Going to Graceland

We were much more Beatles fans than Elvis fans growing up in my household, a distinction in tastes sharply noted in "Pulp Fiction", in an infamous scene between John Travolta and Uma Thurman. My college boyfriend was an Elvis fan from Brooklyn, which is sort of like being an urban cowboy. It didn't fit, but he liked to cop tastes contrary to the norm to appear different, like sporting a beret or wearing an ascot.

And so I found myself going to Graceland one summer, on an epic road trip that spanned the South to my Dad's place in West Texas. I love road trips, finding them much more preferable to horribly bumpy and terribly turbulent flights that go against the Gulf Stream, a fact that was confirmed for me when my Colorado boyfriend began private pilot lessons. It's gotten worse, too, from compulsive over-travelling brought on by a runner's type of fast pace neurosis that's as addictive as their high sugar and highly caffeinated lifestyles. Chemtrails are the sign that you've polluted the sky, you ugly American.

My exes would fight me on my American preference for the open road, but given my quickness of mind, I usually won out, as I did in this case, because my Brooklyn boyfriend didn't have a driver's license or a car. He was captive to me and my advanced skill sets, a state of affairs that never abated during our acquaintance, much to his chagrin. I made the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia my first day driving, to a smog-filled summer's day that took the wind out of my sails for the rest of the trip. Going to some tourist trap to see the housed remnants of a overdosed singer I never really liked? Great. What a way to spend my summer.

Two days later, I brought us to the state of Tennessee, for a tour of Elvis Presley's house. My very stoned boyfriend was so out of it from getting high in the parking lot, he blurted out that he wanted to see "EVERYTHING!", when the ticket agent asked him which tour he wanted. We'd been flagged by the golf cart security duo as outsiders, for walking towards the house from the graffitied walls outside the grounds, when you were supposed to know to go across the street to buy a ticket, even though no signs were posted with instructions to do so. When he found out that it would cost us over $150 (in 1988, on a working class college kid's budget), he blanched white, and in an embarrassed whispered aside, I told him to just do the house tour.

It was horrible. Priscella still lived in the top floors when she was in town, so we went past his recording studio and racketball court to an impromptu grave site in their backyard, which gave me a blessed moment of silence among the weird hick crowd, who worshipped him like he was some sort of demigod. They also toured his tour buses, his car collection, his costumes, his airplane collection (one of which was named the "Lisa Marie"), and a movie theater that showed his films exclusively. I half-heartedly bought a couple of tepid souvenirs in the gift shop, and then we got back on the road.

My naive New York City boyfriend didn't know how much trouble I steered him out of, until we stopped at a gas station in Mississippi, with a visibly pregnant (and cigarette smoking) woman talking with the clerk behind the counter. They both narrowed their eyes at us when we walked in, eyeballing his dopey "CULTURE" t-shirt, with the word emblazoned over a picture of 70s rhinestone jumpsuit Elvis visiting the White House, posing with Nixon in the Oval Office and shaking hands. He wanted to make an ironic hipster statement that was cutesy "tongue in cheek", and definitely not appreciated by them, which was backed up by our brief exchange with the rural couple at the counter.

The large beer-bellied clerk said to him: "What does that t-shirt mean, boy?" My young boyfriend nervously deferred to him with two palms up, in a conciliatory gesture: "Oh, we've just been to Graceland. It was awesome!." I paid for the gas and asked for smokes, while the two hicks pondered his statement. After a very long pause with continued staring, the large man finally said to us: "Well, we worship him around these here parts." And with that, we were back on the road, albeit with a much more sober and quiet white kid from the city sitting next to me.

Happy trails to you America, on all of your summer road trips. For most of the masses, this is prime vacation season. Just be sure to steer clear of rural areas that worship dead, drug-addicted rock stars. See you 'round the way, mes amis.

CULTURE

Olds

Dang, what an odd-colored clunker...wait, what is that on the hood?

I saw this rusty gem of a car in the grocery store's parking lot, and it immediately caught my eye. I haven't seen this color green, well, ever. Up close, it didn't disappoint me either. It's a real deal vintage item. 
The hood ornament caught my attention, too. I walked closer, playing a guessing game with myself about the type of car it might be. The lines aren't great, and that color was phased out of production a long time ago, that's for sure.

Olds like an old skool jam. What kind of green is that?!

I was surprised to see that the manufacturer was Oldsmobile. Whoa...I've never seen an Olds like this before. Check out the maker's mark! It's fancy, stylish, and daintily decorative, but I don't know. Looking at my photos, something doesn't fit, like someone mounted it on the hood of a junker with some concrete-type adhesive, but who knows? Maybe it was a minor production run that was flawed, or the owner just liked an old-fashioned hood ornament, but one thing is for certain; there's not one car out there like it, and being unique in this crowded world is a form of winning in my book.  It's a great logo.

Can you guess what year this ornament is from? Find out here: http://www.ebay.com/itm/1986-1987-1988-Oldsmobile-Cutlass-Ciera-Chrome-Hood-Ornament-emblem-22514810-/331522636118.

Chops

Extra cabbage my mom gave me from her Corned Beef dish will do nicely!

Years ago my boyfriend's sister (then live-in boyfriend I didn't want, then fiancé, and also including soon-to-be annulled tricky disaster of a faux first marriage) went to Le Cordon Bleu in Ottawa, financed yet again by his desperate parents looking for a rock star in their two kid rubble of a messy family. Never happened, but I learned a thing or two, just like I honed my innate business acumen and musicianship on the side: I don't have time for more art forms than the many ones that I already practice at an expert level daily, but I do love to dabble, with the understanding that my dabbling is also at the maestro level. 
It doesn't go away simply because my brain is solving other types of problems, even when I may want amateur status. I like the newness of anonymity, like any other careful observer does.

Voilà! My homemade cole slaw.

And so it is with cooking, too. I cook almost every single day of my life, out of habit and enjoyment, or from necessity and want, so now I cook at the master level. I don't ever want to be a professional chef who runs a kitchen (Oh, good! Another job for me that's hard, low-paying and takes years to pay out), but I like listening. My brief "sister-in-law" did the wacky school stuff like deboning quail and many mindless hours of repetitive chopping, but she did tell me some useful stuff from her classes like: 1) pairing wines with food is a matter of preference that serves the customer well above any other snobby food rule, because a pro kitchen exists to show people a good time, not embarrass them with their ignorance. Want a nice red with chicken or fish? Have it! The "correct" choice is whatever you want and/or what beverage you think tastes good, not what anyone else says about it, unless you specifically ask a Sommelier for advice sur la table. Nothing blows the deal of a deep-pocketed repeat customer than humiliating some bourgeois "Nouveau-Riche" type looking to impress people with their freely thrown cash, so don't do it. Skills!

At the stove every damn day, people!

Same with cookbooks: 2) they can't teach you how to cook because it's about flawless timing, countless hours of practice, and the spills and mistakes that come with real trial and error mixed with ingenuity and bravery, the hard-won experience of a daily habit. That's what I have, whether I wanted it or not, because if I want to eat really good food, I often have to make it myself. And so it was with cookbooks, too. I asked her what her best recommendation was, and she told me the truth, as told to her by one of her professors: 3) it's "The Joy of Cooking", any edition and any version, from any year. The author doesn't tell you how to do it; she gives you a basic template to follow, with versions and iterations based on your choices, preferences, budget, and/or or pantry ingredients on hand. She can't think for you. You have to do that. So that's what I do, in a nutshell, every single day of my life, and maybe some day you can, too, because I don't want to be single forever, people!

Enjoy the fresh new Springtime produce that's hitting our shelves soon. We've earned it.

Perfectly cooked medium/medium-rare lamb chop, a total Spring dish.

Another perfect chop: this one a pork "Scallopine" cut in brown butter.

Perfect sticky rice with sprig of fresh thyme.

One perfect (and tiny) leaf of thyme on a bed of fluffy white rice.

Ash Wednesday

It's all uphill from here.

Last week, we celebrated Ash Wednesday on a beautifully sunny and bright winters' day. My life has been rather simple lately, and so, in the easiest, simplest way known to man, I actually walked (yes, I walk, for exercise and sometimes through economic necessity. I know, so weird!) my way to church for ashes, which was a journey in of itself, like so many of my daily walks are. See you soon, neighbor.

Blue glass garden ornament.

House with wrought iron ornament.

Hanging icicles, a bare shrub, and one large beige house.

Old wooden fence.

Yellow shed with ladder.

White houses on a snowy hill.

Old rusty garden fountain and spruces.

Me, Ash Wednesday* 2015.

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ash_Wednesday

Bare Branches in Winter

Bare Branches in Winter (Pearl River, NY, 2015)

Folk Art: The Bazzanobago

Grrrrrr >:( It's game time! Get your "gameface" on!!

I'll just put it right out there by saying it bluntly: "guineas" love cars. Guidos have a big hot rod history here in the tri-state area, which is ironic to me, because my Italian-American grandmother never learned how to drive. She didn't have to because she was from the city and it was unnecessary. Besides, that was my grandfathers' job, because he liked cars and taking care of them. My grandma liked sitting in the passenger seat, so she could look out the window and relax, like a real Queen would. It was so cute!

But starting with junior high school, the kids in my town started going nuts about cars quickly, their hormones linking up to mechanical equipment that goes fast like peanut butter goes with jelly, and why not? This country has tons of curvy hilly back roads that are a blast to drive. Our humble little county goes dead at night, and as teens, we took full advantage of that road freedom to turn off the headlights and turn a mountain pass into a scary roller coaster ride. 

I had family that lived over the Bear Mountain Bridge, and the fastest route from here to there in this single terrifyingly narrow road with a tiny guardrail between the mountain side and the Hudson River lurking way down below. In the winter (just in time for Christmas holidays), it freezes with a fierce ferocity that randomly drops huge chunks of ice onto the road, making you swerve into another tiny single lane of murky incoming traffic that was blurred by the river's thick blanket of fog and the alcohol my parents may have ingested. We always made it home, but it was often an unwelcome white knuckle ride.

"Jetting" away, but still makin' stops.

As a result, I've learned to have a healthy respect for the climate here, and the dangerous twists of weather that occur so quickly, you have no choice but to drive through it. I'm an excellent and safe driver, but such is not the case with a lot of my friends, family, and neighbors. As their 80s mullets grew in, so did the cheesy red cars their parent's bought them for their 16th birthday fill the parking lot before school started each morning, making it a testosterone-fueled danger of its' own, with smirking, nastily leering boys sitting on car hoods wearing big gold chains. Uh, pass.

I love cars, but unfortunately, they tend to be of the suavely cool 60s kind, hard to drive and even harder to maintain. Sigh. C'est la vie. Luckily for me, my paisans in Pearl River have cars and trucks so weird, that the garage next door has turned into a cooler and less scary version of that high school parking lot of my youth, with a procession of tricked out pieces appearing every week. 

Also lucky for me, it's football season, another big boy-time filled with beer, food, parking lots, and cars. Every time I see this proper GuineaMobile back for a tune-up, I smile to myself. Can't you just hear their conversation? I wonder what their horn sounds like? It's another piece of Rococo genius, the owner having rigged a series of ever-smaller orange horns in descending order behind the front grill, and that's just fun.

Enjoy the game, guys! Have a great season, and have a beer (or two) for me.

The 'Bago's back!

The Harvest Pumpkin

 

This happy hardy little gourd made it all the way to Thanksgiving from the first few weeks of October. I bought it at the store from a cardboard box filled to the brim with them, carefully selecting it from among the other gourds by taking my time, looking for just the right size and shape to complement my little doorway. The big box itself was a cheerful visualization of the harvest season, and I found myself brightening up every time I came home to it, which is just the way I planned it: that is the essence behind seasonal decorations.

I finally picked it up this weekend to throw it away, because it had gone soft and mushy from the inside out. The stem popped off as I picked it up, and the round little pumpkin quickly rolled away from me and off the porch, bouncing down each of the four front steps to the old yellow house, landing on the sidewalk. I felt like it was running its' last, final steps to freedom, and I took it as a sign that it's beautiful but brief life had indeed come to an end. What an adventure! 

And it was right on time.

Sting Ray!

Sting Ray in the sun.

If this car doesn't conjure up "Mad Men" type associations, like excellent James Bond movie getaways and hip, swingin' jazz tunes, you ain't alive. Feelin' it, and feeling groovy about it: that's diggin' classic cars in a hugely serious way, kids. 

P.S. - The paint set on this ride is so iridescent, it's like there's small, glowing points of starlight mixed into blue finish: a real tight job that only shows it's true colors up close and personal, master craftsman-like. Yeah, baby!

The Rust Bus

Wow! That is one brown truck, from head to toe.

The owner of a certain big old yellow house (where a certain artist, writer, and publisher also lives), also owns and operates a very successful, busy garage next door. They work on old junkers, classic American sports cars, and every other type of vehicle on the planet. 
I often look out the windows in the kitchen of my studio apartment to see the trucks go by, while I drink coffee in the morning. It's like a grownup version of Tonka trucks, except this game has tight deadlines that run on lots of grease and manpower.

Wait a sec...that's wood grain! He painted faux wood grain! Why?!

The other day, this little school bus was parked in the lot next to the garage that's reserved for longer jobs, and it immediately drew my attention. When I opened the curtain all the way for a better look, I knew I was going to snoop around for a closer eyeballing on my way to the market one afternoon, and so I did, but not without speculating on the type of character who would drive such a stand out vehicle. My first guess was immediately "Woodstock Hippie", because the thing looks like it's being held together by rust, but up close it revealed an entire different (and surprising) story.

Wow! I mean, it's nuts, but it is painted really well. Weird...

Someone actually took the time to paint the entire bus a brown color that's supposed to simulate wood grain, because the whole bus is delicately painted with a second darker brown color that mimics the grain running through wood. What the eff?! Why do that?! Why do all that painstaking custom work on a mini bus that looks rusty from afar? It's so weird.

But, closer inspection revealed a few more clues, like the "Wounded Warrior" sticker prominently posted in the interior (the hinged door of the bus was open for the day). Ah. Say no more: it's a restoration project as therapy for PTSD. Yep, this would definitely qualify as that. It's crazy, and it makes no sense, but it does take a lot of time and effort that's task-oriented. I have a family member through marriage who is similarly constructed. Whenever someone brings up a hobby, like say, gardening, she immediately spits out, "Oh yeah! Great therapy!". Uh, actually, I really like gardening, and I have a good green thumb, but if plants help keep you together, for the love of G-d, please go for it. She always comes off like she's gonna explode in this tense, over-caffeinated, jacked up way.

Jeez, even the headlights are done up. Whatever. Enjoy, my brother!

Same principle here. I wouldn't want to actually meet the individual who painted this entire thing badly with great skill and a type of devotion that makes absolutely no sense, but I am glad that whoever he or she may be, they are back on U.S. soil safely. It may be insane, it may not even register as a paint job to most onlookers, but if your special magic bus brings you some degree of calm and peace, go for it brother. You earned it as the price you paid for our freedoms.  
Long may your freak flag fly.

http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/ 

Insane Cat Posse

Uh oh. I feel eyes on me, like I'm being watched....

Rockland County rednecks like lots of things: Hooters, hot wings, beer (all in one great location), huntin', big trucks with flashing lights and awesome monster tires with stripper silhouettes on them mudflaps, and dollar stores. The dollar store in my town is no different than, say, a Wal-Mart is out west. There are pairs of scratchy polyester pants, cheap plastic shoes; in fact, a bevy of plastic goods that "off-gas" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Outgassing) at such an alarming rate, you get a headache if you're in there long enough. It's an unhealthy but sometimes necessary place to shop, for financial reasons.

Ah!! Scared the bejeesus outta me!

And just like my truckin' neighbors, the t-shirt rack rarely disappoints. It's a wealthy mix of loud cheesy prints, sayings, and slogans, most of it overly jingoistic (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jingoism) nonsense about flags with colors that don't run, big deer heads, guns, and camouflage prints that relay strong fears about "foreigners", and that's just the male shirts.The women tend to like chocolate and cats; lots and lots of cats. This one design is so particularly egregious, such a high temple to offensively bad taste, I had to snap a few pics. These cats' eyes follow you, and they are angry; oh so angry. Beware. Halloween is a'comin'.