaller scale—for parties of seven people, four, or even just one—a few simple steps to the perfect cocktail are all you’ll ever need. Take, for example, this drink I’m drinking right now. Where the hell did I put it? I just set it down five minutes ago. I had it when I was watching the news, I know that. Now what in hell could I have done with it? O.K.—I found it, thank heavens. I must have set it here on the stairs when I went to throw away the mail. Anyway, as I was saying, making this particular drink, which happens to be a vodka gimlet, is simplicity itself, once you know how.
>
> Plus, it’s so delicious! The tangy tartness of the lime juice combined with the antiseptic astringency of the icy-cold vodka—wonderful. Now, normally in this column the Cursing Mommy does not endorse any company, product, or institution, but just this once I’m going to make an exception, because, what the hell—I use Rose’s Lime Juice. It’s perfect for gimlets, so I always keep a few extra bottles in reserve in case I run out, as in fact I did just a few minutes ago when I mixed the drink I’m finishing now. The backup bottles, which are down here on the bottom shelf of the liquor cabinet—don’t tell me they’re not here. Please don’t fucking tell me the Rose’s Lime Juice is not fucking here.
>
> If Larry took my last spare bottle to use in his fucking Sno-Kone machine, by Christ, I swear I’ll—oh, thank God. Here it is, back behind the Kahlúa and the walnut liqueur. Whew. That was a close one.
>
> Anyway, you take your Rose’s Lime Juice, you take your favorite gimlet glass (which, for me, is the one I was just using), and—fuck. I have lost my drink again. Somebody please tell me I have not lost my stupid goddam fucking drink again! O.K., it has to be close by, because I had it right before I was hunting around on all fours in front of the liquor cabinet. Wait a minute—can this be it? Here on the counter behind the flour cannister? I don’t think this is it. I’ll just take a sip and—Phewww!! Gahhh! Disgusting! This must be the drink I couldn’t find night before last. Fucking ants in it. Drowned ants. Good Christ, what was I thinking?
>
> O.K., we have established that that was definitely not the glass I was looking for. In situations like this, the Cursing Mommy recommends that you take three deep breaths, concentrate inwardly on some attractive and relaxing vacation scene, and scream “Fuck!” at the top of your lungs. There—I feel better. Don’t you?
>
> Usually at about this time of the evening I must begin making dinner. Larry and the kids will be home soon. Fortunately, however, tonight is Make Your Own Goddam Dinner Night, a recently instituted family ritual I shared with you in last week’s column. So basically I don’t have to worry about that. Instead, what I’m going to do is just close my eyes, wait until I regain a sense of calm, and when I open them again my missing gimlet glass is going to be right in front of me.
>
> Oh, fucking hell. Could I possibly have left it down in the basement? Of course not—that’s ridiculous. I haven’t even been down in the basement, not since I vowed I wouldn’t touch another piece of laundry today even if it meant the clothes already in the washer mildewed and rotted away. Regular followers of this column know that at about this point every week the Cursing Mommy flips out due to one problem or another and begins cursing a lot, throwing things, and giving people the finger. Somehow, however, I don’t think it’s quite appropriate to go to those extremes over a problem as minor as a misplaced cocktail glass. Instead, I will begin a systematic search, accompanying myself meanwhile with a sort of general, all-around cursing out of various deserving individuals and things.
>
> For starters, God damn to hell my father’s fucking girlfriend, who expects me to do all the food and the cleanup at his seventy-fifth birthday party, and then she’ll take all the credit for herself, such a fucking jerk. Fuck the township, also, for changing fucking Bulky Waste Day from Monday to Friday and now I have to haul all that shit that I carried down this morning back up from the curb or they’re going to give us a ticket, the fucking bureaucratic red-tape, petty, time-server assholes. And, just in passing, fuck the fucking Bush Administration—I know they’re not in power anymore, but fuck them anyway, because they’re such a bunch of fucks. And on the subject of stupid fucks, fuck the—
>
> FUUUUUUUCK! OW! JESUS CHRIST! FUCKING SHIT! I STUBBED MY FUCKING TOE! OW OW OW! JESUS! FUCKING LARRY LEFT THAT FUCKING BOX OF ADAPTERS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING DINING-ROOM FLOOR, THE FUCKING IDIOT! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT STUPID FUCKING BOX DOING THERE! I TOLD HIM TO PUT THOSE FUCKING ADAPTERS AWAY! FUCK! OW! FUCK!
>
> (Pause.)
>
> People say that when you misplace an object in your home, instead of tearing the place apart looking for it, you should just be patient, and the object you are looking for will eventually turn up. And now we see the accuracy of this saying, because as I sit here on the dining-room floor cursing and massaging my goddam stubbed toe, I notice that over there on the floor, just behind the door to the kitchen, is the stupid fucking cocktail glass I was looking for. And, thanks be to merciful God, there is still a fair amount of drink remaining in it, so I’ll down it now. What a fucking terrible day this has been.
>
> Next week the Cursing Mommy will show you how to put up the decorations for a child’s birthday party all by yourself with no help from your fucking husband. Watch for her column, entitled, “God Damn This Tape Dispenser to Hell: Party Decorating Tips from the Cursing Mommy.” ♦

New truths

I have always opposed the death penalty, but I found out over the last few weeks that I do will certain people to fall off the face of the earth.

A fella, who had been peripheral to our lives, tried to kill somebody I love and threatened to kill a group of us in general. With that, he became worth less than dirt to me. Actually, I really value dirt, so how about "he became a worthless piece of shit to me?"

The night this all came to a head, even before he tried or threatened to kill, I wished he would just choke and die on his own Maker's Mark laced vomit. He didn't vomit, and he didn't die. I can't look at Maker's Mark anymore- it's gross anyway.

I guess my own callousness has been a bit of a shock, but I'll live.

Scene from a Bishop Potluck

Labretta Suede and the Motel Six in our living room

Yay life and meeting these lovely folks serendipitously! As you can see, WHAT A FUN SHOW!
Exhausted. Babbo fighting impetigo.
Had a Childrens Hospital visit recently. Babbo's A1Cs got down to 7.2 for the last quarter, which vindicated the rather shitty sleeplessness that had been from March through much of June/July.
Still, rather happy about being young enough to boogie.

Whoa, that is summer flying right by

We survived Meatfest '09.
We have been married 10 years. Matt spent the day with Joel, who'd never climbed Mt. Emerson before. I spent the day hunting and gathering at the shops and getting meat ready for Meatfest. Anniversary dinner to happen later in the week.
We had wonderful visit with Karen O's family from Decatur. We talked rock and roll. Our kids played until they nearly vomited from having to part. We drank cocktails. Matty and I played guard one night and slept outside of a canvas tent full of children while the coyotes howled in the nearby fields.
We had a very wonderful visit with Dave and Naomi and Owen. Dave and Naomi are such wonderful parents and Owen, who is now one, is nothing but love and kindness. I am so very happy for them. Naomi walked to the top of Mt. Whitney in a day. Kudos to her and her kind friends Phoebe and Gloria.
The Verniers stopped by for a few days, with Lucie's aunt, uncle, and cousin from Czech Republic in tow. I had forgotten about Lucie's wonderful laugh. They all taught me "Na Zdravie!" the Czech way to cheers.
We are having a very fine and easy visit with Motorcycle Michelle and Jascha, who spend most days conquering peaks.

I refused to run around like a headless chicken at the party, and it was good. I actually caught up with a few friends before I crashed and burned when I put Babbo down to bed. I only had two drinks for the six or so hours, but I was tired. I left the party early, put my greasy face and party clothes self on the bed and just went to sleep. Janet was kind to stay up to play cleaning elf into the wee hours.

But I am exhausted. Wyatt is home from preschol this coming week for teacher break.

House concert @our house and the sights of Bishop, CA

Bishop, CA, welcomes Disasteradio and A Low Hum! Bless Simon Ward for capturing the fun and making us look like nonscary freaks.

Oooh, could have used a massive spring tidying of the yard! Yes, the Schoberlews, putting the trash in "white trash" since 2000!