Nostalgia Gets The Best Of Me (at times)

I never said this blog wouldn't get sappy. Here goes.
We're nearing Passover, and it's one of the few Jewish holidays that I consistently enjoy. That's not to say that there haven't been a few years here and there where I've chosen camping over a Seder or have been uninspired when the date arrives on the calendar. Sometimes I felt like why observe it if I can't be there for Amma's briskit and matzo balls? For those of you who don't know, Amma is my maternal grandmother who is 87.
I just found out today that she is in what is called "late stage emphysema." Not a great place to be. In fact, it's going to get increasingly difficult for her lungs to get oxygen, and those lungs haven't exactly been having a picnic since I've known her. She was a chain smoker for over 40 years, but she quit a long time ago. It doesn't matter, the damage is done. The specialist told my mom that we can expect a year. If it weren't for that lung issue, she'd probably live well into the triple digits. Oh well, who's grandparents live forever...certainly not mine. I'm down to two; I guess that's pretty good to still have any at all. I really do need to write about Amma, but I don't feel like it's time to do that. It would feel like a eulogy.

I was walking around the Silver Lake Reservoir today with my son, Zev, my niece, Molly and my cousin, Jason. We were talking about a recording I had of him singing and playing the piano (he's a well-known pianist and composer now) with my brother at one of the parties we threw for my brother's Bar Mitzvah back in 1984. All of my relatives were at my house for that one. Grandma Chickee, Joe (my grandfather), Aunt Selma, Uncle Beast, Uncle Cupple and many others who have since passed away were there in all of their glory. I used to really get excited when my relatives from out of town would visit us in New Orleans. My parents were still married back then. Uncle Beast was cutting up, crooning "Swanee" by the piano and cracking the other guests' toes. I was such a show-off at 11, running around the house in different costumes and doing imitations of people. If you come to my house now, you'll see that I haven't changed all that much. I found the recording from the party, but it only had a few minutes of that party recorded. Unfortunately, I made the decision to tape a bunch of classic rock from B-97FM over it. Listening to that little bit of the party on cassette made my eyes water. It really brought me back. I was the youngest one in the room all over again.

I remember that feeling of having all of these relatives around who loved me and treated me like gold. There really weren't any whom I didn't like. At 11 years old, you don't think about them going anywhere (i.e., dying). I think it's called living in the moment, and it's something children and pets do. It doesn't come so natural for me, now that I've been burned by a few deaths. Well, deaths don't really burn you. They just make you armor yourself; you know it's coming and you're not going to let it destroy you when it happens. Some might see it as maturity. It's not all it's cracked up to be.

But now I look at Zev. It's his turn to be the youngest one that everyone dotes over. He will have many years of being the clown at the family parties, soaking up all of that attention like manna from heaven. I have a feeling he's going to be a lot like me, in that way. I'm happy to pass the torch. Zev, Molly, Lea, and Max (there are others in this generation of cousins, but these are the ones I'll know best) - enjoy being the stars that you'll inevitably be. Grab our attention, and make sure we laugh at your little skits.

College Room Mates

Yael and I were just talking about how impossible it would be to have a room mate (that wasn't your boyfriend or husband) at this stage of life. I realize that in NYC and in other equally unaffordable places, you don't have much of a choice. After experiencing four female room mates, I've accepted the fact that I'm territorial and basically intolerant of other females in my living space. Catching a glimpse of another girl's dental floss in the garbage gets me on edge, especially when, upon closer inspection, I realize that she's been using my Glide Dental Tape. Shit's expensive. But what was in store for me during my college career was a string of unusual girls who were kind of a pu-pu platter of personalities and quirkiness...and poo-poo.
I met my first roommate in August, 1991, at the University of Texas in Austin. Her name was Sarah and she hailed from rural Alberta, Canada. That's kind of redundant, isn't it? Suffice it to say, she was not what I had in mind back when I used to fantasize about going to college and living in a dorm. She had the coke-bottle glasses, the bowl-cut, the works. Besides being Canadian, she was a cellist. In fact, she was on a music scholarship - a very serious musician. Also seriously weird... and unhygienic. I quit using the mini-fridge that I had rented soon after I saw/smelled her contents inside of it. She made a bizarre practice of spreading her processed bologna slices on top of it before putting them on bread, leaving grease stains and a meaty smell wafting through the room. Do they use the top of the fridge as a cutting board in Canada?
On Sunday nights, she'd spend a couple of hours on the phone with her very red-haired boyfriend in Canada, appropriately named Garnet. They would have surprisingly raunchy conversations in very hushed tones in the Queen's English with goofy Canadian inflections. Many times, she'd be completely under the covers/sheets while on the phone with him. I can't remember too much else about that year. I took no photos of her. She freaked me out.

For my Sophomore year, I moved into a carpeted townhouse apartment with a very unusual layout. It had a shared upstairs bedroom with a sink in the bedroom, kind of like a hotel. Heather was my roommate, and her name was on the lease. I knew her because she was the ex-girlfriend of a guy whom I had a crush on back in New Orleans. She was fairly attractive and had a good body. Guys noticed her. She was American (from Houston, in fact) but wanted people to think she was foreign. She ended her sentences with "no?" And, for that matter, she was constantly on the phone long distance. How international!
All of her studying took place at the French bakery, where she'd converse in French with French speaking Arab men who obviously wanted to have sex with her. When any of these smitten guys tried to pursue her, she'd act totally coy about it. When we were approached by say, Pasha, her black Russian gynecologist friend, who hung out with her at the coffee shoppe, she would nudge me when he asked her out and try to convince him that she and I already had plans for that date. This one guy named Brian who wore lederhosen(and wasn't German) had a huge crush on her. He would stop me whenever he saw me to ask about Heather. I didn't want to be seen on campus talking to 40 year old Pinocchio, or any of these creepy guys from other lands. So I was put in a position of avoiding at least 10 guys that year. I remember one Dane in particular named Jens (pronounced Yenz). It was during their brief courtship that Heather began washing her diaphragm in our bedroom sink. It would happen like this: she'd spend the night out, I'd be sleeping upstairs, I'd hear the two of them enter and some foreign mumblings, of course. She'd come upstairs, pop it out and give it a quick rinse, like it was a retainer or something. No scrubbing the sink afterwards or nothing!
Would you scrub the toilet bowl with someone's toothbrush? Would you dry your face with someone's dirty underwear? I'm looking for an equivalent here, but I can't find one. Toward the end of our year together, she'd invite herself to tag along with me and my pals. I wasn't having it. She'd have to drink her cafe au lait all by herself...or toute seule, no?

Junior year, my best friend at the time, Amy, and I decided to get a place together. We were pretty much inseparable after we met on a study abroad program in Guanajuato, Mexico. She, too, was very pretty and from Houston. Two in a row. However, she was way cooler than Heather.
Once we did find a place together in Hyde Park, we had a great time living together. We called the 4 unit house "Walling Place." Amy smoked cigarettes and had two cats that used to leave warm spots and fur on my pillows. Somehow, that didn't bother me back then. She also had a multitude of male suitors, mostly of the Latin American persuasion, who were tragically in love with her. They were always around the apartment, fixing things and looking for ways to make themselves useful. It wasn't like Heather, who would do it for her ego; Amy was merely throwing these guys a bone. They'd go so far as to escort her when she drove back to Houston, just in case she had car problems on the trip. Ah, just to inhale the fumes of her Acura! Actually, I called her the Road-Runner. I can't remember why. The last time we traveled to Mexico together, she ate a cream-puff that had sat out too long and came down with a case of Salmonella. I spent a couple of days in an outdoor hospital in Cuernavaca signing papers allowing doctors to inject her with god-knows-what. I hope she's testing negative these days. Somehow our friendship fizzled out. She moved back to Houston into her parents' home in a golf course subdivision that her father owned. According to Google, she placed 203rd in a marathon in Houston.

When Amy moved out, one of my good buddies from back at Jester Center (the dorms freshman year), Sabrina, moved in. She, too, was a colorful character. It's worth mentioning that we roomed together two separate times in both Texas and New Mexico. Sabrina and I bonded back at the dorm, mostly because she always had weed, a television in her room, and an impressive assortment of delicious German cookies. Her room mate was a bible thumper and mine, as you know, did that thing with the bologna. Sabrina and I had a good time together, in spite of the fact that she acted like a character off of an annoying sitcom. She did all of the "college" things that I never did. She majored in Anthropology & Women's Studies, participated in drum circles, and had a brief summer internship as a lesbian.
Once she moved in to my unit at Walling Place, she was a pretty good roommate, especially since we both had serious boyfriends and slept out most nights.
Our friendship spanned about 10 years. We were both living in Santa Fe, NM, when I saw her last. Eventually, she hooked up with an extreme athlete with a shaved head and a temper. She got even more annoying, and we lost touch. I found out recently that she was working for an accountant and calling herself a Republican. I probably need a whole blog to discuss Sabrina.

For my Senior year, the inevitable happened, and I moved into a complex near downtown Austin called "The Rio House" with my boyfriend whom I snagged back at Walling Place. He lived in the downstairs unit and drove a beat up Porsche that needed a paint job.

This is a good place to stop, since I haven't had other female room mates besides the ones mentioned here. Who knows where they all are today and what they're saying about me in their blogs? Let's just hope they've cleaned up their acts a little.

Sun Damaged

Fun-loving, yes. Sun-loving? Not so much.
Is there anyone out there who still purposefully tries to get some sun? Actually, yes.

My gay landlord loves to drive through smoggy Los Angeles with his top down on his Saab(pronounced Shaab by him). He always comments about what a beautiful day it is when it's 15 degrees above normal for winter in L.A. Lucky for him, there's plenty more of where that comes from.
My friend in Atlanta, the Roach, loves to sun herself and her double-Ds in a halter top, a ciggy dangling out of her mouth- just soaking up those rays. The rays from Florida are preferable. Are implants made to withstand such heat? She had them installed before global warming.

For me and my pale cohorts, if given the chance, we head for the great indoors between the hours of 10:00 AM and 3:00 PM. At an outdoor party, you can find me so far under that umbrella sun shade, that you'd think I was pole-dancing. Even a glare off of the swimming pool gets me running.
I was in denial about my paleness for about the first 16 years of my life. I would lay out with oil, lather on coconut scented Coppertone, go sailing, skiing, and hang out with people who had good tans, in hopes that it would spread like a virus. After an entire season of hard work, I'd have a mild tan the color of a pale birthmark, loads of freckles and other sun damage waiting to reveal itself over the course of the next 60 years or so. Can't wait to see what unfolds. And what summer would be complete without days in bed with a fever from a sizzling sunburn: the kind where it hurts too much to wear shoes or sit on a toilet? I was faithful to the cause and would keep going back for more, believing that the cumulative attempts at tanning would eventually get me looking smooth and brown-ish. It didn't work, but you have to admire my persistence.
Back in the mid-80s, the entire first day at school was spent checking out all of the tans on the good-looking kids.
I was fucked. In fact, not only did kids use me as a means to compare how tall they had gotten over the summer, but also as a tan-o-meter(?). Kids would stop me, brandish their cigar-colored forearm, and expect me to line mine up next to theirs. I guess they were looking for that chocolate and vanilla effect. Looking back, I gave these other rich, preppy kids real joy; they could rely on me returning to school shorter and paler than them each and every year. I still haven't been thanked.
Now, think about the people who actually live in the desert. And I'm not talking about nut jobs in Arizona. Real desert dwellers are smartly covered from head to toe in sheets. They know that life is long, and sunburns suck. I couldn't agree more. I'm aiming for a society that's dressed in Vietnamese rice-paddy hats and long-sleeved white gowns. We need to pass some legislation which mandates that all daytime outdoor parties take place under substantial awnings. I know what you're saying, "Why doesn't she just wear sunscreen and shut-up?"
Oh, I do. In fact, I have a dazzling array of sunscreens with impressive SPF factors. I'm proud to say there isn't one tube that has anything less that a SPF30. Still, I don't put all of my trust in sunscreen, especially since I feel so greasy and sticky once I've topped off all of my pores with it.
I always welcome an overcast day, especially when there is an all-day outdoor event. What a controversial statement...especially when made in front of my fun-loving tanned friends. I feel like Scrooge, at times...lately, more often than not. A few years ago at the Jazz Fest in New Orleans(one of those all-day events), Steven, Blake, Stinky, Jayne, and I were enjoying ourselves in the cloudy shade provided by mother nature. We felt safe under the dark purple pre-storm sky, especially Steven and I since we're white as flour tortillas. We could really relax without all of the squinting and fear of those stinging UV rays. All of the sudden, a complete reversal of fortune: the sun emerged! No words needed to be spoken. I immediately grabbed a tube of SPF55 and handed it to Steven. It's that kind of ESP that exists between people of our shade. Whenever I see black people who are especially black, I feel a certain camaraderie with them. You see, we are the extremes on the spectrum of our given color. They must put up with a lot from their light-skinned friends who probably "work" at being light-skinned. Oh, well, this is turning somewhat political, but you catch my drift.
The tide is turning. The movie stars are sporting a reverse tan-line, and now it's finally healthy to be pale. Formerly tan people are coming out against the sun. My mom, along with several other former sun-godesses spend big money at the dermatologist's getting spots removed and testing out the latest retinol product. My mom was on one product called Tazerac which made her sun damage peel off like a leper. We called her "Taz" for a while. I should pitch the idea to Steven's law firm to set up a class-action suit against the suntanning industry. I just found out that it's already in the works.
Skin cancer be damned, tans do still look good. If you have the unfortunate occasion to be in a bathing suit, stay near me and you'll look fine.

What's in your safe?

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Being Whiteballed

I absolutely love the food at this Armenian Restaurant in Hollywood. It's a place called Carousel, and it's actually Armenian-Lebanese cuisine. The decor is awful which I take as a good sign: mauve walls, plastic dishes, dusty silk plants, fluorescent lights. Too many people fall for the trendy faux-zen -bamboo-chocolate brown and blue- fusion eateries. I leave those places for the skinny people. We've been eating at Carousel since we moved to L.A. in August of 2006. In my mind, we've done that place a favor. We come often and early, so they can be done with us before the huge crowds of Armenians pour in. We usually bring a few people with us, who, in turn, tell even more people about this place. We order a pretty nice spread: usually some foul, muhumarrah spread, a kebab or two, some salads, maybe even a vegetarian platter. As I see it, we're decent honkies who stay nice and low profile and tip 20%.
Well, here's the rub- we always get the same waiter who will always try to do one less thing for us, just to keep us in our places. My friend, Shlomo, calls it "being whiteballed." I'm sure you all have a story like this.
Maybe you were abused at a Korean restaurant once? Many times?
You know that move where the wait staff recommends the lamest thing possible because they're so convinced of your whiteness. In fact, they withhold the good stuff on the menu from you. I guess they figure, "why would this honky want some of our most legit dishes? Let's just serve them Pad Thai." Well, this is certainly the case with this one surly waiter at Carousel . We know that they serve lavash bread with the appetizers. On one of our first visits to Carousel, we were treated to the lavash bread. I know it's what the Armenians get, too. Since that one occasion, we have been served exclusively pita bread. Not that I dislike pita; it's just an example of us getting white-balled. And, yes, lavash bread is way better. I've interrogated this waiter about the lavash bread on almost every visit, and he vehemently denies that they have ever served lavash bread. It doesn't matter, I keep coming back.

I'm writing this to all of you honkies out there or people like me who look like honkies. This blog is part of my community service. The next time you're in the most legit ethnic dives, do whatever you have to do to let the wait staff know that you wish to eat like the other countrymen in the establishment.
With that said, you might wonder just what happens when you are insistent and in Peru?


Bisq decided to get all Peruvian one night in Cuzco and order the Peruvian delicacy known as Quy al horno(guinea pig). I guess you need to know the time and place for being a honky.

Singh Modi- the palm reader

Just getting back from an afternoon with Singh Modi. I've posted this photo, so you'll be able to spot this man when you cross paths. According to his log, he has read over 46,000 palms to date. We met Singh Modi back in Atlanta about 5 years ago and have made sure to keep crossing paths ever since.
He's headed to Budapest tomorrow, if you're looking for him. He reads the palms of people, animals, celebrities and babies (Zev featured in this photo). There's a koala bear in Australia whom he visits with every year, in order to read his palm. In fact, Singh Modi looks a little like a koala. And I mean that only in the kindest way. He insists that his clients go on to achieve great success. Remember the guy who played Michael on Melrose Place? Yep, Singh Modi told him that he would be a star.
Today we had a reading for the whole family.
He started with Zev.
Zev will be emotionally very connected with me until he is 26 or 27. This is also the year when, incidentally, he will have his first major relationship with a woman. However, he should wait until his early 30's for marriage. If he makes the mistake of marrying sooner, then he will have 2 marriages. 2 marriages in my family is pretty much de rigueur, but some of us are trying to break the mold (shout out to me and Augie!!). He's got a case of sausage fingers which also runs in the family - this means easy to gain weight...sorry, Zev. I need to make sure that he pigs out on healthy things.
To sum up his reading:
1.he'll be a traveler interested in long journeys
2. he'll be musical
3.he'll be a serious thinker with psychic abilities(check out his 3rd eye: see photo)
4.he will be vibrant and active (his thumb length speak volumes)
5.he'll be a risk-taker
6. the webbed 2nd and 3rd toes indicate a marriage of wisdom and power (Singh Modi can read feet, too)
My reading was good.
At 34, I am actually a 1 year old in my new life. I guess I need some diapers. So what's up is that the next 8-9 years are going to be "fantastic," as Singh Modi put it. I was an architect in my past life, arranging the external world. Well, in this life, I'm using Acupuncture and healin' as a way to rearrange the internal world of my patients. By the time I'm 43, people will just pay me. That's peachy by me. I'm going to own 2 homes. This is not necessarily what I would choose for myself, since I just got rid of a house that I didn't enjoy all that much. Maybe these 2 new homes won't be a pain in my ass. We'll see...
I might get involved in a health-food delivery service...or have a healthy cooking school. That doesn't sound too bad. Oh yeah, Binky, if you're reading this - you want in?
I need to get my latest invention up and rolling by this Fall. You'll hear about my product soon. You didn't think this blog was a way for me NOT to push my products, did you?
And, lastly, there was Bisq's reading.
Singh says Bisq has been in a "dark period" since last August, but it's beginning to lift. He should be in a much better place after his birthday(4/19). Interestingly, Zev's crooked pinky, which makes him highly persuasive, might have something to do with the timing of the dark period. It just so happened that the dark period enabled Zev to have both parents home for his first months. Would Zev really do that? Anyway, Bisq is on the right track seeing the life coach to determine which career path comes from the heart. He might need to get back with a band, in order to rediscover his love of music...stay tuned. He has to repeat, "I want to live in joy," 3 times a day. If any of you see him, make sure he's not slacking on that.
So, there you have it...and a little dirty laundry, too.

Dehydrated and Spent

I'm just coming off of a family weekend, hence the title of this blog. My stepmother's nephew had his Bar Mitzvah on Saturday, so I attended a Reconstructionist Synagogue for services, followed by a party at the Santa Monica Pier. Then, on Sunday, the honour of our presence was requested at yet another event: brunch at the Luxe Hotel in Bel-Air.
I wonder if the omelet that I had at yesterday's brunch was fully cooked....or maybe the eggs sitting out in a pitcher at the omelet station had sat too long?? Later in the day, Bisq, Zev, Ya-el, Isobel and I went hiking in Griffith Park. It was then and there that my stomach began churning, and I began running down the hill to get to the public restrooms.
As my mom put it, "these are the perils that come with eating outdoors."
Today I am at home in my pj's dealing with this intestinal issue and avoiding the outside world.
Rumor has it, it's very hot outside.
Tomorrow we are off to see our palm reader, Singh Modi. He is in L.A. for a couple of days, reading palms at some store called Hari Casuals. I wonder what my palm will have to say this time. He's been fairly insightful for me over the past 5 years, and I find it useful to be armed for whatever's around the bend. I'll report back after my reading.

Masters Degree

Just the other day, I was looking at a photo of my graduating class from the esteemed yet defunct International Institute of Chinese Medicine in Santa Fe, NM.
My graduating class from Summer 2000 was a motley crew of 6.
Let's see, there was Gary, a middle aged mustached Mormon who had a pretty scary vibe. Duh, he was Mormon. There was me, at 27,the youngest whipper-snapper in the group. There was Mike (a.k.a.Mr. Kitty) my best friend during the 3 years: the default hot guy. There was Shauna, a menopausal crystal wearer from Boulder, CO. with a lip-less smile who'd give anyone the willies. There was a mean-as-hell skinhead, Russel (Mr.Kitty and I called him "George the animal Steele"...behind his back) who dated a pretty Canadian girl with self-esteem issues. And, lastly, a bag lady named Marion who definitely lived in her car in the Whole Foods parking lot.
The school had several other noteworthy (and annoying!) students from all over the world.
Sorry to dispel the myth for anyone reading this who thought my Masters degree came from a prestigious institution. IICM was a twasted crossroads for people looking to get into the business of Eastern healing. Back in 1996, when I was searching for the right Acupuncture school, I guess this otherworldly place which was a combination of the old West, new-age U.F.O. freakishness and a Chinese halfway house appealed to me. It was certainly unlike any scene I had ever dabbled in.
IICM was owned and run by a Chinese married couple, both doctors. They went by the names "Michael" and "Nancy" and were always smiling and getting away with whatever they could with OSHA, the IRS and other law enforcement agencies. After returning from each semester break, an entirely new administration would be there to greet us. There would be notices all over the place about our accreditation being up for review. How reassuring to all of us students.
The school structure was an old adobe house located next to a horse farm. The house had a couple of make-shift classrooms, a trailer beside it which acted as a library and, of course, the student clinic which was also a trailer. The only thing dividing that trailer and the horse farm next door was a very low fence. Often, patients would be lying on the table, zoning out with flies buzzing around them while a horse's head would peer in through the window.
The teachers, for the most part, were excellent. Many of them had to learn English as they simultaneously taught in English. Very Jerry Lewis. Santa Fe, NM, is a strange and unlikely first place for a Chinese person to land in the U.S. We'd meet them just days after they'd arrive from China. Basically, they were indentured servants of Michael's and Nancy's. In return for their green cards, they'd teach for peanuts, orange peels, and whatever scraps were laying around the campus. In the meantime, you might catch Dr. Wang with his pants rolled up to his knees while scrubbing the toilets at lunch break. I wonder if these respectable doctors in China knew beforehand that their position in an American school included janitorial duties! Culturally, they were hilarious. One teacher, Dr. Zhang would wear his work clothes over his silky burgundy pajamas. You could always see a shiny cuff from the p.j.s hanging out below his high-waters. Something about Asian immigrants: there is a high likelihood that their fly is open. Why is that? It's not like they don't wear pants with a zipper fly in China. During the semester, students would throw parties and the Chinese teachers were fixtures at some of the wildest of throw-downs. In fact, their very presence precipitated the craziness. I seem to remember a party that Bisq and I hosted at our place where there was a heated ping-pong tournament going on under the carport in the pouring rain. Meanwhile, inside the apartment, a rubber packer( cyberskin penis) was being passed around with the Chinese teachers in the middle of it all. "Why did they show up to all of these degenerate parties?", you might wonder. In Chinese culture it's very rude not to honor an invitation, so they would invariably show up with some pork party dishes and think that they were attending a typical American party. Looking back, it was pretty remarkable how these people came to this bizarre desert town and immersed themselves into a crowd of rogue Acupuncture students. They were exceptionally courageous, considering how much trouble they could get into in their homeland for unruly public behaviour.
There was rarely a dull moment for us during that time. We made friends with people just because we got a kick out of them. Remember, it was a very limited pool of people. The cliques were downright twasted. There were the homeopathic pill-poppers who were obsessed with parasites - these cliques always included a German or a Brit. There were the rope-head trustafarians who played hacky-sack in the school's parking lot. Most of them were from Colorado. I was friendly with one named Ehrland. He once was a member of a cult in Oregon that drank and bathed in their own urine for the purposes of health. Then there's the random elderly folks who were the freakiest of them all! It goes without saying: the annoying people far outnumbered the tolerable folks.

Some of the classes were a hoot. One of the point location courses was a practicum in which you find the Acupuncture points on a partner's body. And you'd better choose your partner wisely. The first point on the Ren Meridian is on the taint, for chrissake!

As hard as I try, I cannot erase the memory Shauna (freaky menopausal from my graduating class) on all fours in front of Mr. Kitty, who got a rear-view of something that you'd expect to see on a baboon. Mr. Kitty and I have spent the last 10 years referring to her as "ashen beaver." I told you this blog would get R-rated, sooner or later.
I can go on and on about IICM. And I will in later blogs. I was just opening Pandora's box, in order to get a blog out today. I hope you enjoyed it.

Ronnie

Let me begin this blog by saying, we are not rich. However, for a short time, we did have our own personal cab driver back in the ATL. He drove for a company called Lenox Cab, and his name was Ronnie. His business partner was about 500lbs., and his name was Tommy. Our first encounter with Ronnie was when we needed a ride from our apartment in Inman Park to Hartsfield International Airport. It was LOVE at first sight. Tommy was supposed to make the run- but he had bypass surgery, or something. Fate put us in touch with Ronnie, and what a privilege it was to be his passenger.
How does one describe Ronnie? I seem to remember a blond ponytail in a rubber band. A view from the back seat affords you mostly side glimpses of him, so it's not until you settle up that you can really take him in. The golden moment comes once he pulls up to the destination, yanks his partial/dentures out of his sweats (pockets?) and quickly inserts them into his mouth. Then he gets your suitcases out. Priceless. It's pretty trite to say, but the miles have taken their toll on Ronnie. Even as a baby he must have been a bit leathery. It would take two lifetimes and loads of skoal to achieve this skin tone,teeth(or lack there of), and general gnarl. Basically as handsome as an 80's era WWF wrestler in sweatpants and slippers. Looks aren't everything though. You should've heard him on his CB radio- he made the South proud. When he got around to it, he'd engage you into a bit of conversation in the most laid back manner. He didn't really care if you took the bait, or not. He might just say something like, "Ma bahr-eyed is mean as ever." For those of you too normal to know, that's southern for a type of bird called a Bare-eyed Cockatoo.
Turns out Ronnie had a basement full of exotic parrots and reptiles. He had something like 15 parrots in that basement in Forrest Park, GA. We weren't yet parrot owners, but we were definitely intrigued by parrots and the twasted people who owned them. He would feed them all kinds of southern specialties like grits and popcorn and described that basement as a loud circus of cussing parrots, pissed off dogs, and escapee snakes. In fact, Ronnie's son, who worked at Petco, had rescued their African Grey from another Petco employee who was fixin' to feed him to a snake, in order to get back at his girlfriend. Imagine that! So, it seems Ronnie and his son provided somewhat of a homeless shelter for battered parrots. He did frequent the bird shows which are chock-full of carnies. We know, because we used to go, too. What a scene. In fact, we purchased our Pacific Parrotlet, Raja, at a combo bird/reptile show in Gwinett County.
Once we had Raja, we could really converse with Ronnie about what it was like to be a tired-out parent of a parrot. FYI, lots of parrot owners really don't consider Pacific Parrotlets to be real parrots. Ronnie would humor us and nod along listening, though I'm sure he thought we were amateurs and sissies to own just one parrot who couldn't peck out an eye. Parrot owners wear their scars like badges of courage or purple hearts. My mom proudly displays her
small scar on her neck left by her Green Cheeked Conure, Iko. Bisq and I bare no scars but we've definitely had our share of ups and downs with Raj. But, back to Ronnie..
So, not only was he cool because of the parrot thing, but he was an absolute artist when it came to navigating heinous Atlanta traffic. He had lots of great cabbie tricks up his sleeve, like using/abusing the HOV lanes and taking every weird unmarked service exit he could find.
Our real bonding/falling-in-love experience came when we hired Ronnie to take our gaggle of drunks to the Steely Dan concert in 2003. We had 2 minivans for the likes of us, Zulie, the Coach & the Roach, some twasted coke-head realtors and a few other friends/acquaintances. Ronnie came up to our apartment to meet Raj and to let us know that we were welcome to bring our cocktails with us in the vans. As New Orleanians, we greatly appreciated this gesture (especially Zulie, who doesn't really acknowledge any type of open-container law to begin with). Using some incredible back roads that brought us by some sort of State Penitentiary, Ronnie got our caravan to the show in under 5 minutes. He sped through a backstage gate at the amphitheater just as the guard was closing it, while nodding at the guard. We could only imagine that the guard was expecting Ronnie at this exact time. Who would've expected such Secret Service-style precision out of a guy that looked like an ex-Oak Ridge Boy?
Ronnie upped the ante a few weeks later by getting Bisq & Blake into the sold-out Radiohead show at the same amphitheater. He drove them to the show (same spy-like entrance, etc), walked them up to a ticket-taker/conspirator and told them to give the guy $20. That was that.
Once we moved to Chamblee, we didn't see Ronnie anymore: the ride to the airport from way out there was too expensive. I doubt we'll ever have our own personal cabbie again, but we sure felt safe with Ronnie at the helm. I hope he's still out there kicking ass and rescuing exotic animals.

Survey Question

I was chatting with Blake yesterday, as the 2 of us haven't seen a working day in quite some time. We're 2 yentas on the horn, chewing the fat on a daily basis.
We thought it might be cool to find out which magazines our friends read.
I'll start with me:

Bird Talk
Bust
Parenting (yikes!)
Fitness (oh, the irony)
An occasional New Yorker, the Economist, Living, Mother Earth News

Here's Bisq's list:

Tape-Op
Electronic Musician
Bird Talk
Recording
Keyboard
Mix
Remix
Us Weekly
Jet

Okay, it's your turn...write back with your list

The Little Hamlet of Chamblee

At the end of December, we finally sold our house that owned for a little over 2 years in Chamblee, GA. For those of you unfamiliar, Chamblee is a town/suburb of Atlanta. Looking back, the house was a bit of an impulse buy. The overwhelming desire to purchase a home in Atlanta was infectious, and we were easily swayed. I think we were told too many times that owning a home is the ultimate investment. I often wonder how it is that people like me and Biscuit are so quick to catch the fever. Thankfully, the Scientologists haven't captured us yet.
Anyway, this isn't a blog about the house. It's more about how we decided to move to Chamblee and, in our own weird way, thought we were bringing on the Renaissance in Unincorporated DeKalb County. Maybe we do smoke a little too much cheeba. So, in July 2004, we moved into a nice brick ranch house with way too much landscaping and foolishly decided to re-do the whole place in groovy colors, even the ceilings. Oh, and we decided to cover up the hideous fire-place. All great for re-sale value. Bisq and I didn't exactly blend right into Huntley Hills (our subdivision), and we might have turned a few heads with our bodacious highlights (that's another blog in and of itself). Our lawn was one of the only ones that didn't have a Bush/Cheney 2004 sign and our cars had no Support Our Troops stickers. We grew lonely out there, waiting for cafes and other signs of civilization to show up. Our gay realtor, Ben Leaptrott, assured us that Chamblee was really on the up and up. Any day now, there would be groovy shops and other amenities to suit the tastes of all of the hip professionals moving into the new condos near the MARTA station. Then, we'd pat ourselves on the back for our wise investment and make out like bandits on the resale. Again, cheeba.
We didn't know too many of our neighbors, but we knew Bill who lived across the street. He didn't care much for hippies, but he liked smoking weed, making pot cookies with M&Ms, making beef jerky (no weed in the ingredients) and getting wasted on Miller Light. He loved Nascar, the USA, Rottweilers and all of the things that make one feel right at home in the Peach state. But Bill wasn't one dimensional, as these descriptions might have led you to believe. He had some Jewish friends and got along with gays. My friends who all lived in decent cities rarely visited, so Bill became our friend. He'd usually see us pulling into the driveway around 7 or 8 PM when he'd already begun tying one on. He'd run across the street with a giant martini in a plastic tumbler and see if we were up to hanging out a while. We said yes most of the time, and the visits were usually pretty much the same. He was delighted that we'd sometimes puff on a joint with him, but pretty disappointed in how little alcohol I drank. The fact that Bisq didn't drink at all didn't go over too well, either. He'd dominate the discussions, but not in an unpleasant way. I'm usually in the mood for my guests to put on a performance. However, like most heavy drinkers, he repeated the same stories about the good old days. In Bill's opinion, Huntley Hills was an undiscovered paradise. He even thought that we had the best tasting tap water of anywhere in Atlanta. The bars along Peachtree Industrial Blvd. were fabulous, according to Bill - and he couldn't dehydrate enough beef jerky to keep up with the demand.
There were other colorful characters in Huntley Hills, like my former 19 year old secretary, Karrin, and her blind parents. There was a cute black lady named Doreen from Puerto Rico who couldn't believe a good man such as George W. Bush could let so many people suffer during Katrina. She also thought that the flood water would leave New Orleans cleaner than ever. We always meant to try a West African restaurant with her but never got around to it. It's worth mentioning that there was a Huntley Hills prayer group, too.
Anyway, it was an interesting experiment moving out there after having lived in Santa Fe, NM. You do things for reasons you don't quite understand. In the end, we learned about a decent barbeque joint called Pig 'N Chick, that Chic-Fil-A is closed on Sundays and that the only way to keep your lawn looking good is to use gene-altering agents like Round-Up.

Maybe everyone should give the suburbs a fair shake. Get yo'self a membership to the neighborhood pool and wave hello to all the other fat ladies while you power walk.