Jersey Bros : The Portraits : On Sale Now!!

JERSEY BROS by David McCarty | Make Your Own Book

Bad Ass Axe

I posted this elsewhere, but couldn't resist. It's just too cool. Makes me want to head into the forrest and chop things down. Of course my chainsaw is a lot faster, but not nearly as cool. Sold by the Best Made Company.

Even The Packaging Is Cool

Looks Like Something Out Of An Apocalyptic Movie

PACKING TIME from Peter Buchanan-Smith on Vimeo.

Velorbis Bags

For a Dutch bicycle company, they sure make some cool bags. This might have to become a fall addition to my collection.

Now That's A Bike

The Velorbis Churchill Balloon

Perfect for tackling bumpy roads and curbs, the Churchill Balloon gents commuter bike is the robust, hard-wearing brother of the Churchill Classic bicycle model. With black Fat Frank balloon tyres from Schwalbe it rolls amazingly easily with full suspension effect. You can also upgrade your standard black Fat Frank tyres for distinctive cream or brown versions.

The Churchill Balloon upright retro bike comes complete with luxurious brown leather accessories by Brooks – saddle, handle grips and mud flaps. Additional features include mud guards, chain guard, enclosed 3W dynamo driven head lamp and dynamo driven rear lamp, integrated frame lock, kick stand, ‘ding dong’ bell and rear carrier.

The steel rear carrier has an innovative hook on the side so that you can carry laptop bags, gym bags or grocery bags on the side of your bicycle. When you place your bag handles over the hook and bring down the spring loaded top flap, a special locking mechanism ensures that your items are securely held in place when cycling.

This is my idea of a bike.

Even the accessories are cool.

Car Shopping

Jane and I are car shopping today. The lease is up on her truck at the end of the month, so this is our last weekend to do something. I think I know what we want, which is a Toyota FJ. I've liked them since the first time I saw one, which I believe was the last time we were car shopping. Only then, Jane wanted a pickup truck. The FJ looks, to me, like a Mini Cooper mated with a Hummer. Or at least a baby Land Rover.

The truck was nice to have, but it's just too big for her, and frankly, not practical for 90% of what she uses it for.

I thought we'd get a smaller SUV, something big enough for her to load stuff in, but something she can park. Then I'll look for a used pickup, something under $3k that we can beat around in when needed. Pick up mulch, straw bales, wood.

So, for now, the Toyota.

I hate car shopping. The whole thing skeeves me out. I'll overpay just to not have to spend more time with these people. I don't like haggling. I don't want to pit several dealers against one another to get the best price (which is the best way to get the best price). I just want to know how much the vehicle is, I want the vehicle I want (not necessarily what you have on the lot), and I want to spend as little time as possible doing paperwork. I don't want you to show me how to use the trunk, or explain the nuances of the sound system. I'll figure that out on my own. I've mastered complex computer software programs without ever having opened the manual. I think I can handle an automobile made for the American public.

It will be interesting today. The salesperson is a woman. And she sounds young, though you can never really tell from a voice on the phone. I sent a request in to the dealer and she's the one who called me back. So, I guess she gets the sale.

P.S. I still hate car shopping. The whole thing is a scam. If I had not pushed back I could have way overpaid. We love the car so far, though.

Scarves

I love scarves. It used to be I had just a few, but then I realized that all those scarves I had bought my wife Jane over the years (Paris, Dubai, London) were just as good for me as they were for her.

Recently, I purchased several Arab scarves, which are great because they are large and square. They're better than a coat. I can wear a hat and a scarf and be warmer than than wearing a light jacket.

Scarves have been big recently in fashion circles, but I think I'm hooked. I'll be wearing them regardless.

Which brings me to seasonal fashion as it pertains to my own body image. The older I get, the more I prefer winter, where I can cover my body in elaborate ways and still feel fashionable. In the heat of the summer, there's not much left to disguise.

Cloth Napkins

I love good cloth napkins. I’m thinking of re-instituting a policy whereby we only use cloth napkins at dinner in the house. What’s the big deal? Buy enough so that it’s not an issue. Toss them in the laundry. It’s got to be cheaper and better on the environment that paper napkins. And it’s so much cooler. We need to kick it old school.

For awhile, we got really into paper plates, paper napkins and even plastic cups. What’s the deal?! What’s next, drinking wine out of Dixie cups. Hell, if it were up to me, we’d have our milk delivered in glass bottles several times a week.

The Disease of Kings

When I was younger, I always thought of getting old as a romantic notion. I imagined myself retired and puttering about, keeping myself busy with this or that but with no responsibilities. What I didn't count on was that my body would simultaneously begin to fail me. It just hadn't occurred to me.

Yesterday I was doing a little writing and was contemplating what I wanted to write about.

It feels a little like I don’t do enough anymore. That so many of the stories I wrote before came out of my misadventures involving hobbies, family, home repair or other projects. Our kids are grown and don’t do a lot of things with us. I tend to hire people to do house repair (and I always hated it anyway), and I don’t seem to have many hobbies other than surfing and let's face it, there are really only so many things you can say about surfing. It's a wonderful activity, but after one essay, you've pretty much covered the subject. I DON'T want to write about work.

What was I going to write about now, I asked myself. Did I need to become more productive around the house if only so that I had something to write about? It's not the worst idea in the world. But then something happened last night that may have given me a glimpse into my writing future.

Last night I realized I have gout. Gout! I mean, who gets gout? Here is a short list:

Henry VIII, Charles Spurgeon, Kublai Khan, Nostradamus, John Milton, Queen Anne, Isaac Newton, Charles IV, Charles V, Alfred Lord Tennyson, George IV, John Hancock, Thomas Jefferson, Karl Marx, Alexander Hamilton, George Mason, Benjamin Franklin, Henry James, Frederick the Great, Curt Schilling, and perhaps most interestingly, the T-Rex skeleton called "Sue."

With the exception of Curt Shilling, the professional baseball player who famously helped the Boston Red Sox to win the 2004 World Series, all these other people are from another century, or two. This is not a modern affliction. It's more like a throwback. I live in a house built in 1725 and have somehow acquired an ailment from that time period.

If you're not familiar—and I certainly wasn't—gout is a kind of arthritis. It's usually associated with the swelling of a joint, usually the big toe, and is caused by a buildup of uric acid in the blood. If the uric acid levels are too high, they form crystals in the joint, causing pain and swelling. That's what I have. A painful, swollen bit toe. Bigfoot.

It has been called "the disease of kings" because it was associated with the intake of rich foods and alcohol. Swell. It doesn't sound much like the disease of kings. It's closer to something poor sailors would get, like scurvy.

There is no permanent cure. But you can lessen the impact by reducing your intake of beef, scallops, gravy, bacon, pork, lamb, asparagus, liver (I guess my beloved foie gras is out), red wine and beer (specifically draft beer). Actually alcohol consumption in general is supposed to be curtailed, which I don't see happening any time soon.

Instead you're supposed to drink a lot of water. This seems to be the answer to almost everything and I rarely drink water, let alone the 64 ounces or so they suggest. Who has the time to drink that much water? They also suggest natural cherry juice as a remedy. This I might be able to handle.

My ancient ailment is just one in a long, but new, list of afflictions I've had to endure since turning 40. I have a bad lower back, hemorrhoids, poor hearing, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to start getting stuff cut off my skin from years of overexposure to the sun.

Well, at least I'll have something to write about now.

Wet Rocks

I stopped at the liquor store on the way home from work yesterday and while browsing for a new chardonnay came across a wine description from a winery that among other things described the wine as evoking wet rocks. It wasn’t clear whether they thought it tasted or smelled of such. But then the smell and taste of a wine are so closely linked that maybe it didn’t matter.

It certainly got my attention. Wet rocks. Who is tasting or smelling wet rocks? And why would anyone want their wine to taste or smell like it. I’m not even sure that evokes anything for me. I’ve seen descriptions that evoke a sense of minerality before. Stone. Slate. Graphite. But rocks? And wet no less.

Here is a rather odd description of another wine I found:

"Packed, in a brawny, muscular style atypical for this lush vintage, with a gravelly undertow to the currant paste, braised fig and dark licorice notes. Picks up even more steam on the finish, with grilled mesquite, mineral and garrigue notes and a long, hot stone-filled finish."

There are so many things wrong with this I almost don't know where to begin. Are we supposed to be drinking this, or building a house with it?

For instance: grilled mesquite. Can you even grill wood? Doesn't it just catch fire? A gravelly undertow? A long, hot stone-filled finish? Garrigue? This one I had to look up. According to Wikipedia: Garrigue is a type of low, soft-leaved scrubland found on limestone soils around the Mediterranean Basin, generally near the seacoast, where the climate is ameliorated, but where annual summer drought conditions obtain.

Well, now I'm definitely intrigued. Rocks. Mesquite. Paste. Licorice. And an obscure Mediterranean bush.

In The Dark

You don't really realize how much you enjoy electricity until you find yourself cold, drunk and in the dark. That's been my experience anyway.

Last weekend we were hit with what has been only one of several blizzards in New Jersey. This isn't the typical hyperbole from the local action news team. This was the National Weather Service. We got not one, but two honest to God blizzards in a matter of a few weeks. The last one knocked out the power for several hundred thousand homes. We were one of them for a bit.

Late Friday night, or early Saturday morning, depending on how you look at it, we lost power. Now because we live a little off the grid, meaning that we have well-water, oil heat, and propane cooking gas, you wouldn't think we'd be that affected by natural disasters. But take electricity away and the pump that brings the water from the well no longer works, the pump that injects oil into the heater no longer works, and even the oven doesn't seem to want to work without the aid of an electrical current. The only thing that did work was the stovetop, but only if you lit with a match.

I woke to the sound of my wife Jane and her sister Bern coming into the house. They had spent the night whooping it up at Bern's house just down the street and when they woke up without power, decided to walk through the snow storm to our house. I looked over at the clock to see what time it was, and that's when I knew.

We've lost power before. In fact, it seems like it happens all the time. We live on a state highway and if ice and snow isn't bringing a line down, it's a drunk on his way down to the shore.

But I can't remember it happening when it's this cold and you can't get anywhere because there's a foot or two of snow outside.

So, we started a fire in the dining room fireplace, closed the doors to the other rooms, and opened a bottle of vodka. Frankly, what else were we supposed to do? We couldn't make coffee, as we didn't have any water. There was alcohol, plenty of ice, and canned mixers. We didn't have anywhere to be. We had nothing to do. We made cocktails.

I don't know the last time you sat in a room for eight hours with no lights, no television, no computer, no internet, and just drank and talked. I think it was college for me and there was cocaine involved.

Presumably, the snow also covered the nearby cell tower, rendering it nearly useless, because I normally have a full 3G signal on my iPhone and I was left with barely a cell signal. So even my powerful smart phone was rendered powerless.

So as the light of the day began to fade, so did the batteries in our phones. We were being plunged into darkness with no real connection to the outside world. We had the fire going, which put out just enough heat to keep us from freezing, but not really enough to warm the room and we lit candles which gave us just enough light to not run into things, but not enough to see anything.

At 6pm, Bern announced she had had enough and headed upstairs to bed. I can't remember the last time I went to bed at 6pm. Jane and I were left to drink and stare at each other. Eventually, we decided to argue about something, just to keep it interesting. Then we went to bed. It was 8pm.

I woke at 3am on Sunday morning with lights coming on all around the house. I got up and walked around the house, turning off lights, checking the heat, and running water through the pipes, before going back to bed.

In hindsight, I recommend eating something if you're going to drink for 12-13 hours, because the alternative is waking up with a pretty good hangover. I had been sick for a few days and my back was out from shoveling the weekend before, so when I first woke up I didn't recognize the hangover since I'd felt like shit for at least a week anyway. Eventually, it hit me.

Now it's one thing to wake up the day after a snowstorm with the prospect of digging your way out when you feel good. But if your back is tweaked, and your head won't stop throbbing, it's pretty miserable.

I'm seriously thinking about getting a generator.

Good Writing Habits

"A lot of good writing consists of waiting around the for aquarium to settle so you can see the fish."
- Abigail Thomas.

They Were Small Once

There was a time when my children were small. This might not seem like a profound realization, but it is. Most people my age or younger, have small children. Babies, toddlers, elementary school kids. They blog about cute things four year olds say, little league and the stresses of dealing with diapers, bathtime and family time. I, on the other hand, am planning my oldest daughter's wedding while praying that my youngest will graduate high school (which it looks like he won't).

I yearn for the simpler times. This growing up stuff is the pits. For them. For me. Remember when you wanted to grow up and be an adult and make your own decisions? I'm seriously thinking of asking my parents if I can move back home. I'll be good, I promise. Hell, I'll take out the trash, keep my room clean...hell, I'll pay the mortgage

I was reading a blog recently by a guy who has three small children. He's a good writer and he seems to have a wealth of material to draw from with three boys. What was I doing when my kids were small? How come I wasn't writing?

Maybe I'm having trouble with perspective. The things I THINK I have to write about don't seem humorous, interesting, or even mildly educational. I'm more irritated than anything.

I shouldn't be. My daughter got engaged, was actually able to find a house, and a mortgage in this economy. She has a good job and she's not only moved out, she's getting married in a few months. Why am I not overjoyed at this? It's not like I'm not proud of her, because I am. I'm most pleased.

Maybe, like I said, I just miss those more intimate moments when it was us and them. No cars, dates, jobs, or friends. They went wherever we went. They did what we did and ate what we ate. If Jane and I decided to go to the beach, they went to the beach. Now, we're lucky if we see them for a meal.

I guess, I'll just have to wait for grandkids.

Bed In Summer

By Robert Louis Stevenson

In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?

Do you remember the anguish of going to bed while it was still light and the laughter of people older than yourself drifted up to torment you? I do.

Living History

For the first time since I've been eligible to vote for the President of the United States, I'm excited and terrified by the possible outcome of this election. Excited by the possibility of change. Terrified by the possibility of the status quo.



I turned 18 in 1986 with Regan in office. Two years later, while still not old enough to drink, I was given my first opportunity to vote for our nation's leader. The choice was between George H. Bush (The Weenie) and Michael Dukakis (The Dork). I honestly can't remember who I voted for but I'm assuming George Bush since I was a Republican and I don't remember being very hopped up about Dukakis.

At 7:12am this morning, I walked into the community rec center and cast my vote for Barack Hussein Obama, a Harvard educated black man with an African/Arabic name. I can't ever remember being excited about a Presidential candidate. I've never wanted to give money, or volunteer. I never understood people who were so passionate about one candidate or another. They all seemed rather lame to me. It was more about picking the best of the worst.

But I always voted. I'm a strong believer in our right to vote. I believe it is a gift that is awarded to the citizens of this country. We assume it's a inalienable right, but history says otherwise. It should be cherished. And on a more practical note, I believe that if you and your peers vote, as a group, you will be recognized by government and pandered to. There's a reason why senior citizens in this country are heard and young people are not. Old people vote. Young people don't. Historically.

For the past two elections, I've been one of those frustrating voters known as undecided. I honestly didn't know who I was going to vote for until November 4th. I simply didn't like either of them. In our last election, I voted for a Libertarian candidate. I can't even remember his name. It wasn't important because I knew he had no chance of winning. I wanted to be counted. To say I was there and that I voted. I wanted the politicians to know that there was a 36 year old, white male, living in Goshen, New Jersey that voted. And he didn't vote for you.

I feel like I did between the first half of Game 5 of the World Series and the conclusion 46 hours later. Excited and nervous. Excited that Obama could win. Nervous that the polls are wrong and he won't. If I was a betting man, and since I'm not superstitious, I'd say Obama is going to win by a fairly large margin. Dare I say landslide?

We'll see tomorrow, or maybe even later tonight. Hopefully I will be celebrating and not gnashing my teeth and packing up to join my brother in Canada.

Sister Maria Loyola Dougherty, I.H.M. (1925-2008)

A Kindred Spirit



In memory of Sr. Loyola, a kindred spirit if ever there was one.

I first met Sr. Loyola 4 years ago when she came to the 10th Annual Nun's Beach Surf Invitational, held at 110-111th Streets in Stone Harbor. She had always wanted to learn to surf, so a longboard was provided and she stood at the water's edge, the closest she was ever to come to hanging ten. I took this picture that afternoon, but neither she nor I was prepared for the resulting mania over this photo.

While I have been approached many times for prints of "The Surfing Nun", I have never sold it for commercial purposes. Nevertheless, it has appeared on t-shirts and cards, on websites and Facebook pages.

I'd been surfing Nun's Beach since 1998 when we moved from Cape May up to Goshen, NJ. My step-son Ricky wanted to learn to surf so we bought him a used board and since I figured it'd be easier to watch him from the water than from the beach, that Spring, I bought a board myself. It was a 7'8" Challenger fun board from Kona and it cost me $350.

In the 10 years since, we've gotten to the know the 110 St. Surf Crew, a motley mix of aging surfers and their families.

Day At The Beach

It's a beautiful day at the beach. Jane and I are here alone. I came down with Bob early this morning to surf. We started in Avalon then came back down to 110th street. From the time we went in the water in Avalon until returned to 110, the water temp must have dropped 10 degrees! It was freezing! My hands and feet were numb and when you came out of the water they burned. What's up with that?

Oink.

A Fire In The Fireplace.
Sunday was just a stunning day. It was cool in the morning, but the air was still and the sun was quickly warming it. The day before, I had purchased a new chiminea of sorts and eight potted mums the color of pumpkins. We have had a chiminea, a kind of terra cotta fireplace shaped like a light bulb, for years. We never bring them in so eventually they crack and break. We normally get about two seasons out of them and this year was our second year. It was shot.

For a couple of years now, I've been eyeing up a different kind of outdoor fireplace at a local garden center. It's basically a big cast iron bowl on a base of legs. It's an open design that more closely resembles a campfire than a traditional chiminea. I liked it for a number of reasons. First, more than one person can enjoy it at a time. The downside of the chiminea is that unless you are the one sitting in front of the opening, you don't really get the effect. The upside is they kick out a tremendous amount of heat. Our new fire-pit is low and round and open, so everyone sitting nearby gets to enjoy it. It's more like camping. The second thing I liked about it is that it's cast iron. I'm hoping it will last a lot longer. It should, it cost 150% more.

Saturday night, I'd had a pretty roaring fire for most of the night. It was beautiful. Before I retired inside, I put two pretty big logs on the top. Sunday morning I awoke at 8am and went outside to find the fire still smoldering. I threw a couple of logs on top and within minutes the fire was going again. Nice.

This Little Pig Went To Market.
So, back to Sunday. The fire was going. I had a fresh cup of coffee and sat smoking cigarettes and reading Gourmet Magazine. I simply couldn't have been happier. Later in the morning, Ricky came out with his guitar and serenaded me as I read. I was reading an article about a pork purveyor from Tennessee who is somewhat famous in professional chef circles, particularly in New York. It reminded me how Jane had surprised me recently with the intention of raising pigs again. After our last go around with the pigs, I didn't really think she was interested. I was thrilled. I love having them. I love the quality of the meat we get. But, realistically, she's the one who has to raise them. I'm just gone too much, leave very early in the morning and get home too late.

So there Ricky and I sat, me reading, him playing guitar. The sun was warm, the air still and the fire crackled nicely. Ricky ran inside and I decided to walk back and look at our old pig pen. It was a wreck. I grabbed the loppers and started whacking. Within minutes it looked doable. I went inside and called Ricky. He came wearily, wondering what mischief I was going to get him involved in. He almost collapsed in relief when I didn't ask him to mow the lawn but rather announced that we were going to rebuild the pen, and get pigs.

"Today?" Ricky asked.

I answered yes. Today, if we hurried. He was in. I changed clothes, grabbed some tools from the shed and we began demolition of the old pig pen. Soon, Jane, Bern and the girl arrived and everyone wanted to get into the act. I realized I needed some help and called Bob, who rose from the comfort of his sofa and agreed to help. It was his only day off for the week, and still he was up for a little adventure.

Unable to find the pig farmer's phone number (we had bought our last pigs from him), Ricky and I jumped into my car (the Audi) and took off to find out if our man did indeed have pigs. Ricky hesitated, wondering if we shouldn't take Julia's truck. His argument was that if he had some, we should be prepared, but I think his real reason is he didn't think it was appropriate to go pig wrangling in a TT.

We found the farm, Krogman's, and sure enough, there he was, cranky as ever. After some thought, he agreed to sell us a few pigs. We promised to call when we were ready and sped off.

Back home, we finished clearing the area, and figuring out a new setup. The last pigs had unwittingly unearthed an old well and we were trying to figure out how to reinforce the area, when someone came up with the idea to start the pen farther back and simply avoid the well altogether. I had already been toying with the idea of wrapping the pen around the back of the chicken coop, in a sort of L-shape, so the idea suited me fine. We had a plan.

What we didn't have was a Bob. Bob was waiting for his wife to come home with his truck, and since we couldn't afford to wait, Julia sped off to retrieve him.

Bob soon arrived and I explained my plan. Bob, Ricky and I then left for Home Depot for supplied. We needed posts, heavy tacks, a sheet of plywood and heavy wire fencing. The wire fencing would have to come from Smeltzer's, but everything else was attainable at the old Depot.

Our materials loaded up, we had one more stop. We needed something to put the pigs in once we picked them up. Bern had a carrier that their dog Roxie had flown over in from Switzerland. We sized it up and decided it would do.

Once home, Bob pointed out that we were going to lose daylight pretty fast and that we should send the kids to pick up the pigs while we got to work rebuilding the pen. I had screwed up and bought eight foot 4x4's instead of twelve foot ones. I planned to cut them in half to get two posts each, but I needed six foot lengths (two feet in the ground leaving a four foot post) and had simply miscalculated. Never fear, Bob was here. I had a six foot 6x6' left over from building the outdoor shower, and Bob set about cutting it in half to make two 3x6's. Meanwhile, I set about digging the post holes.

When you haven't been doing much in the way of physical labor, you forget how much work digging post holes is. Especially if you're digging in root-covered earth. My arms were soon rubbery and I was sweating. But if Bob was going to take his single day off to help me, I was not about to complain.

I was working on the last of my post holes when Julia and Ricky showed up with the pigs in tow. Julia crinkled up her nose and commented that Mr. Krogman, our local pig farmer, was not the friendliest sort, but that she had gotten the pigs. I reminded her that he was a pig farmer. What did she expect.

The pigs were small, dirty, utterly adorable, and crammed into a small dog carrier. We carried them back to the garden where we had decided they could run around until we finished building the pen. As is the way with pigs, I have learned from experience, they were hesitant to leave the carrier, but once out, scurried and rooted about the garden happily, while Bob and I got back to work.

As usual, Margot wanted to help in the worst way and was constantly under foot. Bob and I tried to hold our tongues, but every time you turned around she would be inches behind you and we were often using saws, swinging hammers, and other implement of destruction and we were afraid she was going to get seriously injured. We scolded her, and while she sulked embarrassed, she only moved another foot away from us. She was not about to miss any of this.

Ricky joined in now and with all the posts cut, and the holes dug, we began placing the posts and filling them in. Once they were all in, it was time to nail the fencing in. We were quickly losing light and needed to finish quickly.

Earlier in the day, I had actually thought we might be able to put up the fence as well as build a quick shelter. As usual I was woefully mistaken. We were going to be lucky to get the fence up and the pigs in before dark.

Everyone helped and soon the pen was ready. Now, all we had to do was grab the pigs and move them into their new home. Last time we did this, I don't remember it being such a big deal. Of course, the first time, there was only one pig, and we had cornered him into a small section of the garden, not the entire run of it. The second time, we used the same pen and I think we just transferred them directly into it.

Regardless, catching the piglets proved a little trickier than I had anticipated. I spent the better part of ten minutes chasing them all over the garden with no luck. Then Julia showed up and within two minutes had grabbed a piglet by the hind legs and was carrying it to the pen leaving me to wallow in shame. I regained my composure and proved myself worthy again by snatching the last piglet up and carrying him off. Both pigs scurried away from us and looked at us in disgust like we'd just insulted their mother, but they soon snuggled up in the straw we had piled in the corner and settled in for the night. It had been a stressful afternoon for them and a tiring one for us. Bob and I cleaned up the tools, grabbed a rum and relaxed by the fire for a smoke. It was actually Bern's 45th birthday and we were celebrating with a big Thanksgiving-style dinner: turkey with all the trimmings.

Bob and I finished off the day with overflowing plates of turkey, garlic mashed potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, stuffing, gravy, broccoli, and hot buttered rolls. We removed our shoes and watched Sunday afternoon football in front of the large-screen TV.

It had been a good day.

The Iceberg Theory

all the food critics hate iceberg lettuce.
you'd think romaine was descended from
orpheus's laurel wreath,
you'd think raw spinach had all the nutritional
benefits attributed to it by popeye,
not to mention aesthetic subtleties worthy of
verlaine and debussy.
they'll even salivate over chopped red cabbage
just to disparage poor old mr. iceberg lettuce.

i guess the problem is
it's just too common for them.
it doesn't matter that it tastes good,
has a satisfying crunchy texture,
holds its freshness,
and has crevices for the dressing,
whereas the darker, leafier varieties
are often bitter, gritty, and flat.
it just isn't different enough, and
it's too goddamn american.

of course a critic has to criticize;
a critic has to have something to say.
perhaps that's why literary critics
purport to find interesting
so much contemporary poetry
that just bores the shit out of me.

at any rate, i really enjoy a salad
with plenty of chunky iceberg lettuce,
the more the merrier,
drenched in an italian or roquefort dressing.
and the poems i enjoy are those i don't have
to pretend that i'm enjoying.

- Gerald Locklin

At Least

I want to get up early one more morning,
before sunrise. Before the birds, even.
I want to throw cold water on my face
and be at my work table
when the sky lightens and smoke
begins to rise from the chimneys
of the other houses.
I want to see the waves break
on this rocky beach, not just hear them
break as I did all night in my sleep.
I want to see again the ships
that pass through the Strait from every
seafaring country in the world-
old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,
and the swift new cargo vessels
painted every color under the sun
that cut the water as they pass.
I want to keep an eye out for them.
And for the little boat that plies
the water between the ships
and the pilot station near the lighthouse.
I want to see them take a man off the ship
and put another up on board.
I want to spend the day watching this happen
and reach my own conclusions.
I hate to seem greedy-I have so much
to be thankful for already.
But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.
And go to my place with some coffee and wait.
Just wait, to see what's going to happen.

- Raymond Carver

Cows

"To my mind, the only possible pet is a cow. Cows love you. They are harmless, they look nice, they don't need a box to crap in, they keep the grass down, and they are so trusting and stupid that you can't help but lose your heart to them. Where I live in Yorkshire, there's a herd of cows down the lane. You can stand by the wall at any hour of the day or night, and after a minute the cows will all waddle over and stand with you, much too stupid to know what to do next, but happy just to be with you. They will stand there all day, as far as I can tell, possibly to the end of time. They will listen to your problems and never ask a thing in return. They will be your friends forever. And when you get tired of them, you can kill them and eat them. Perfect."

~ Bill Bryson, Neither Here Nor There.