7:41 AM

That's the time it was when he started laying on the doorbell. On a Sunday. Not one ring or two, but a dingdingdingdingdingdingding of continuous jabbing at the switch. And again. And I started from bed--do I get dressed? What? Socks? Who?

dingdingdingdingdingdingding

Henry--we'll call him Henry--is apparently homeless, and frequents the neighborhood because of the church up the street which feeds and ministers to the homeless. Henry will do stuff for money--rake leaves, shovel snow, haul trash, anything you got.

This time Henry had a snow shovel in hand; he "borrows" these tools, like rakes and shovels, from other neighbors to do the job, unless you want to "lend" him a shovel. But it hasn't snowed in two days, and even though I didn't shovel when it did, there wasn't much, and most of it has melted down. But Henry is here, shovel in hand, at 7:41 on a Sunday. The fact is, there's no beer or wine sold on Sundays until after 12 noon, so Henry's got some time to hustle. Henry needs cash.

Henry drinks. He probably does other things as well, but he drinks. He can rake a yard and fill four bags with leaves, powered by a Colt 45 "Tall Boy". He just sets it on the porch, in a bag, and gets to work. Henry hustles.

I don't know how old Henry is; he looks 55, but he's probably 33. Henry's got nothing much, nobody cares where Henry is this morning, at 7:41, on a Sunday. Nobody cares how old he is. Henry's mind is focused on too few things; he doesn't care what time it is. He's long past caring as those around him are long past caring about him. He just needs some cash.

Spaghetti Aglio e' Olio for lunch

The simplest of all pasta traditions, but also very easy to fuck up badly. Here's the lowdown on that simple yet elusive preparation:

Pasta
Olive Oil
Garlic
Red pepper flakes
(that's it!)

You already know how to cook pasta, right? Don't make me tell you to add salt to the water or make sure it's boiling before you drop it in, and if you rinse it I'm gonna break your neck. Anyone heard of Al Dente? No? If you overcook it I'll send Al down to break your neck, too!

Now, get yourself a big ol' pan and some good extra virgin olive oil ("extra virgin", that was me in high school).

Chop up a bunch of garlic (at least a half dozen cloves--don't make me come down there!)
NO, you cannot use garlic powder, paste, or that damn garlic press... Get out your big knife and make a scene!

Put the pan on some heat, put oil in the pan (half a cup, more or less--it's good for you, so shut up and pour!)

Go ahead and throw the garlic in the pan--here's the thing--we're not browning it, we just want to get it translucent and slightly sizzling. As soon as you hear a sizzle, TURN THE DAMN HEAT OFF!! Then, toss in a pinch or three of red pepper flakes. The residual heat will continue to develop the the garlic and pepper flavor. If you brown it, it will go bitter on you.

Drain the pasta when it's ready, and immediately toss in the pan with the oil. Throw it in a bowl and eat it, then continue to eat out of the pan until it's gone.

Serve with slightly chilled leftover red wine from previous night--preferably in a rocks glass or ceramic mug. Chase it with an apple or pear and you have the perfect lunch.

The Super Bowl Miracle

She knew New York would win, she said, it was the feast of St. Blaise', after all. Blaise was her brother who passed away more than twenty years ago, leaving a family of 12, and the oldest boy, also named Blaise, died too young not ten years past. In her mind, you somehow become the saint for whom you're named when you pass, like a giant continuum.

She left the TV on but didn't watch, only listened, as she cleaned out the refrigerator which had more years of filth than you care to know. Three hours it took, she said, cleaning and scrubbing, and in those three hours they won. So she knew...

It wasn't only the refrigerator, though. When I walked into the cramped apartment she grew up in, there were large, black trash bags stacked on the floor, a dozen or more, and I could see the kitchen table-top for the first time in all those years. The thick, gray dust was gone, clothes were hung up, boxes were packed. The dusty, sour smell was finally dissipating...

The patron saint of throat ailments and wild animals turned his attention to an underdog team and a poor old woman trying to reclaim her world. She listened to the plays, but never watched, not until the work was done.

She knew her brother and nephew would watch and wait for her.

I've got a pocket full of pretty green

...I'm going to give it to the man behind the counter
he's gonna give me food and water

I recently heard this song, do you remember it? I heard it on the recent release by Mark Ronson, and my ears pricked up--I knew it but couldn't quite place it. It was a catchy, bouncy rendition evocative of a children's rope skipping rhyme, replete with high, cheery voices. This particular production is what threw me off--it was originally performed by the Jam, and the version as sung by the gruff, nasally Paul Weller, with the spare, percussive, jerky arrangement feels like a different world altogether. The song is a simple, stark assessment of the world of commerce:

And they didn't teach me that in school -
It's something that I learnt on my own -
That power is measured by the pound or the fist -
It's as clear as this oh -

But in the new version by Mark Ronson, the song becomes a nursery rhyme whose origins and meaning are shrouded and sometimes dark, like Ring Around the Rosey, Rock-a-Bye-Baby, or maybe even Pop Goes the Weasel.

Is there safety in the familiarity of a tune? Or was it ever really that dark? Sometimes the incomprehensible chords and strange rhythm of a new song make your ears bristle and wince, or an annoying refrain overshadows a song's deeper meaning. Did you ever notice someone from afar, and think to yourself, "gosh, he looks mean." But when you eventually meet him and get to know him as the good person he inevitably was, you can no longer seem to find that "meanness" in his face you swear you saw in the past?
Is the most beautiful person you know the most beautiful person in the world?

Mapled

For better or worse, I've always been rather willful and contrary--just a quirk of personality born of shyness and (perhaps) benign neglect. This trait manifests itself in a habit of leaving social situations without fanfare or so much as a farewell if I'm not feeling the groove, turned off, or otherwise bored. I would just prefer to slip out unnoticed than burden anyone with any sort of obligation, guilt, or challenge to justify my continued presence. Sometimes it's out of true annoyance or distaste that I leave a social situation, sometimes simple lack of interest, usually something in between. I've left parties, bars, art openings, and concerts over the years--hey, it's my prerogative--the world isn't going to end, is it? Let me save you the energy--I can find the door myself.

A few years ago I attended a concert by a group recommended by bandmates and friends, the band being US Maple (which is not important, as it could have been any number of bands). As the show progressed, I found myself not really connecting with the music; it wasn't bad, it just wasn't speaking to me at that time--to be honest, it struck me as something I'd rather be playing than listening to--if that says anything about my willfulness and contrary nature... Anyway, as my friends closed in on the stage, very much into the performance, I fell back to the edge of the room. Then it struck me (as it does from time to time): I'm not really enjoying myself, maybe I should just leave... And leave I did, tossing my beer in the trash and pushing open the exit, glad to be free of the music and the obligation.

The next day, amid an exchange of emails, my friends realized that I had left, well, earlier than they thought. Talking about it later to Mrs. 'tini, the term "Mapled" was coined; referring to the act of leaving a social situation unannounced, prematurely, and slightly annoyed.

Super-e-bola

Football puts me to sleep, as do most televised sports. I could be bouncing off the wall one moment, turn the TV on and before you know it, the drone of the unending chattering, crowd noise, and loooooong commercial breaks have all come together like a magical sleep-inducing spell. I know it's supposed to be exciting--and I'm sure it is--at least for the guys actually playing, but for me I might as well be watching an ant hill with a soundtrack recording of Niagara Falls.
Like so much, it's aesthetics. I have nothing against football or sports in general, but the association of a certain aesthetic (the look and sound of televised sports) combined with early experiences (lack of interest or understanding) has turned me off to the experience. I think we all have experiences combined with aesthetics which have turned us off or prejudiced us to specific things--certain types of movies, reading in general, various kinds of music--how many times have we heard the words, "I hate ____ music!", referring to a specific style or sound? What was the association which turned off the individual to such a broad range of experience?