Invite Juan Valdez to join you

Today is Friday, and I am enjoying the freedom that is blooming just below its surface. My day is pregnant with anticipation. I am looking forward to my first cup of coffee tomorrow morning. Coffee is different for me on the weekends. Most days I drink java in a rush, trying to introduce caffeine into my system, trying to get some motivation in a mug. On Saturdays, I drink coffee to enjoy coffee. I have it as an accompaniment to my morning of nothingness, a celebration of a moment in time where I have nowhere to be. Weekend coffee is sacred.

I’ll often eat breakfast with my housemate after two hours or more with this ceremonial cup. Sometimes we cook and sometimes we go out. Either way, breakfast is different on the weekends, too. During the week I eat something quickly, making sure to have some calories in my system to get the job done. I keep trail mix and prunes in my desk drawer at work, and most of the time that suffices. On the weekend I have pancakes, or sometimes eggs. I eat more slowly, and I enjoy my breakfast more. Leisurely food tastes better, and conversation with friends is the perfect appetite heightener.

I have the afternoons to get things done, to run errands and clean house. I could try to keep the same pace as I do Monday to Friday, but I know that would backfire. I need my unscheduled moments. My weekend coffee is a mini-vacation with no packing required, no travel books to purchase. I can even wear my pajamas while drinking it. As they’d say in Minnesota, that’s a heck of a deal.

I want to introduce a little of this joy into my everyday routine, so I’m trying to get to work a little earlier. I don’t have time for a two-hour cup before I start my job, but fifteen minutes of relaxation first thing makes all the difference. That one slow cup reminds me that I come first, that I can have a life while I make a living. It’s an experiment for now, but so far the data is impressive. Can breakfast be far behind?

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it:

40. Plan to have a leisurely breakfast this weekend. Look forward to it. Is there any way you can introduce elements of the weekend back into your daily life?

In my beautiful balloon

I had one of those days. You know them—the I’ve just met my worst nightmare in the dark alley of my psyche and there’s no place to hide days. I won’t describe it to you, because you’ve been there, and I don’t want to bring you back. Most people don’t need help being more cynical, and I am not about to teach a master class. In fact, I’m not planning to stay in this mood myself.

How will I crawl out? I’ve got my plans, and I’ve already started putting them into play. I read my e-mail, I checked my messages, I watched some pigeons. I felt my friends around me even as they are scattered across the country, involved in their own daily routines. On a day full of frustration, it helps to remember how interconnected I am with magical people. Just thinking about my loved ones brings on a hug from the universe. I am hugging you all back.

This girl needed a treat, so I stopped and bought a few used CDs. I knew that some new music would help more than an ice cream sundae I would later regret. My selections amused the man at the counter, too, which made me smile. He told me it’s the first time he’d ever rung up Kenny Chesney and Laurie Anderson in the same sale. Considering that one is a country star with a big hat and the other is a darling of the avant garde, it may just be. What can I say? I’ve got eclectic taste.

Now I’m home, and I’ve just spent ten minutes lavishing attention on my loving feline housemate. He’s in a good mood, and I think I’ve caught a little bit of his enthusiasm. The power of an orange tabby in vibrate mode should not be underestimated. The hot shower and soft pajamas didn’t hurt, either. I’m actually looking forward to the rest of my evening. Mission accomplished!

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it:

39. You have the power to change your own mood—you can either sink deeper into a bad one or put your fingers on the edge of the big black hole and climb towards the light. Next time you’re in a funk, try it. If you’re in a good mood, climb higher to a great one.

Coffee with the Crew Cuts

It’s late, and I’m missing the diners of New York. Seattle doesn’t have quite the same experience, although I’ve been seeking it. The all-night places here are more bars than breakfast, temples to gin rather than to caffeine. I’ve been searching for the real magilla, but I have yet to find it. The closest we have is IHOP, and as much as I love their pancakes, the ambiance leaves something to be desired.

Were I back home, I’d probably be sitting in a booth somewhere looking through a fourteen-page menu. An endless ceramic cup of coffee would be sitting in front of me, and I’d be listening to the babble of other night owls as we shared our temporary aviary. Perhaps I’d just sit and watch the pies rotate in their little glass case on the counter. You can hear some pretty strange conversations at 3 a.m. while you’re licking the backlava off your fingers.

Maybe I’d go to a smaller diner, entering a so-called tin can to admire the pressed metal backsplash and chrome stools. I’d throw a few quarters into the tabletop jukebox to listen to some late-night Elvis. The waitress would snap her gum as she took my order. There are a couple of places in Seattle that stay open all night, but they are the darker cousins to this bright shiny vision. The waitresses all look like Betty Page, and the lighting is generally dim. Sometimes I’m in the mood for that, too, but not tonight.

It’s the visual splendor I miss most about these little tin can diners. When I really need that I take myself out to Johnny Rockets. It’s a chain, and it’s not open late, but I enjoy the atmosphere. Where else can you drink coffee in the 1950s? The wait staff wears little paper hats, there’s black and white tile on the floors, and chrome is abundant. Did I mention the music? It’s hard to be in a downbeat mood with such an upbeat soundtrack. They’ve already got my Elvis on when I enter the doors, and the doo-wop starts up as I take my seat. It’s not quite New York, but it’ll do for now. Life could be a dream, sh-boom, if I could take you up in paradise up above, sh-boom. . . .

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it:

38. Is there something you’ve been missing? Can you identify a replacement that might give you a similar feeling? If so, go do that.

They both wore skirts

This weekend I found myself in a throng of people, some carved in marble while others were shaped by muscle and bone. These masses were assembled in the Seattle Art Museum, our forum for the day. Rome has finally arrived from the Louvre and it is magnifique. 

The exhibition has a nice range. The artifacts span three centuries and cover everyone from the plebians to the princeps, the emperor of Rome himself. Slaves are here, as are barbarians, gladiators and actors. I lost myself in the ceremonial arches, mirrors and statuary. The Lusty Lady, a strip joint across the street, even celebrated the opening with a twisted classical quote on its marquee: “Veni Vidi Veni.” Dirty  jokes in Latin—the Romans would have approved.

They loved a good time, and they lived an artful life. Several mosaics adorned the collection, astounding with their tiny tesserae. I wondered how they were removed from the original sites—did the archaeologists carve out the floor around them and lift the whole assemblage up, or was each tile painstakingly transferred to a new display surface? The otherwise thorough educational blurbs were mum on this point. 

I had two favorites—the first was a larger-than-life statue of a centurion in astounding detail. The sculptor had reproduced each buckle on his armor, each ornament on his breastplate. The soldier seemed ready to defend the empire—or the museum—as a moment’s notice. 

My other favorite was a small group that studied him. These teens were dressed in the Japanese fashion known as “Sweet Lolita”—think Bo Peep with bows in her hair and you’ll see them. I’d heard about this subculture, but this was the first sighting I’d had. These kids were not Japanese, either. I have to admit that I find the style a bit creepy, but these girls were willing to make an extreme statement in a crowd of strangers. This is the courage that fuels art, and I admired it. Surrounded by masterpieces created two millennia ago, it’s nice to see we are still creating ourselves, even when we are creating a spectacle. The Romans would have approved of that, too.

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it:

37. There are the things that you set out to do, and the things that you find along the way. Did you gather any new experiences in your travels today? Did you create a buzz of your own?

And such pretty colors!

She is waiting for my answer but I am standing there perplexed. Pineapple is calling my name, while coconut whispers its sweet siren song. Raspberry flirts with me from the corner. I order them all, having chosen once again to indulge myself in gelato. I don’t feel bad, because each scoop is small and this place uses mainly fruit to make my dosage of frozen decadence. It is spectacular.

Gelato is available in many places, but it truly thrives in Seattle. There are many purveyors of this treat, and like all good local businesses these places also sell strong espresso in small china cups. Here is a marriage of the bitter and the sweet, the hot with the cold. I take a sip of the smooth crema and I am ready for another small spoonful of icy heaven. 

Each shop has its own character. The best places are Italian, and my favorite one is called Bottega Italiana. This small storefront is in the Pike Place Market and has a long line of tourists in it at most times. There is minimal seating but that does not matter. Gelato is usually served in disposable fluted bowls with tiny spade shaped spoons. It is the perfect walking treat.

Other shops are larger, selling sandwiches, coffee, atmosphere. One such place has photos of the coliseum on all the walls and a television showing Italian melodramas. Their gelato is sufficient, and that might be enough in other places. In Seattle we don’t have to settle for that.   

I am adopting the approach of my new city. I don’t want to settle for inferior treats. I’m eating less dessert anyway, trying to tame the sugar fiend inside of me. I’ve been eating a lot more fruit, indulging in other taste delights like San Pellegrino and sushi.  When I do eat dessert, I want the really good stuff. I used to treat myself with Snickers bars, a mediocre chocolate at best. Now I go for the occasional piece of artisanal chocolate, and I choose gelato over ice cream most times. Yum, raspberry. . . .

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it:

36. Treat yourself. Rather than several so-so treats, go for one really good one. Which approach do you enjoy more?

Texas wants you anyway

I went back to the Century Ballroom a few nights ago, still determined for my joints and muscles to catch up to my desire to dance. On some nights they give a half hour lesson before the dancing begins, and this time it was salsa. I had my trepidation when I heard the announcement. I had a similar salsa lesson a few years ago in Asheville. The basic steps aren’t hard, and they are easy to count off with the instructor. In Asheville, however, they taught us the steps and then played expert salsa music. You could have run a three-minute mile to this music—it was that fast. I could barely walk for days.

At the Century they were more sensible. They played medium-speed music. I got to join in with the salsa music throughout the night as people asked me to dance. It was fun, and quite a workout. I added another dance to my lesson wish list. I love Latin music. I also love country music, a more recent acquisition to my musical palate. My dad played it when I was growing up. I always liked Hank Williams, but mocked the rest. My best friend reintroduced me to it, and now I listen to it all the time. Garth Brooks is twanging at me right now.

The Ballroom played a mix of music, and some of it was country. There were some line dances, like the Boot Scoot Boogie and the Watermelon Crawl. I followed along as best I could, and I hope to learn them. I also watched some very graceful couples partner dance to the music I adore. I asked around, and I learned there is a special partner dance for country music—Texas two-step. This one goes straight to the top of my list, right up there with swing. I know how to Cajun two-step, but I learned that as a solo step. I want to be able to twirl around to Brooks and Dunn with the others.

Pretty soon I’ll have to turn to Lyle Lovett for advice on how to wear my hat and pull my boots on right. I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige. In the meantime I’ll keep dancing—my song is playing.

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it:

35. A lot of country music is the very essence of joy. If you haven’t really listened to it, I challenge you to check it out and decide for yourself. Did you like it?

 

Links, should you desire them:

The marvelous Century Ballroom: http://www.centuryballroom.com/

A couple of great songs: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7juIMc65WQ

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9IklHK5N2q4

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QLILrC7Y5L4

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2KmzFABujM

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vuu_i65c-1M

 

To market, to market

This afternoon was divine—blue sky and just the right amount of sunny brilliance. In Seattle, these days stand out like diamonds on a coal heap. We grow accustomed to the hues of the overcast heavens, to the fogs and mists. We do not like our skies too bright, but we do enjoy a glowing atmosphere. Today was the perfect azure with not a hint of glare. When this happens I make sure to venture out at lunch. Art awaited me on every corner.

I went to the Pike Place Market, one of Seattle’s well-known charms. The vegetables astound, the flowers amaze, but there are so many glories to sample. I walked past the famous fish vendor where they are often tossing salmon. Crabs were stacked into the fresh ice, one next to the other. They formed an almost-geometric pattern of pink and white. It was gorgeous.

On another corner I watched a merry band of buskers, young kids who looked to be about high school age. The slim boy with the pompadour haircut was doing a very convincing imitation of Johnny Cash, belting out Jackson with his female accompaniment. He looked too small to hold up his haircut and the girls wore elaborately-tooled boots several sizes too large. I stood and listened: “We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout. We’ve been talking ’bout Jackson, ever since the fire went out. . . .”   They were talented and bizarre at the same time, like Ken and his Barbies at the Grand Ole Opry. I tossed them a handful of change.

Out on the cobblestone street was a serendipitous masterpiece—someone had spilled a handful of rainbow-colored goldfish crackers. A few remained intact, but most had been crushed underfoot, becoming bursts of color on the dark stone. The destroyed snacks now looked like a frozen fireworks display. I did not have a camera, so I am capturing them in ink. Look—aren’t they lovely?

I ate lunch, too—nibbling from many places. I had a kasha knish, some fresh plums and a lavender ice cream cone. The food complemented my country music, crushed crackers and ornamental crabs. Next time I’ll choose different treats and new things will bewitch me. I can’t wait.

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it:

34. Go on a scavenger hunt looking for five cool things, and share them with someone else. You can take photos or tell stories, write postcards or draw artwork. Have a friend hunt in the same area. Did you notice the same things or different ones?

Playing mother with Mr. Twinings

Today, like many days, I am fortifying myself with a traditional Irish beverage. I celebrate my Celtic heritage while I slake my thirst. Ahh—I long for the Emerald Isle I have not yet seen in person. Another sip and I am crying with joy. What is this magic liquid? Not Guinness, although that’s another favorite I learned to sip during aborted Gaelic lessons. This miracle fluid is tea. How bracing! How soothing! How downright splendiferous! I have been in love with Earl Grey ever since my mother introduced us—a most charming fellow when steeped and sipped.

I love everything about tea—the rituals, the preparation and the paraphernalia involved. I’ve got a cast iron Japanese teapot with dragonflies on the side, and many different strainers and cups. Sometimes I use a clear pot and sit witness to the agony of the leaves. This is the moment when boiling water inspires tea to dance around the pot, unfurling into its full flavor. Ah, how wonderful to watch my cuppa being born!

It’s not all about the stuff, either. Tea is delicious, and each kind brings a little story with it. I adore Russian Caravan, supposedly named for the smoky flavor infused into the tea whilst it was on a long trek with silk-laden camels. Gunpowder green has a subtle maple flavor. It doesn’t explode, but the tea leaves are wrapped into little pellets that look like buckshot. These pellets burst open during the steeping process. Ah, the glory of the agony! And Moroccan Mint blends that taste with a refreshing hint of peppermint. Can’t you just taste the bazaar?

I’m finding that Seattle is a most fruitful place to follow the way of tea. The Crumpet Shop in the Pike Place market has overflowing pots and hearty sandwiches. Floating Leaves in Ballard focuses on Asian contemplation and preparation. The fascinating Japanese supermarket Uwajimaya offers undreamed of varieties. Those are just a few of the local resources and the grand prize of Victoria awaits me—I can’t wait to take the clipper up to Canada to experience their high tea, which is the utmost in British elegance. Hold on finger sandwiches—I’m coming!

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it:

33. Treat yourself to a type of tea you haven’t had before. Going out for tea is lovely, but in the alternative buy yourself a sampler and have at it with the boiling water. This is an exercise that is especially lovely when shared. Tea tastes best with company. Enjoy!

Saluting a cheap suit serenader

I love pen and ink drawings—the high contrast of the black lines on the pale pages, the challenge of conveying subtle shadings with pen strokes instead of color variations. It probably goes back to my days of scribbling in notebooks during classes. This weekend I enjoyed a close-up examination of a master of the form, R. Crumb.

Haven’t heard of him? Don’t remember his name being taught alongside M.C. Escher, Albrecht Dürer, and other line art notables? That’s probably because he’s a comic book artist. He was a founder of the underground comix movement and helped broaden the scope of an entire art form. Crumb brought back the adult material suppressed since the Comics Code imposed self-censorship on the industry. His most famous drawing is the ubiquitous Keep on Truckin’ cartoon. Now his artwork is touring major museums.

All that is well and good, but I was at the exhibition for the aesthetics. I was not disappointed. The showing was held at the Frye Art Museum, a temple to art in Seattle’s First Hill neighborhood, and I was happy from the moment I pushed open the heavy metal doors. Once at the exhibit, I worshipped the drawings. I’ve been sketching with a pen myself, and it’s instructive to see how a master depicts texture and volume with ink. His drawings look alive—his women are fully rounded; his cities are multi-layered. It was inspiring to see the panels close up—such detail drawn by one hand! I didn’t always like the subject matter—Crumb is far more obsessed with the male anatomy than I am—but I am glad he helped open up the genre. He’s also done a lot to promote the early legends of jazz, and that’s a mission I can get behind.

 

I brought home a few of his comic books so I could study his technique at leisure. R. Crumb’s artwork is published in many collections.  If you want to learn more about him, there is a well-regarded documentary called Crumb (Terry Zwigoff, 1994). I haven’t seen it, but I plan to. I’m intrigued. I loved the companion piece, American Splendor (1993, Berman and Pulcini), which focuses on the life of Crumb’s friend Harvey Pekar. Together Crumb and Pekar made Harvey’s very ordinary life into a work of art, a work of splendor. As you might have guessed, I’m all for that.

 

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it:

32. What one thing can you do today to celebrate the work of art that is your life? Do it!

Start quoting him now

I am desperately, passionately, madly in love! His name is Will, and I adore his every word. He’s dead, though. Is that a problem? I don’t feel like it is. I’ve been in love with this boy since I was in grade school and I’m not going to let a little thing like death stop me. Some of my friends don’t like him. You can all have your opinions—just don’t trash him to my face. I will defend William Shakespeare until the day I die.

People tell me how irrelevant Shakespeare is, how horrible it is that people are made to read his work at school. I strongly disagree. Are murder, passion, revenge, jealousy, and beauty irrelevant? Do the rhythms of a soliloquy dissipate just because they were captured on paper long ago? What about all the words and phrases Shakespeare coined—should they be excised out of the language? Could they be? No, no, no and no!

I don’t think Shakespeare should be ignored just because his thoughts were captured in an older tongue. His words sing! His humor remains! I’m glad I met with his works at school—it might have taken me years to find them on my own. I wish I’d met Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Langston Hughes there, too. It’s also good to know the buzz on influential people, even if you don’t like their stuff. Do you really want to be the only poor yutz who doesn’t know where the phrase “Alas, Poor Yorrick” comes from?

And don’t we all need more friends to turn to when we have that rotten boss? Will has good advice on everything. Want to learn how NOT to be a fool for love? Check out Twelfth Night. Thinking about borrowing money? See the Merchant of Venice. How exactly does one address the queen of the fairies? Indulge in a Midsummer’s Night’s Dream.

He’s always got something insightful to say on social issues, too. Want a thoughtful work on race relations? Othello. Sexual harassment? Measure for Measure. Suicide? Hamlet. I treasure his wisdom, and his zany side, too. I leave you now with something funny that Will said. He said: “Exit, pursued by a bear.” (And if you want to know what that’s all about, read the Winter’s Tale.) Enough said.

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it:

31. Experience some Shakespeare and make up your own mind about him. I would highly recommend the film Twelfth Night: Or What you Will (1996, Trevor Nunn), or any of the adaptations by director Kenneth Branagh.