Naturellement

Sometimes in the evenings when the heat of hell the desert subsides, we lie in the lounge chairs by the pool and read. When any of us happens upon a snippet of general interest, we read aloud. A. was reading to me yesterday about how Einstein became a friend of Marian Anderson:

He once invited renowned African American singer Marian Anderson to stay at his home when she was refused a room at a Princeton hotel after performing a concert. They remained friends for the rest of his life.

This interested me so much that I started poking around on the Innernets:

In 1946, the Nobel Prize-winning physicist traveled to Lincoln University in Pennsylvania, the alma mater of Langston Hughes and Thurgood Marshall and the first school in America to grant college degrees to blacks. At Lincoln, Einstein gave a speech in which he called racism “a disease of white people,” and added, “I do not intend to be quiet about it.” He also received an honorary degree and gave a lecture on relativity to Lincoln students.

The reason Einstein’s visit to Lincoln is not better known is that it was virtually ignored by the mainstream press, which regularly covered Einstein’s speeches and activities. (Only the black press gave extensive coverage to the event.) Nor is there mention of the Lincoln visit in any of the major Einstein biographies or archives.

In fact, many significant details are missing from the numerous studies of Einstein’s life and work, most of them having to do with Einstein’s opposition to racism and his relationships with African Americans.

A "disease of white people," indeed.

I found this promising book, Einstein on Race:

In this dramatic, surprise-filled story, unfolding against a backdrop of an era when America was sweat-drenched in fear and paranoia over national security, readers will discover a new dimension to Albert Einstein. The avalanche of Einstein images – genius, brilliant, absent-minded, kindly, bumbling and more – has all but buried Einstein's political dimension, and totally covered up his civil-rights activities which have remained virtually unknown to his tens of millions of fans and followers.

But in an age of increasing tribalization around the world, the fact that Einstein and Paul Robeson, two of the 20th Century's most famous and popular figures, were not only friends but co-chaired the American Crusade to End Lynching and shared a dozen other anti-racist activities, could serve as a role model for millions. Yet the story has remained untold – until now – as has Einstein's support for W. E. B. Du Bois, his friendship with Marian Anderson and his many ties with the African American people living in Princeton's own little ghetto, in and around Witherspoon Street.

Here, the authors interweave Einstein’s civil-rights letters, speeches and articles, brought together in this volume for the first time, with candid interviews with African American Princetonians who remember Einstein, and historical developments, many of which rocked the nation.

It makes perfect sense. If a man be great of mind, how could he not have a heart for justice?

Independent Study

I don't think I mentioned that A. and B. are teaching themselves American sign language. A. was the first to learn the ASL alphabet at school. Her early attempts were slow, and she kept stopping as she tried to remember which sign signifies which letter. Now she speeds through it automatically, and so does B., who got a book from the library and has been introducing signed words and phrases into our family lexicon. We all find the sign for "dang!" especially useful. At the library, B. also found a book on origami, and so has been studying how to fold paper.

As I sometimes do when I get a check, yesterday I celebrated by taking A. and B. out to buy them a few little things--all the while asking if I was succeeding in buying their love, heheheheheheh. I bought them a big pack of origami paper in a million colors. Then we went to the bookstore, and A. chose a biography of Einstein; B., a biography of Milton Hershey. I got a French/English dictionary, a book on French grammar, and The Wine Bible.

I was telling A. and B. how much I admire them for how they teach themselves to do things. Like how they taught themselves gymnastics. It was what, almost two years ago that they started with the handstands? Now they can walk on their hands for a little spell, they can do round-offs and handsprings, and they can do flips from backbends. All completely free of instruction. Now, it's sign language. And origami.

I look at them, and truly, I am lost in amazement. Where did they come from, these independent and self-sufficient and confident beings, and how did they learn to be like this. I told them how inspiring they are to me. If they can teach themselves how to do sign language, and they are only 11 years old, certainly at my advanced age, I can learn French.

Last week, impatient to get going with the French study, I started listening to Coffee Break French podcasts on my walks. And you know, I really don't care if people look at me funny (and they do) when I am walking and repeating: Bonjour, Comment vous appelez-vous ? Je m'appelle Leslie, Bonne nuit, and so on.

Pigs in the Garden, Here's Hoping

It seems self-conscious and maybe slightly objectionable to meta-blog, to blog about blogging. Every once in a while, though, I pause to consider how blogging has blessed me. One such blessing is the emergence of patterns. To recognize patterns is so useful that I almost look on the first 40 years of my life as utter chaos, just a ball of yarn tangled beyond all remediation. Maybe it is better to say that was my time of wandering in the desert:

And the LORD's anger was kindled against Israel, and he made them wander in the wilderness forty years, until all the generation, that had done evil in the sight of the LORD, was consumed.

I feel happy, I feel sad, I feel happy again. I feel stuck, then suddenly I'm rolling. The water is muddy, then the water clears. It gets muddy again, it clears again. Why it has taken all of my adult life thus far to see this beautiful predictability is a mystery to me, but

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the LORD.

For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.

(Boy howdy is all I can say about that.)

Just now, we are experiencing a bit of stuckage:

• You know that I applied for the part-time teaching job at a community college. I'm still waiting to hear what's happening there. I probably won't hear anything until close to the fall semester.
• You know that my wine class ended last week. Today I applied for the sommelier diploma program. That starts in October.
• You know that I ordered that French language software. The original order got messed up somehow, so I had to re-order it; it should arrive any day now.
• You know that sometimes I am meeting people and going out and sometimes I am not. Last week, it seemed that I was, but this week, it seems that I am not.

You can see how I would find patterns very comforting, that I can step back from the brink (I'm not saying I always do, I'm just saying I can) and remind myself that this is where we find ourselves in this moment, but who knows what will barrel in the door with the next moment.

Yesterday, the doorbell rang. It was the mail carrier delivering my new iPod (d0n't ask): happiness supreme! Today I started listening to Coffee Break French: bonjour! Who knows, tomorrow may bring a circus parade. Or at least pigs in the garden.

P.S. New music always helps. This, too.

P.P.S. Also, one might consider the judicious application of Moscato d'Asti. If one be fond of the sweet and the sparkling.

My Illicit Love

Or "The Sommelier's Song."

You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it—it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."

I will say it again: Baudelaire, how I love thee. Let me count the ways.

Hello, Las Vegas!

. . . in the immortal words of Our Favorite President Ever.
[photo from the Las Vegas Sun]

To see Our Favorite President Ever, we drove down to the Strip at the time of day when traffic is at its most snarled. If you have never been to the Strip, you haven't missed much, in my opinion, though you must understand that mine is by far the minority opinion, not enough to show up as a sliver in the pie chart; if you have, you know how the cars crawl along at the pace of cars in midtown Manhattan at dusk, a pace that inspires one to abandon cab and walk instead.

The traffic was even worse than usual because of the presence of Our Favorite President Ever. The entrance to Caesar's Palace was blocked off with orange cones. In the big driveway were protesters holding up their hand-lettered signs with mottos like Honk if I'm paying your mortgage! and some nastiness against gay marriage.

Once we got to Caesar's Palace, however, it was so strange. Casinos have this otherworldly atmosphere, as if there is nothing else in the world except the lights and the ringing of slot machines and the clinkings of glassware and the constant chatterings of voices and the smell of smoke and beer and too much perfume and cologne. And all the people--people in khaki shorts and tank tops, or all dressed up in short shiny dresses and metallic spike heels-- seem as if they are being invisibly herded in this direction or that.

In any case, we found the ticketholder line, and it was moved along efficiently--they're accustomed to dealing with crowds--and soon we found ourselves through security and at our seats.

You know from having seen him on television that Our Favorite President has an easy, charming way about him. It was clear that no one was there to see Sheryl Crow or Bette Midler, though everyone did clap very politely each time their names were mentioned. A handful of people seemed wildly enthusiastic about Harry Reid. But, really, the star was Our Favorite President Ever.

Our Favorite President Ever, and hope realized. He had a lot against him on his path to where he is now. But what you could feel in that crowd more than anything--more than admiration, more than love--was simply joy. Mixed with a bit of pride, of course. Because that is one of the fundamentally delightful traits about this man, is that he includes you--yes, you!--in the accomplishments, he tells you that he is where he is because you helped him get there, and now that he is there, well, look at all the wonderful things that we are going to accomplish together.


P.S. I would like to offer a correction to the information provided in this L.A. Times blog: the price of the tickets was not $250 across the board, but ranged from $50 (where we sat, up in the mezzanine) to $250 (down in front). For a lot more, some People of Big Wallets also got to attend a reception and meet Our Favorite President in person, but it goes without saying that we did not avail ourselves of that opportunity.

I Don't

. . .bitch and whine if I don't get my way, in the immortal words of The Roots.

I absolutely did not get my way about a tiny matter this last week when another person and I found ourselves at an impasse. The terms he was offering did not work for me, and my terms were so unacceptable to him that he either experienced sudden onset temporary deafness or made believe he did not understand what I was saying--which I think would have made you laugh, had you overheard the conversation.

I told him what would work for me, and he made those mmmhmmm noises to indicate comprehension, then proposed an arrangement antithetical to my position statement.

Me: That's the exact opposite of what I'm saying.
He: Okay, so [repeats his opposing proposition].

So there you go. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him listen, and you certainly can't make him do what you want (unless you don't mind getting bucked off later).

In other news, tonight A. and B. and our friend S. and I are going to see Our Favorite President Ever. (Yes, the event will take place in a casino.) A. and B. plan to wear their Obama T shirts.

P.S. I really like people who listen to me.

Big Pink Cabbage Roses

I woke up this morning, alone unless you count Harriet, who is very accommodating in her sleeping habits and will sleep as late as I choose (although she do draw the line at the early rising, and does not even budge when I get up at 5 to walk). I amused myself at first by checking to see how I felt about waking up alone on my birthday, and surprise!, I felt fine. Because I got the devil in me, I reminded myself of my advanced age, and my solitary status, and guess what, I still felt fine.

Better than fine, really. Last night I went to the Delfeayo Marsalis show. Those Marsali. They got it all sewn up, what with their handsomeness and sharp dressing and easy charm and smooth talking and quick wit. Then you bring in the music.

I would say that I went alone to the Marsalis show, and I did, but I did not end up alone. I put my chair down in a big empty space and went to walk around, and when I returned, I was in the bosom of a family who had come and put their chairs and blankets all around me. They had thought my chair was Cookie's chair. Cookie was a glamorous lady in her 50s with an elaborate hairstyle and glittering red sandals and a red blouse that made the most of her womanly curves. I offered to move, but they said no, and I offered again, and they said no, and then I just gave up and sat down next to D. and met her nephew C. and an older lady, B., who had a gracious warm manner. Cookie was surprised to see me when she showed up later, but she took it in stride and offered me some water. It was very funny to see the reactions of the people around us when I settled myself in my chair.

D. is 50 and newly divorced and quite alive to the charms of a chiseled calf muscle on a man (and willing to express her admiration aloud should a man with such muscle pass by), so we had a little conversation about online dating and she told me about her adventures, most lately with a man from Guyana who was claiming to be a middle-aged white guy from Bel Air. I told her to read a certain self-helpy book that may save her a world of hurt, and she asked me to repeat the title so she wouldn't forget it.

And I was reflecting on my way home with the inky sky overhead and the warm desert breeze blowing in from the sunroof, that indeed, in the immortal words of Louis Armstrong (which song Mr. Delfeayo Marsalis and his talented fellow musicians played last night), it is a wonderful world. I reflected you just never know what is going to happen.

What I've been saying is that today, I embark on what I hope will be the second half of my life. If I live to be that old, you know. Today I have looked at it from every angle, I and I do believe that the second half is rolling out in a satisfactory manner. Which isn't to say there won't be bumps in the carpet. Maybe even cigarette burns and big red wine stains. Who knows what else. Maybe even something nastier. The carpet of life never do lie completely smooth. But today, I have looked at my life and I have seen that it is good. I'm in the patch with the roses just now.

And I am studying the theme of You can't get ever enough of what you don't really want, in the immortal words of Eric Hoffer (I think, and also the Friends of Bill Dubya) concluding that the only way is to hold the line and wait it out until what you want shows up on your plate. A metaphor that we can apply to every part of our life and see how it fits.




P.S. I must mention that I dreamt of being in a big indoor hot tub place (no naked, though, and definitely nothing inspiring about it in the way that one might think it would be inspiring), and that one of my friends had tried to set me up with a solemn native American guy named Gurkhis, a nonsense word fabricated by my subconscious. What the.

Demons

I was talking to someone I met the other day, someone who has lived in Las Vegas for 8 years, and he said you have to be strong to live here.

I don't know that you have to be stronger to live here than to live any other place. We takes our demons wherever we go. Of course, he was talking about the casinos and strip clubs and flowing rivers of alcohol. But you don't have to loiter about the slots and tables (even though slots are everywhere, from the airport to the 7-11 to the gas station to the grocery store) nor enter the painted-black doors of strip clubs, nor even splash about in the fermented flow; there's no daily forced march. If you are inclined to surrender to your demons on those fronts, then why would you choose to move into their natural habitat, of all the places on God's green earth?

And then he said another thing that interested me, that you have to have a reason to live here. No one comes here for no reason, no one wakes up in the morning thinking, "Hey! Ima move to Las Vegas!"

You can get away with a lot here. Not everything, though. Even Las Vegas has its limits.

P.S. The person I met lives in Marvin Gardens, a complex by the airport. (Not to be confused with the songwriter by the same name.) Isn't there a song from the late 60s or 70s with Marvin Gardens in it? Not this one.

I've Been Redeemed

. . . by the blood of the Lamb, filled with the Holy Ghost I am, all my sins are washed away, I've been redeemed. In the immortal words of some anonymous sinner. That song is burned into my heart by renditions sung in church, at revivals, on the church van on the way to Vacation Bible School and snow camp and youth retreats and God knows where else.

Yesterday, I stopped on my way home from wine class and bought a bottle of Ripassa Valpolicella, an extravagance that I justified by inwardly bragging about my performance on my final. While at Whole Paycheck Foods, I had a long talk with Darrel (yes, that is how he spelled it, it was on his name tag) the wine guy, a guy with an accent that charmed me no end. You know that I am a woman of the people.

Darrel and I are united in our love of wines Ridgian, particularly the Monte Bello, and as he told me a story about how he and his wife recently opened a bottle for a celebratory meal, his face glowed and his eyes were bright.

Later in the evening, I sat at the edge of the pool and dipped my feet in the water and drank a glass of the Valpolicella. It reminded me of a scene in one of my favorite novels, The Magician's Assistant by Ann Patchett, a book I have read so many times that if it were a person, it would've have gotten a restraining order. In this scene, Sabine is thinking about Parsifal, her dead husband, and about how he would cut a lime off the tree in the backyard and make a gin and tonic to sip poolside on a warm golden California evening. She is thinking how that good life and Parsifal's miserable childhood in Nebraska could not co-exist, how the good life obliterated Parsifal's early sufferings.

When I went to D.C., K. and I went to lunch at Georgia Brown's for what may be the best meal I have ever had, starting with the biscuits and cornbread, moving on to the fried green tomatoes, and finishing with the shrimp and grits. That meal changed my life. As I was eating, I considered all the crappy food I have eaten over the years, the plain dried-out chicken breasts and the cans of sawdusty water-packed tuna and the dry toast with a scraping of sugar-free jam and my soul rose up in protest and quoth "Nevermore," in the immortal words of the raven. Henceforth, I would eat freely from the bounty of this earth. [UPDATE: I didn't mention the flip side of the dry toast and water-packed tuna, which is eating more than I would want of foods I actually didn't want. The usual consequence of deprivation.] That was a little gift I would give Myself.

Since then, I have been making pesto and trying marinades and grilling peppers and red onions and putting together these festive Greek salads and spending a lot of time thinking about what to make for dinner and so I have been preparing only foods that are pleasures to look at and pleasures to eat. One of my colleagues is a woman who lives in Ohio, and she and I have occasion to correspond by email now and again about little questions about a project we've been working on, and somehow we've gotten into the habit of talking about our dinner menus, and it made me think of something Mr. Mudrick used to say, about how he liked to read cookbooks, and how thinking about food could be such a pleasure.

And then also there is the voodoo magic is mixed up somehow with pleasure. It happens when you love someone else, it happens when you love yourself. Darrel's brightness. How I felt this morning when I was drinking my coffee and skimming the pool. The looks on my daughters' faces this morning when I read stories they wrote and they could see from my reactions as I read how much I genuinely enjoyed their writing--not because I am their mother, not because I am proud (although I am, of course)--but because the writing was so good and fun to read and the experience made my life better. Whatever brings good into the world is good.

School's Out

You know those days when everything just goes right? Well, that would be today. First, the test. Of the 100 multiple choice questions, there were 14 about which I was uncertain. Of the rest, I had a good or pretty good idea. As to the 4 essay questions, I am confident I did very well on all of them (I am paraphrasing the questions): 1. Compare and contrast Champagne and Cava in terms of production method, style, regions, aging requirements, etc.; 2. Describe the solera process for making sherry and explain the differences in styles of wines produced. 3. Discuss the two pests that were a problem in California vineyards from the 1980s through today, and explain the remedies and the changes that occurred in California in viticulture as a result; and 4. If you were to design a wine cellar, what would be the ideal environment and conditions? Explain why.

And the blind tastings? Of 4 wines, I got two absolutely spot-on right, and I was close on one, and the other? It was a weirdo wine, a very uncharacteristic Chardonnay, both oily and acidic, without the signature Chardonnay green apple scent (in fact, it smelled a little of some kind of chemical) and I identified it as an Italian Pinot Grigio. The other was a Cabernet Sauvignon that I identified as a Malbec. Has anyone ever noticed how some Cabs can smell a little like a tomato?

But the best part is that the questions I missed gave me a very clear understanding of my weak areas in wine knowledge, so I know what I will be reading about for the next few months. Another most excellent thing is that in studying for this test, I reintroduced myself to studying, and figured out how I learn best. Well! What a good thing to know.

I walked out tall, and that always feels good.

And then, and then. The house refinancing is happening as it should, due to be completed tomorrow. I am on schedule with my work.

And I figured out another thing, perhaps the most important thing. How can I say this in a way that doesn't sound stupid. It is just about being clear, first with myself, about what I need and want, about what is important to me. And then being clear with the other people in my life. The truth will set you free. It's not just a saying. In a way, I do feel as if something big happened, and there was some kind of change in how I see things. Even though no big thing did, just a lot of little things.

Flop

The woman who is the manager of the hoo ha expensive restaurant gave me some quizzes from a previous class. In the immortal words of Sandra Tsing Loh, my bowels turned to ice.

I KNOW NOTHING. I KNOW NOTHING. I KNOW NOTHING.

I said this to a temporary acquaintance (temporary, as in our acquaintanceship was like the life span of a butterfly, a mere fluttering of powdery paper-thin wings--though our first meeting took place only a week ago, we have already parted ways because I felt myself becoming cranky every time we spoke, not because there is anything wrong with him, God bless him in perpetuity, but because the Who He Is simply annoys the Who I Am, and sometimes it just bes like that, next!) last week, and he said in what I interpreted as a cavalier and dismissive fashion, "Oh, you'll do fine."

Um. Not necessarily, and from which of the whimsical gods of fate did you get that news? I was tempted to ask in the crankiest manner possible.

Because when I sit down and study, I look into the vast gaping maw of ignorance, and it is mine.

I do have a strategy: concentrate on the essay questions, of which there are four, and on the blind tastings, of which there are also four, and then just try not to be a complete and utter nincompoop with the 100 multiple choice questions.

[Dunce cap by Arnold Tress.]

P.S. I adore Sandra Tsing Loh, and all the more because I just discovered that she is a great big fan of Jonathan Kozol. As am I. Feel the love.

Drama

I'm writing some assessments on a unit about drama for high school students. Yesterday I finished a section about Greek tragedy, and it got me thinking about Aristotle.

From there to my internal notes on novels throughout the ages, and then a brief meditation on my own blindness. (Figuratively speaking. Not like Milton.) I always think that this moment is how everything will always be forevermore unto eternity. Have I learned nothing by all these years spent in a corner reading. Have I learned nothing from the twists and turns of my own path lo, these many years. Apparently not.

Wine note: Jason at Trader Joe's recommends the 2003 Conte di Bregonzo Amarone. I like it very much. It's a food wine, though, not a drinkalone. Only $15.99.

The Great Escape

I confess that I, too, sometimes fall prey to a failure of imagination. Although in my heart I do believe that any of us can find common ground (in the immortal words of Jesse Jackson) with pretty much any other human--when we are cut, do we not bleed?--I also think that in some cases, reaching the common ground requires such a trek through valleys, such a hiking of mountains, such wandering through the desert, that we give up before we get there and instead, settle ourselves down on aluminum folding chairs with a cold beer in one hand and a fan in the other and then we watch the sunset.

Take Barbara Bush, who said that "giving frees us from the familiar territory of our own needs by opening our mind to the unexplained worlds occupied by the needs of others." If there be any human in the world with whom I would have thought I had little in common, why, that human may be she. On a million matters, we must be miles asunder.

But on this matter, we are of one mind. And probably also on the matter of how important it is for parents to get up early in the morning to make pancakes for their children. (I like thinking that, even though in the Bush household, pancakes were probably made by the hired help.)

I think of this because on my way home from my walk, I went to Walgreen's in order to buy a newspaper. The newspaper here is not so good, in spite of the awards it always seems to be winning. That is just my opinion. However, I do like to peep out of my gopher hole once in a while to see what's happening.

(Speaking of gophers, one morning last week at my park, there were tremendously loud booms. If one were at sea in the 1800s, one would have thought, "Cannons starboard!" But we are landlocked. I asked a man who was walking a little fluffy dog, and the answer chilled my blood. Has to do with gophers. Trust me, you do not want to know.)

Today there was this:

The uninsured won't find much love in the neighborhood around Tropicana and Eastern avenues.
That's where Clark County officials may allow a free medical clinic to use an empty building at Paradise Park.
Neighbors want nothing of it.
. . .
"The uninsured, in my mind, are a group of people that are less desirable," one elderly neighbor told The Sun. "I don't want them coming into my park."

Speaking of Cranky

I am in danger of dating again, and my crankiness on the matter makes me wonder if I should cease and desist. I am not making it easy for anyone, is one way to put it.

Then again, why should I. I have made it easy for others, I have been accommodating as all get-out, and we all know where that got me.

The impulse to accommodate is not dead. When it peers out, I repress it. Time enough for that in the future. Let it be a pleasant surprise to he who proves himself worthy.

UPDATE: I mean "him." I'm having a hard week. The girls' dentist actually said the O word, which is a frightening prospect. I am self-employed. My children do not have dental insurance. And that speeding ticket? I got a notice for a failure to appear, because I assumed that I would receive a notice in the mail, as I would have in California. Which is no big deal, I just have to show up and pay, but it also means no traffic school, which means higher insurance rates. And the re-finance is taking more work and is more complicated than I thought it would be. And. And. And.

What You Don't Know

I was wrong, yet again.

You know how I said that the German young woman and the young woman from the Philippines were laughing, but not unkindly when I appeared ridiculous? Today that which occurred leads me to believe otherwise. But let's go back to the beginning.

Here is a lesson. When the dawn of one's day means that one actually gets to see the dawn (I've been getting up at 5 to walk), along with four grown bunnies and a baby bunny frolicking on the lawn in the golden light of sunrise at one's favorite park, and one sees the goslings now of a teen-agery appearance, and then one gets to the place where one is going to spend one's day, and one has a conversation like this--

Very Big and Tall Handsome Man in Front of the Casino: [in a noticeably cranky tone] Good morning.
Me: Good morning!
Very Big and Tall Handsome Man in Front of the Casino: [still with the cranky, almost as if it makes him angry to say it] That's a nice dress.
Me: Thank you!

(because you know my soft spot for cranky people)--well, it is all going to be downhill after that.

At lunch, the conversation turned to homeless people who are con artists earning $50-60,000 a year by begging, successfully pulling the wool over our eyes with their pitiful appearance and artfully threadbare clothes.

I pointed out that even if they did earn that much, they didn't get benefits, so it was actually less than it seemed. Which made me laugh, but the German young woman kept saying in an annoyed way that she didn't understand, and my laughing made it harder for her to understand, so I explained, and she said, again, in a visibly annoyed manner, that she still didn't understand, and so finally I told her it was a joke, and she shrugged in such an expressive way that I said, "Well, I thought it was funny," and the woman who is the manager of that hoo ha expensive restaurant laughed.

Then the young woman from the Philippines got that look on her face, you know the one, and gave us all to understand that homeless people are a bunch of scam artists. We had a little exchange about that, and I did tell both of them some facts about homelessness in the United States, how many homeless people are actually mentally ill, but there are no real mental hospitals anymore, and neither believed me, they just sat there with hard, mean looks on their faces and kept talking about how homeless people are exploiting the rest of us who work. They asked if I give money to homeless people and I said that sometimes I did, if I felt so inspired, and they shook their heads in disapproval.

I got up and left--not in a huff, I just had lost my taste for their company, so I went to walk around the casino for a few minutes before going back to class. On the way, I saw the young woman from the Philippines, and we both gave each other that acknowledging smile that one gives.

Me: Can I have a dollar?
She: What? Oh, sure, here [starts digging in her purse]--
Me: I was just kidding.

After class ended and we were walking down the hall, the woman from the Philippines waited for me.

She: So last week, you forgot where you parked your car?
Me: [uncomprehending look and silence]

It took me a really long time to respond, because what she said made no sense to me. I had to cast back to last week, when I had given the teacher a ride home after class, so he and I were walking through the parking lot together, and we saw the young woman from the Philippines, and I said something like, "I know my car is right here somewhere. Oh, yes, there it is," and none of that had made any impression on me whatsoever, so I didn't remember any of it, but it had apparently made enough of an impression on her that she not only remembered it, but needed to mention it to me. How strange. Truly, I do not understand it at all.

One more class, then a long break, then the certification class begins in October. Probably neither of them will be in that class. Not that it makes no never mind to me. But still. I liked them a lot better when I could think better of them.

P.S. And today was beer and spirits day. And sherry. The only thing I really liked was the lambic beer (kriek). I don't like sherry. I don't like stout. I don't like grappa. I don't like scotch, single malt or blended. I confess that I poured out the three different scotches without even trying them. When no one was looking.

Great Day

I was doing some research for work and came across this piece with Ralph Abernathy.

Western Nights

As opposed to "Southern Nights," in the immortal words of Allen Toussaint.

A few weeks ago, when I was trying to find things to do, I had come across a notice for an Allen Toussaint concert. One of those Music in the Park things put on by the Parks and Recreation Department. I filed the information away, planning to go, and went on with my life.

Then on Friday, I thought about it again, and was sure I had missed the concert, but no, it was scheduled for last night. I made arrangements for the girls to stay with their cousin, and I went. Not without some hesitation and misgivings. Enough that when I was walking to my car after dropping off the girls, I actually considered giving up and going home.

You know all those ridiculous objections one may use to convince oneself? If you do not know these, you are fortunate.

I persevered, however, and took it as a sign from God that I did not get lost. I arrived, found a parking place, and was in enough time to be able to place my little blanket on an excellent spot down in front, just a few feet from the stage.

Once I was there, I read from my wine textbook (we have the final exam in two weeks: 100 multiple choice questions, 4 essay questions, and 4 blind wine tastings). It was very pleasant there on the lawn. There was shade, it was in the 90s, warm but not sweltering, and all around, people were in their little folding chairs with glasses of wine and beer and paper plates of food.

A man about my age who was accompanied by his what looked to be 12 years old son put a thick comforter down next to me. "Hey, neighbor," he said, and I said hello and made a joke about his blanket. Soon he was joined by a pretty young woman in a white tank top and black skirt and her two young (pre-school age) daughters. On her right shoulder, the young woman had a very large, very stylized tattoo that included the wings of some colorful birds.

The young woman had only been there a few minutes when another pretty woman arrived. This one was a little older, about the same age as the man (about the same age as me), blonde. She said hello to the boy. The man stood up and gave her a hug and kiss, and introduced her to the pretty young woman and the girls. Then the blond woman asked to speak with the man alone, and the two of them walked away. I was watching all this. The woman's air of familiarity and almost ownership made me think she was the boy's mother. The two of them came back, and the woman left, but soon returned with another woman (who was clearly a native Las Vegan, and had the fuschia minidress and Charo hair and stiletto heels to prove it).

New introductions all around, and then the blonde looked at the pretty young woman and pointed at the man and said, "And I'm his girlfriend. Have a nice time on your date." And then she and her friend turned heel and stalked across the lawn, a gesture that became a little funny partly because by now the lawn had become crowded with blankets and chairs and picnickers and partly because it's different walking on grass than it is on pavement, you have to pay more attention because the tufts of grass make the ground uneven, and this lawn was sloped anyway, so there was intent to stalk in their posture, but they had to pick their way through the lawn.

When the blonde woman and the Charo lookalike were a little distance away, they stopped and the blonde turned back and made a gesture which may be considered the universal "It's over" gesture, that head-chopping signal made by sliding the flat hand in front of the throat. The man got up and ran after her.

I looked at the pretty young woman. She was stunned. "I wish I had a flask so I could offer you a drink," I said. "I think if any situation calls for a drink, this would be the one."

She said they weren't even on a date, they were just friends, and she was recently separated from her husband, and all she had wanted to do was go out with the kids and have a picnic and hear some music, and besides, he had told her that he and his girlfriend had broken up long, long ago. Months and months. Oh, what a tangled web. And look at the stupid things love and jealousy make people do. The young woman was upset that the blonde woman had spoken thusly in front of the children, but I thought her behavior and words were quite restrained, given the circumstances. "People usually behave badly when they are suffering," I said, and she said she just wanted to leave, but she couldn't, because of the children. She did try to persuade them that they didn't want to be there, but her attempts made the concert even more appealing, and she soon gave up, and we talked about how she might best manage the stress of separating from her husband. I told her she would feel a lot better as time went on. It's true, I'm sure of it.

When the man returned, the air was so thick with emotion and with what was not being said because of the children that I needed to get away for a moment, so I walked up to the promenade and looked at the vendors' booth and got a glass of wine and something to eat. Soon after I went back to my blanket, the band came onstage, followed by Allen Toussaint, and it was a great show. He is some piano player.

Not just the show, but the atmosphere was lovely, and the weather, and it was one of those times when you think there is really nothing else in this world I would rather be doing at this moment. I felt the same as I was driving home going south on Highway 15 and passing all the lights of the Strip. I had the sunroof open and was listening to R & B, and all was right with the world.

P.S. In the last week, I have heard from every man for whom I have shed a tear in the last three years. What is that about, I wonder? Again, in the immortal words of Allen Toussaint:

Heheheheheh. Just kidding. I am still so very fond of those of whom I am fond. Even if they do behave themselves badly sometimes. And yet. I would like to meet someone whose behavior does not encourage tears.

May Day

Got up at 5 this morning and hied myself to my park. Too hot to walk at 9 anymore. It is perfect at 5:30, however. The light is beautiful, and the air slightly warm. At that time of day, you can feel the changes in the air as you pass through each tiny microclimate in the park. It is cooler in the shade of the pine trees that are on the side closest to the lake. When you walk past the Where the Wild Things Are part of the park, a warm breeze comes off the desert. So now my two favorite times of day are 5:30 at the park and my after-dinner moments at poolside.

I didn't listen to my iPod, as the park was empty when I arrived, and it just seemed imprudent. But then the park started filling up, and I saw regulars I haven't seen in weeks. They had already adjusted their schedule to the weather, I guess.

And now I have two extra hours to my day. Which I need. I've got to prepare for the festivities on Sunday (The Favorite Child's birthday is today, but we are celebrating then), which means cooking and cleaning and expeditions in search of pool toys.

(I confess that I am very much looking forward to the sabering, that is all I am thinking about, is this chance to show off my new little skill. And why not. That skill cost me $1500 in tuition, not to mention all the class time.)

Sabrage!

I stocked up on cheap sparkling wine, put it on ice (it should be very cold), got me a big knife, and walla! I sabered 4 bottles! Successfully!

I did cut myself picking up the bottles later, having forgotten that indeed, broken glass can be very sharp. And of course there are no band-aids in the house. There never are, when you live with children. No matter how many you buy, they will be used within a day or two.

Surface

Do you remember that scene in Breakfast Club when the vice principal leaves the bathroom with a toilet seat cover tucked into the waistband of his slacks? It flapped merrily in the breeze. Of course he didn't realize it.

That happened to me yesterday. I forgot to mention. One of the women in the class, a rather shy young woman with a pronounced German accent, stopped me and notified me of the situation just before I rounded the corner to enter the corridor. "You are a true friend," I said, and I threw it away and returned to the sink to wash my hands again.

The young woman with the German accent and another woman, the pretty woman from the Philippines, kept laughing, but not in a mean way, I think they were laughing partly because it was funny and partly because they were embarrassed. Certainly they seemed much more embarrassed about it than I was. That is, I wasn't embarrassed at all. I mean, we all have bodies, we all go to the bathroom, and I assume we all do stupid or clumsy or inattentive things sometimes. But the German young woman seemed especially embarrassed for me. Her face had turned bright pink. And the laughter went on and on. I just looked at them.

The pretty young woman from the Philippines giggled and asked if it was from too much Moscato, as we had been tasting sparkling wines, and we had all liked the Moscato d'Asti. I told her no, I had mostly been spitting (I confess it is not easy to spit out something as delicious as Moscato), I was just clumsy.

I almost said to her that the act of bearing young sort of vaccinates one against that kind of embarrassment. I mean, when you have to lie in a bed with the whole southern front exposed and urinate on a waterproof pad while five or six people are standing around watching you and waiting (and not only that, but you have not shaved your legs in many months because once you are nearly 9 months in to the business of gestating twins and have acquired the size and shape of a Volkswagen, trying to shave your legs in the shower is a monumental and daunting task), well--it is all downhill on Shame Street after that.

But these two seem (from my observations of them in the past months) to lack the imagination to understand what I meant, so instead I just carried on this joke of being overly grateful, offering to carry her lunch tray and fetch her a drink of water and pay for her lunch (the cafeteria is free). Eventually, her face lost its redness and both of the young women settled down and everything went back to normal.

Then later at lunch--bear with me, I think this is connected somehow--the woman who is a manager of a hoo ha expensive restaurant and who knows a lot about wine already was talking about how she had taken the introductory course offered by the Court of Master Sommeliers, and how wearing the pin the Court gives to course graduates made customers at the restaurant treat her with a bit more deference. She said she thought she knew as much about wine before she took the course as she did after, but how bothersome it was that people were so impressed by this symbol.

Me: They needed to see your credentials before they would respect you.
She: Yeah, I hate that. Especially when I know a lot. I mean, more than most of them do. But they don't trust me.
Me: It's too bad we don't get little pins for everything we know. Then we could walk around with all our pins and everyone would know we're somebody.
She: I know!
The Brave Young Man Who Came Late To Our Table And So Was The Only Male At A Table Of Women: [laughing] Like merit badges! That's be great!
Me: [pointing to an imaginary pin on my collar] I'd wear one that says, "I can make pancakes."

What's the connection, you may be wondering. Having enough imagination to be able to glimpse a glimmer of another's experiences, background, or knowledge, and not letting one's assumptions act as blinders, I think. It takes a lot to get to know someone, and there is usually more to people than we get to see. Or that is what I choose to believe.

And also, there's this superficiality that actually reminds me of the young man's disgust with the attractive young woman's facial hair. Remove the facial hair and she is a beautiful woman, now worthy of love. Give the restaurant manager a fake gold pin and she is now worth listening to.

A toilet seat cover doesn't embarrass me. What embarrasses me is my bad behavior. When I speak harshly to my children, for example, or have a mean-spirited little thought. Then again, if this had happened when I was younger, as I told A. and B., I would have retreated to a stall and wept tears of shame. But I was an unusually shy and awkward little duckling for most of my life.

Any Port

I had the strangest day. Wednesday, my day of drankin' in the casino. Before I get to the strange part, I would like to mention my two favorite things that happened today:

1. In class, the teacher showed us how to saber champagne. The best party trick ever. I am going to buy a case of the cheapest sparkling wine I can find in order to practice for Sunday (got a bunch of people coming over for a barbeque and I want to show off).

2. Leaving the employee cafeteria, I almost bumped into an older gentleman who works at the casino. I haven't quite figured out all the uniforms yet, so I can't tell you what his job was. I will say that it is a great loss to the world in general if his job doesn't require a lot of people contact, as he was very charming. I don't know how I could have missed him, as he was A Very Large Man. So we had a harmless flirtation as we walked down the hall together, the kind one does have with pleasant strangers who be so inclined, and even if I never see him again, why, those few moments of pleasantry made my life better.

As to the strange. I am writing in the dark on this, as I haven't figured it out yet. All day, I felt as if my body and part of my mind were functioning on autopilot, but the rest of me, the real me, was off doing something else. What, I don't know. I just wasn't present, I couldn't integrate myself with myself.

I still feel a little bit that way.

After lunch, we were back in class with a row of ports (ruby, tawny, vintage) in front of us, and I suddenly felt unwell. As I often did when I first started working at Great Big Huge Company, I decided it was time for me to take my own break and got up and left the room and took the long walk through the labyrinth, past all the pallets and through the double doors to the bathroom, where cocktail waitresses and dealers were getting dressed in the locker room.

When I came back, I went back to my place and the teacher stopped talking and looked at me and asked if I were feeling well, and then we had this little conversation about the state of my health. He is so kind.

P.S. Last week, our whole class ate lunch together. There was much teasing of the young white man, as it somehow came out that he worked with a pretty young woman to whom he would be attracted were it not for some downy fuzz on her face. As the details emerged (no, it is not a mustache, it is just that hair that many of us have all over our bodies, including our faces, that almost invisible hair) and his disgust became more manifest, we were all laughing. It was not the young man's finest moment. The teacher said (in a good-natured, gently teasing way) that he (the young white man) had clearly graduated from Shallow University, and I said no, it appeared that he was still hard at work studying there. The conversation roamed about to various other destinations, but as all roads lead to Rome, somehow kept touching back on facial hair. So that was all very funny to us, and I think eventually very uncomfortable to the young man.

Today, we were eating together again, although the women all ended up at one table and the men at another, and again--at the women's table, anyway--the talk returned to the topic of the pretty young woman with the slight facial hair.

Me: Are we still talking about that poor girl's mustache?
Another Student: No, we're talking about how [the young white man] likes her, and she likes him, but the hair is just an excuse not to do anything about it.
Me: The mustache as a metaphor for fear of intimacy.

I just am telling you that in order to show off, you know, just as I plan to show off shamelessly with the sabering, if only I don't cut off a finger or drop the bottle or blind myself with the cork. Wish me luck.

Share the Land (Again)

On the plane back from D.C., I kept having little attacks of emotion. I am a highly emotional creature anyway, and then, so much happened over the course of the weekend, I was with so many people and saw so many sights and felt so many feelings that of course there was some spillage on the way home. I realized that I do sometimes cry on planes, because there I am, alone with my thoughts, figuring it all out (or not). I don't heave big racking sobs or anything. Just have to brush away a tear or two. I always tell myself that A) no one will notice me, they've all got their own matters on their minds and B) even if they do, being on a plane can give rise to many speculations as to why a person might let fall a tear.

The woman who sat in my row, a bleached blonde businessy-looking type whose clothes and jewelry and even eyeglasses and hairstyle were very dull in that middle class white lady of a certain age way, got a little dithery, hoping aloud that the center seat in our row would remain vacant, especially as she had piled all her crap there (my paraphrase). "No one goes to Vegas on Sunday," I said, and those were the only words I said to her during the three hours we spent in each other's company. First of all, who cares. To let one's happiness rise and fall on whether one gets a couple of inches of ugly blue upholstery to oneself--well, that is a fool's game.

Besides, I was already a little impatient that she had claimed the empty middle seat as her territory, not that I begrudged her the space, I didn't need it, it was just her manner of rushing to stake her claim that I found mildly offensive. Why cannot we be civilized? Share the land, is what I am saying, in the immortal words of aging white rockers The Guess Who.

Earlier, in the airport, two big white men, father and son, who looked like farmers (you know the haircut, the jeans, the boots, and the baseball caps), had been sprawled out in the boarding area, reserving a whole seat for their belongings, even though my guess is that their bags might have been equally comfortable on the floor, which would have left that seat for a human. The son got up and wandered away, leaving his seat completely empty, so that there was nothing to indicate that indeed, it belonged to him and him alone.

An older Indian woman in spectacles, a sari, and sensible shoes came and sat down next to the son's seat. As she was settling herself, she set down her book on the vacant seat next to her, which happened to be where the son had been sitting before he left. The father's face grew hard and he quickly gave her to understand that all appearances to the contrary, someone was sitting in that vacant seat. I hope her astonishment made him a little ashamed of himself. "Oh, I am sorry," she said. "All I did was put my book down there for a moment. You see?" And she picked up the book and hid herself inside it immediately, as any person of sense would do upon finding herself among the barbarians.

A late night flight to Las Vegas on a Sunday is going to have three varieties of passengers: residents who have been traveling elsewhere; those who will be doing business or will be at a conference; and those for whom Las Vegas is a last resort, the end of the line. Of the first, there are two distinct species: regular folks, who could be living anywhere in America, they just happen to be living in Las Vegas, and the true Las Vegans.

There are many easy ways to tell these species apart. Females of the latter have something elaborate going on with their hair--some dramatic and obviously artificial use of color, for example--and wear lots of makeup and wear tight clothes down south and some kind of top that reveals lots of cleavage. The males may have shaved heads or very long hair, and they always have goatees. Both males and females are probably wearing pointed shoes, and both have tattoos that you can see. They both wear a lot of jewelry. They drink a lot on the plane, unless they are in AA, like the musicians in the row in front of me, in which case they drink a gallon of tomato juice and often express which part of their body they would be willing to lose if they could only be allowed to smoke on the plane. In contrast, the regular folks look like anyone you might see in San Jose or Phoenix or Anytown, USA.

And then there is me. Toward the end of my flight, I was thinking about how thirsty I was, but I felt disinclined to disturb the flight attendants, who all looked a little tired and very busy cleaning up, but as the minutes ticked by, my thirst got the best of me, and I asked one if she might bring me a club soda when she got a chance. She stopped and looked at me while I was asking, indicating by her very attention that there was nothing in this world that would make her happier than to get me what I needed and she put her hand on my arm and gave me a look of what I can only describe as love and said she did indeed have a chance and she would bring it in a moment.

This is going to sound absolutely ridiculous, but the kindness of her expression and manner really did bring me to shed another couple of tears. It takes so little to be kind. All one has to do is get out of oneself and pay attention to someone else. Yet it can have such a big effect.

Part of the reason it had such an effect on me, and you probably know this without my saying, is that when one grows up like a weed, with no one paying any attention and without anyone giving one's needs consideration (in fact, with parents letting you know that your needs don't matter and are a burden, besides--this sounds so bitter, which I don't mean, I am really trying to just describe it), it makes that attention and consideration so very precious when it do come one's way. Not that I weep whenever anyone at a diner brings me a plate of pancakes, or when I am handed a coffee. No, the great effect was from what had happened over the weekend, as I had been invited to the table in the midst of a family who loves each other and pays attention to each other, and the effect of that intimacy with this family (the family of my friend S.) was profoundly moving.

At brunch, the sisters and cousins and their husbands and children were gathered for a family photograph, and there was much good-natured teasing and laughing, and I went to sit next to the matriarch, who was looking on, and I told her how very fortunate they were to have each other. She agreed, of course, and told me more about how close the cousins are, more like sisters. What a thing that is to have, what a gift to have grown up with so many people loving you. I woke up this morning resolved to put a lot more effort into showing my nieces how much I love them.


P.S. I wore these shoes on the plane, both ways. At every single airport I visited, I got at least one compliment on my shoes from fellow travelers. I am just saying, in case anyone is in need of some positive attention.

P.P.S. I am in love with D.C. Why didn't anyone tell me? The only other times I've been there, the whole city was blanketed in snow and the very streets were shut down, and we walked knee-deep through the drifts to see the monuments. Beautiful, yes, but very cold and not very inviting. More about D.C. later.