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I'm supposed to be writing about Sun Ra but am not feeling ready just yet. As noted in an earlier post, I like to blog as warm-up.
When I first learned about Sun Ra, I thought he was a complete nut case. I saw him on TV when I was a kid, can't remember what show he was on (edited to add: Saturday Night Live, 1978), but there he was in all his alien glory, and boy was he weird. I tried checking him out later in life and had a similar impression. The wild Egyptian-God costumes, the whole "I'm from outer space" thing, the "Astro Intergalactic Infinity Arkestra," the incessant space-related lyrics and titling . . . I mean, come on, I am all for eccentricity, but the outer space stuff is just silly to me. At first I thought it was a generational thing, but then I realized how many of my friends are really into space stuff (Star Wars, Star Trek, SETI, etc.). Maybe it's just me. I sort of prefer the drawing room.
But, the music, man, it's amazing. Once you get past the artifice of his personal presentation and use what he calls "the ears that dare to hear," you find brilliantly textured free jazz, with even the vocalists experimenting in ways you never hear elsewhere.
If you've not given him a try, you should. Space is the Place is a good starting place. There's also a really good biography that illuminates Sun Ra's nuttiness while stressing his profound musical influence on his own generation and on countless younger musicians who trained with him.
I just received my acceptance to the library program (Whoop! Whoop!) and plan to celebrate tonight with my vegan Chile Verde and fresh-squeezed margaritas.
For the margaritas, I squeeze the juice from one lemon, two limes, one orange, and one grapefruit, then mix with good tequila and serve over ice. This make two drinks. Unless you are a lush, which I know some of you are . . .
I love cauliflower, but I am guessing there are not many cooks who do because I when I look for new ways to prepare it, I find a dearth of cauliflower recipes. The other night, I wanted to try making cauliflower soup, so I did what I usually do when I set about to make something new: I examined a bunch of different recipes, which in the case of cauliflower soup meant precisely five variations. Dissastisfied with each, I made up my own version. It is very quick and easy to make. It is actually better the next day, so if you were making this for guests, you could easily make it a day ahead.
It is a fairly light soup in flavor and heft, but I added some brown rice to it today for lunch, and ended up with a rather richer porridge. I took a picture, two in fact, and then ate. But when I hooked the camera up to the computer, all I found were two photos of graffiti Clonk recently shot. I'm not going to make another bowl just for the sake of a picture of what is ultimately an uninteresting looking dish, so apologies for the lack of images.
Cauliflower Soup
1/2 onion
2 cloves garlic
2 inner stalks of celery with leaves
1 head cauliflower
2 1/2 - 3 c veggie stock
1/4 t saffron
1 t thyme
1 c white wine
salt
Sauté the onion and celery in 1/2 cup white wine until they become limp. Add the garlic and sauté another minute or two, don't let the garlic brown. Chop the cauliflower into florets and sauté for two minutes. Add enough stock to cover the cauliflower. Add the saffron as well. Bring to a boil and then turn down to a simmer, cooking until the cauliflower is the desired tenderness. I like mine with a bit of texture, so I go maybe fifteen minutes. If you want a really smooth purée, you'll need to cook it closer to thirty minutes. Zap it with the hand blender for a chunkier version or purée in small batches in the regular blender. Add the thyme, remaining 1/2 cup of white wine, and salt, and then simmer another five minutes. Voilá! C'est si bon!
If you are not vegan, you can finish this with some cream or sour cream, which would make it much richer. You could also finely dice some roasted red pepper and serve a small spoonful on top of the soup; that would be both yummy and pretty. There are lots of other possible beautifications to be made here, and I trust you clever cooks to add your own creative touches.
The other night, in an attempt to fight our L Word addiction, Clonk and I had a conversation that devolved into a litany of top "x" lists. I admit to having started it with a request for his desert island top ten, which he evaded by listing river sounds, city sounds, and books on tape. He asked my top five desert island foods (sourdough toast, grapefruit, IPA, peanut butter, garlicky marinara). We listed our top five Beatles songs, followed by bottom five Beatles songs. And, so on.
Finally, I was pondering my top five music events, which expanded to seven, and thought I'd share them here, in chronological order. I'm occasionally guessing at dates, but I'm only off by a year if I'm off at all. They were all in small venues; however, I'm not naming locations to preserve some anonymity. For the same reason, I'm leaving out one of my brother's concerts although it was completely mind-blowing; in case he's reading this, I wanted him to know he made the top, er, seven or eight list.
1) The Neville Brothers (1983)
My mom and her friends took me along to this show. If you can imagine a punk/ska girl at a Neville Brothers show . . . it was a very different scene than I was used to although my mom figured I would like it since I came to ska after a love affair with Earth, Wind, & Fire and Parliament. It didn’t take me long to get into what they were putting out: all love all the time, and that funky, soulful New Orleans groove that brooks no dance resistance. I've seen them many times since, but never again in a small club.
2) Fishbone (1986)
The highest energy anything ever. These guys were incredible, literally bouncing off the walls and the amps and the stage and each other. For this period of my life, it is remarkable that I had no alcohol or drugs whatsoever at this show; it was stimulating enough on it's own. My friend Punky Ballerina and I were so drenched in sweat when we left that we couldn't even go out to eat afterward; we had to go to my house to shower and change first. Stompin' good fun.
3) Poi Dog Pondering (1991 and 1995)
The first time I saw them, Frank Orral was spinning around a lighted globe and playing a frying pan. In some ways, this was a mix of the first two shows mentioned here: all love and high energy. The second time I saw them was on the other side of the country and their sound had changed from acoustic to electric, but they were still working the wild percussive elements. The highlight of the second show for me was Frank Orral's encore solo number, "Is That All There Is?", which he sang in true torch song style (dim red light, smoke, bar stool).
4) Difford and Tilbrook (1992)
As a long-time Squeeze fan, I could not pass up this opportunity. Just Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook acoustic. They played their duo stuff, they played Squeeze stuff, they played other music from the soul catalog. They were super friendly and fun, chatting with the audience and playing requests. I felt like I was at the pub with my mates.
5) Luka Bloom (1994)
Brilliant solo acoustic guitar and voice. It is amazing how this guy can fill a space with sound. He has a lovely warm personality and charming sense of humor. A friend of mine had been seeing him gig at coffeeshops in Manhattan just a year before, and while I wish I had seen one of those shows, a coffeeshop intimacy translated into the somewhat larger space.
6) Mike Watt (1998)
Two shows, one at the beginning and one at the end of the "Contemplating the Engine Room" tour. He had different guitarists who played the set very differently, and by the end of the tour, Watt had lost weight and grown a beard. It was amazing to see how the music had progressed. Most affecting, however, was the material itself -- a poignant and powerful tribute to his life on the road with The Minutemen and to the early LA punk scene. I cried both times.
7) John Zorn's Masada (1998)
Zorn was touring and making live recordings of the Masada pieces, written to be newly interpreted, or newly arranged with a variety of instruments each time they are played. The Masada band had been playing (with) the material for four or five years when we saw them, so they had developed an incredible synergy, vital for strong improv. I had seen versions of his music game "Cobra," which I loved, but Masada went beyond the playfulness of Cobra to offer an intellectually and sonically transcendent experience.
I am in the music library on campus, doing some research, but now, waiting for Clonk to be done with student meetings for the day so we can walk home together. Clonk and I had a long conversation a year or more ago about the notion of "killing time." I believe the conversation occurred in the context of trying to define "hanging out." When Clonk asked whether "hanging out" was a form of "killing time," I suggested that probably it was not since "hanging out" (at least in my definition) does not seem to have clear end points whereas "killing time" is always in regard to a definite end point at which you will move on to some other activity.
And, then, of course, we had a conversation at some other point about why "killing" time, but that was not as intersting and thus not as memorable.
I made one of Clonk's favorite meals the other night: cajun tofu and collard greens. But, he's got the camera at school, so I couldn't take a picture, so I didn't blog it. I also haven't taken and posted a picture of Mr. Bubble as requested for the same reason. Maybe I will remember to ask him to bring the camera home tonight after I am done killing time. Let's hope I do.
In other news, Clonk and I are officially addicted to The L Word. This is somewhat embarassing because, as my friend and fellow addict Swell Butchie notes, it is basically a soap opera. I was convinced to watch it by another friend, Little Miss Sunshine, who insisted I check it out because one of the characters reminds her of me. You know how when people say that to you, it is kind of scary to check it out for yourself? And, I must say, I am generally kind of bored or bewildered by the comparisons. However, in this case, the similarity is a bit eerie. The more I watch the show, the more I see the character (Alice) doing things I might do, saying things I might say. Obviously, there are some big differences as well, like I don't have the bad taste in partners she has (evidence: Clonk) but that doesn't mean I haven't had bad taste in partners in the past.
One particularly odd coincidence: before watching the show, I mentioned to Little Miss Sunshine that I had one degree of separation with Leisha Haley, who I knew was in the show, via an old boyfriend of mine who was her drummer in The Murmurs. Not so weird, really. Then, I rent the DVDs, and I discover 1) Leisha Haley plays Alice, the character like me, and 2) Alice is obssessed with tracking the degrees of separation between people. There are other examples, but I won't bore you.
And, what more can I say about The L Word? It is funny. There is a lot of sex, which is surprising but I guess that's cable for you. It is smarter than one would expect. I do hate the character Jenny, who is a massive pill and quite possibly the most self-involved character ever on TV. There are no body-positive lesbians on the show; they are all pretty much really skinny models. There are lots of problems with it, but I like it and we can't seem to stop watching it.
Even though I have read some work on serialized fiction, I still don't understand why exactly it is so compelling. There are obvious reasons, need for completion being one, but there is something so deeply, psychically engaged by cliffhangers for example that the explanations I've read seem to inadequately address.
The L Word also makes me want to move to LA, and this was disconcerting at first until I learned that it is supposed to be LA but is actually filmed in Vancouver. I have wanted to move to Vancouver for, oh, around 13 years. So, no surprise there.
The little clock in the corner of the screen tells me it is about time I wrapped up my time-killing enterprise. Die, time, die.
If there is someone on your blogroll who makes your world a better place just because that person exists and who you would not have met (in real life or not) without the internet, then post this same sentence on your blog.
Seen at Cheeky Prof.
Sometimes working out gives me a boost, sometimes it makes me sleepy. It always makes me hungry. It's a good thing I am not exercising for my weight at this point as it always seems that I eat just as much as I burn. Today, I had a long workout, and it made me sleepy and hungry. I'm going to bed early: if I didn't, I'd just keep eating!
My mom is a major sports fanatic. Not the type that goes to sporting events with her face painted or anything, she's more of a stay-at-home sports fan. But, she loves sports, almost all sports, and watches them intently.
She was a jock as a kid, playing basketball and volleyball at her Catholic girls' high school in Santa Monica. She'll tell you that when she was at UCLA she was screwing up in school because she spent all her time on pep squad planning activities for the sporting events. Kareem was at UCLA at the time, and she has great, affectionate stories about him as well. She still has her pep squad sweater, which I used to wear in high school because it was so vintage-ly cool.
As an adult, she played volleyball and tennis, and even after my parents were divorced and she worked 50- to 60-hour weeks to support us, she managed to join a volleyball team with some of her work buddies. Since she moved to the PNW, she's not participated in athletics as she has back trouble stemming from a car accident. She jokes about her friend at work who is her age and still plays basketball and is always getting injured, but I know she admires the fact that he still plays.
When I was growing up, she watched a lot of sports on television. Back then, it was mainly football and the Wide Wide World of Sports. She also loved boxing, which she no longer watches. She is a life-long fan of the 49ers and the Lakers. We'd sit there watching a game, eating popcorn or chips and homemade guacamole, screaming at the television, and throwing our hands up in frustration or exultation depending on how the game was going. It's still like that.
Since Clonk and I don't have a TV, and because it's fun to watch sports with my mom, we would do major sporting events at her house when we lived in Seattle. Even though I don't really like football, the SuperBowl parties at my mom's were fun, and I missed that this year. The summer I was on fellowship on the east coast, Clonk hung out with my mom almost daily watching the Tour de France.
But the thing I love most about my mom's sports obsession is, each year for the past say ten to fifteen years, my mom takes her vacation time from work to watch major sporting events. She takes time off for Wimbledon every year and basically watches tennis coverage non-stop. She also takes off to watch the Olympics, but usually can't swing enough time to watch all of it, so she checks out when her favorite events will happen, and times vacation for those days. It's that important to her.
She always calls to update me about sports, even when I lived in the same city. When my old college (that I attended for two years) or the school where I got my Master's does well in basketball, she calls. When Venus or Serena wins or loses at Wimbledon, I know. She and my brother both called me when the Seahawks won the playoffs, and one of them was crying. He's his mother's son, that's for sure.
So, I am excited that the Olympics is starting. It means I can count on a phone call from my mother this weekend, in which she'll tell me all about the opening ceremonies and fill me in on who's looking good for which events. She may even tell me if there are any new events this year.
It's funny, I'm not a sports fan myself although I do like to go to sporting events because they take me out of my everyday concerns and mental machinations in a way nothing else does. I don't follow any sports, I have never been a jock, and I don't even know the rules of most games. But, ultimately, I love sports. I love sports because I love my mom.
A professor of mine, who I may have quoted previously said that she quit law school when she realized "These are not my people." I quit academia when I realized the same thing.
Of course, I mean that generally, as some of my very best friends and favorite people are academics (SchoolSmelt, RandomGirl, T, M, Clonk, and maybe Miss SB soon too), and I like a lot of the academics whose blogs I read although I know them only through their blogs. But, in general, I just don't like the posturing, the strategizing, the pedigree-checking, the trend-monitoring, the name-dropping that I think are particularly ugly in my very competitive, often mocked, poorly funded field.
But, enough moaning; how about some cheer for a change, NC? Okay, here it is. Tonight, I went out with the library crowd from the unit I am volunteering in and had a really good time. We drank beer and talked about mold, music, books, various cities, foreign languages, translation, peanut butter. The age range, all mingled, was between 20 and 65, no exaggeration. Well, I'm forgetting the 5.5 year old, and he could really hold his own actually. Loves to read that kid. All in all, it was delightful.
Here's the score for the evening --
how much anyone was trying to impress anyone else: 0
how many people were performing any kind of manipulation or surreptitious machination: 0
how much anyone gave a damn about where I did my undergraduate degree or who I know: 0
how many times someone said "transnational," "neoliberalism," "subjectivity," or "antimonies": 0
how many times I was lied to or felt I could not be frank: 0
how much fun I had: 100
Could these be my people? It's early to say, but it's certainly a good start.
Mr. Bubble is sitting on the floor of my office, Nylabone ™ between his front paws, trancing out on his morning chew. He just had a short run in the park, which he needs once a week as supplement to his daily walks in order to get his ya-yas out. He'll be up in a minute to run downstairs and crawl onto Clonk's lap or into his bed in front of the radiator. Normally, he'd lie on his bed in here or on the chair (depending on L'il Bastard's location), but there's no sun streaming in today, so he'll soon seek out other sources of warmth. Yep, there he goes.
We got Mr. Bubble after a year of my campaigning for a second dog. Clonk, being a "cat person," had already given in to the dog side with L'il Bastard, and a reasonable person couldn't have expected more from him. When it comes to dogs, however, I am totally unreasonable. I've had dogs most of my life except for a few brief periods and one long chunk from 1993-2000. That dogless era was characterized by moves to five cities and even more rentals, so having a dog was not really feasible.
All through that time, much of which was spent with Clonk, I was dog-crazy in the way some women become baby-crazy. Every dog I saw on the street elicited sighs and moans. I'd meet and play with as many dogs as possible. When we visited people with dogs, I spent more time with the dogs than I did with the people. A particularly cute dog, or god forbid a puppy, would bring me to tears every single time. My clock was ticking. I needed a dog, now.
When Clonk and I finally bought a house, the first thing I asked was "Can we have a dog?"
L'il Bastard was Clonk's dog from the beginning. It might have had something to do with the fact that Clonk fed him on the table or that Clonk saved him from big dogs at the dog park or that Clonk gave him lots of yummy treats, but after one short week, L'il Bastard had eyes for no other.
After a couple of years being the third wheel, I wanted my own dog. It was October; I was working on my dissertation, feeling bad about my field, and generally despairing. I had been looking at Petfinder for weeks, and then, one Friday morning, I found him. He was at a nearby shelter we could drive to in about thirty minutes. I showed the profile to Clonk and begged him to just drive down to meet the dog. To my surprise, he happily agreed.
At the shelter, we took him out in the yard and played with him, tried a few commands on him, and gave him a cuddle. Back inside, we began the adoption process. The attendants told us that some people had tried to adopt Mr. Bubble just an hour before, but the attendants hadn't liked the answers they gave on the questionnaire or the way they handled the dog in the yard. Turns out Mr. Bubble was a favorite at the shelter, and the woman who completed our adoption had planned to take him home herself if they couldn’t find him a suitable home.
And, it's no wonder they felt so strongly about him there. Mr. Bubble is a snuggler. He always wants to be as near as possible, preferably in your shirt. He's very sweet and a beautiful dog -- looks like a black and white deer. He runs remarkably fast and loves to play. And, he has some eccentricities. He likes to try to lick the lotion off your hands or legs. He jumps up in the air, I mean straight up in the air, whenever he is excited. When he sits, he bends his front left paw under at the wrist. He also is obsessed with the bath.
When I am in the bathtub, Mr. Bubble stands next to it and tries to drink the bath water. He puts his paws up on the edge of the tub and then stretches his neck as far as he can along the side of the tub until his muzzle is close enough to the water surface to lick at it. He especially likes the bubbles, thus his nickname. One time, he fell in the tub with me, so afterward, I started putting bubbles on the side of the tub for him. He will sit next to the tub the entire time you are bathing, waiting for you to get out at which point, he will try to lick the water off your feet and ankles. I always tell him to stop, but he's there to try every time.
I hear his claws clicking up the stairs and down the hall. Now, he's next to my chair stretching -- downward facing dog of course. And. he's up in my lap, nice and toasty, from Clonk I'm guessing who most likely dumped Mr. Bubble when he stood up to do whatever it was he had to do . . . ah, blow his nose I hear. So, I have a velvety lap warmer who'll lay here until I get up or until L'il Bastard starts barking and riles him up. He'll stay even longer if I let him under my top layer of shirt, which he is currently demanding by scratching at it. I guess I'll let him in.
Oh man, he just regaled me with a truly foul bit of flatulence. There are dangers to having him in your shirt.
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