Washington D.C. Daybook

Finito

2006-01-29T08:20:00.000-08:00

For readers of this journal. I have shifted to:

http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com

Cocktail Of The Week: The Letter "X" For Xavier Cugat, Or Let's Put The "X" Back In X-Mas

2005-12-22T17:50:00.000-08:00

                        Have A Cuchi Cuchi Christmas

The cocktail project continues to wind down. Next week will finish the alphabet. My bartender who has been so totally supportive in making up these unfamiliar drinks and playing along with glass selections, garnishes, even lighting, has been wonderful. I made sure Santa paid them an early visit.

This week we made a cocktail starting with the letter "X," and you'll have to trust me when I say there isn't much to work with under that hatch mark. I did find one called the Xavier Cugat, named after the most popular Latin band leader of the 1940's. He was considered the "Rhumba King" of his day. I wonder what would happen if you went into a dance club today and asked someone to rhumba? Desi Arnaz (Lucille Ball's husband) joined Cugat's band in 1934 before going on to his own fame.

                                              Charo

Cuga had four wives: wife number four was Charo who is still around doing her "cuchi cuchi's" in Vegas that she is famous for. Both of them were born in Spain, but Charo was his junior by many years.

For a while, Cugat was even employed at a cartoonist at the Los Angeles Times. After a time he decided to forego photographs of himself in favor of his cariactures.

                        Xavier Cugat "Say hello to my little friend"

A real Renaissance kinda guy. There is a very good website devoted to his life and work:

Xavier Cugat is the featured musician from oldetimecookin g.co m. Come visit Xavier, this wonderful big band leader.

                Charo (on the right) judging a Charo contest
                 at the Trannyshack in San Franciso this year

Xavier Cugat Cocktail

3/4 ounce triple sec
3/4 ounce Kahlua coffee liqueur
1/2 ounce Amaretto almond liqueur
1 ounce whipping cream

Shake briefly with a glass full of crushed ice and serve in a double cocktail glass

Postscript: Thanks again to my brother for his Photoshopping talents. There is an album called Cugi's Cocktails (Cuigi being Cugat's nickname). The perfect listening accompaniment to drinking a Cugi cocktail.

*** Remember: You can also find Washington Cube at:

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Boo! It's Santa Claus & I'm Coming To GET YOU!!!

2005-12-22T16:46:00.000-08:00

Santa's been hitting the nog, no?

There is a web page called Scared of Santa Gallery: 'Tis the Season to be Scared Witless. Something to give you a few chuckles as the day approaches. My family has a famous shot of my brother sitting on a Santa Claus that looks like a total degenerate with these dark circles under his eyes and a certain "list" to him that makes you wonder if he's sober. Worse than the guy pictured above, if you can believe that. The children, now adults, are probably still in therapy from these moments...

I'm supposed to be Superman. Why can't I fly away?

SCARED OF SANTA GALLERY: Tis the season to be scared wit less

What do I want for Christmas? Away from YOU!

*** Remember: You can also find Washington Cube at:
Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Blogging Blitzers & Black Cat Bones: A Capital Capitol Punishment

2005-12-22T05:53:00.000-08:00

Depsite my running around yesterday finalizing my Christmas errands, I took time out in the afternoon to watch the Redskins game while I wrapped presents. I had been stuck on the Beltway in pre-game traffic: cars with Redskins' flags flapping on the antenna, a "Dallas Sucks" van broken down on the shoulder. I had seen an entry on the blog The Blinding Glare of the Obvious (quarterback: Lizzie) who had posted about football, so I left a comment, to which she responded immediately, then our blog pal Chairborne Stranger (quarterback: CS) started making entries from Iraq, where he is serving in the military, in response to what we were saying. It all got a little surreal at one point where CS was pretending to go to the kitchen to fix us junk food snacks.

I admire Joe Gibbs for making the sign to kill the playing of "Momma, Don't Let Your Sons Grow Up To Be Cowboys," toward the end of the game. Class move on his part. HOWEVER...sometimes Gibbs weirds me out with his juju's of never cracking a smile during a game, the drop-to-your-knees prayer strategies, etc. It's almost like he's got a black cat bone and mojo around his neck like he's waiting for Baron Samedi to come waltzing out on the playing field.

I mixed up cookie dough at half time, and I was already resigned to baking in advance of the end of the game if things got really sucky. They didn't, and I was able to watch it all the way through. It was worth it, even if I was still baking cookies at midnight.

Postscript: Today the Washington Express picked up a blurb on this piece, which was nice, but off to the side they said "Washington Cube finds Washington Redskins Coach Joe Gibbs to be rather creepy." Nothing could be further from the truth. I was being flippant when I said he weirded me out with some of his on the playing field habits, but the truth is many people involved in sports, theatre, and other endeavors develop little patterns and rituals to not jinx themselves. I jokingly referred to superstitions, but in Mr. Gibbs' case, I know that is not it. I am sure he is well aware of the dangers of hubris, but it's not even in the man's nature to gloat in victory.

Some time ago, I saw an interview with Mr. Gibbs regarding his race car business and how he handled employees. He is the dream employer. He shows so much respect to his employees, and he sets such a superior moral and ethical level of operation that I can't think of a better person to work for (and with) in any occupation. To me, Joe Gibbs sets the model and standard we should all be pursuing in our careers, and I can't praise him enough. I am so embarrassed that they printed out that I thought he was creepy, when nothing could be further from the truth. The Express has made me regret my tease. Mr. Gibbs is a role model for us all.

My Mother's Christmas
Oatmeal Cookie Recipe

1 cup white sugar
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup butter (2 sticks)
2 eggs
3 1/2 cups quick oats
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/2 cups flour
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix the white and brown sugar, the softened butter and eggs in one bowl. Mix the baking soda, flour and salt in another bowl. Gradually add the dry ingredients into the sugar mixture, and then add the vanilla extract. Work in the oats. Roll into logs about the size of a sushi roll (6 inches long x 1 1/2 inches wide) and wrap each roll in wax paper. Freeze or harden the dough. When ready, cut the logs into pieces about 1/2 inch thick (you may need to shape them slightly back into "rounds"), and put on ungreased baking sheets. Space about 2 inches apart, because the cookies do spread, sometimes up to four times their size. Bake ten minutes* and cool on racks. Makes five dozen. These freeze well.

*I tend to rotate the cookie sheets halfway through bake time, no matter what type of cookie I am making.

*** Remember: You can also find Washington Cube at:

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

June's Sugared Pecans

2005-12-22T05:47:00.000-08:00

I'll be baking this weekend, treats for family and friends, and one of the things I'll be making is a recipe for sugared pecans that I acquired from a woman I used to work with on Capitol Hill. June managed our four district offices, and she was a hoot. When I went to work in that office, she took me under her wing like a daughter and she made sure her charges gave me whatever I needed to work smoothly. She already had one office "daughter," and that was my best friend, Dee. Whenever we had to travel back to the State we represented, she would always have us stay in her home, and one year, when I had to be there just before Christmas, she made these sugared pecans as a special treat in honor of my visit. I was there with another coworker, Tim, and she spoiled us rotten, even though she was in the beginning of her declining health then.

June had a best friend named Marie and they had been friends forever. They knew each other so well, strengths and weaknesses, and they loved each other; two widowed women off having uproarious times. When Marie died, about a year before June, I knew just from talking with her that June's heart was broken. When Dee and I used to go out for drinks or dinner after work, we would usually wind up saying we'd be friends for life, and we would be exactly like June and Marie at their age, off having wild times and adventures and laughing our heads off.

Dee loved Christmas for all the right reasons. One night we had been out drinking and I took her to a house that was so over-the-top in decoration, I knew she would love it in all it's loud glaring vulgarity. We were a bit tipsy by the time we got there, and we stood out on the sidewalk to take pictures. Every time we saw one more thing on the house, tears would start rolling again, along with our roars of laughter. I knew the man who owned the house had a reputation of being a weird crank, and I had heard he had appeared to gawkers before, bearing a shotgun, so I kept trying to hush us down so we wouldn't be gazing down the end of a double barrel, but we couldn't stop laughing.

June had two stories that I loved that involved her friend, Marie. There was one main funeral home in the town where June and Marie lived, and one time the Congressman asked them to pop by and pay their respects to a constituent's family, only they had been to some reception just before and had a little too much to drink. When they got to the viewing, they walked up to the casket, then stood there, staring down at Joe Mosti and his distinctive nose. Looking down at the deceased, they began querying each other how the coffin lid would shut without smashing his nose, and they were so unconsious of others, they got into a heated debate about it. Another time, same funeral home, again drinking and popping in for an official visit, they walked up to the front of the parlor where the casket was and they started crying, remembering this person. At some point during their tears, they realized they were staring down at a stranger and that they were in the wrong viewing room, so then they started laughing hysterically at their mistake, and they were asked to leave.

June and Marie had a ton of shared history and stories, and Dee and I loved hearing them. Life has a way of playing tricks on you, and now when I hear women say, "We will be little old ladies together," I have to admit I wince inremembrance of saying the same thing to Dee. That was our big joke. One night we were out having drinks at a place on Pennsylvania Avenue, sitting side by side in the ladies room, and we started talking about how down the road we'd be out drinking, only with walkers and wheelchairs, and what a mess we would be.

Horribly enough both Tim and Dee passed on, way too young: both unexpected, both sudden, both within a year of each other, so I lost two people in my life that meant the world to me. Tim is the one I wrote about earlier on my blog that used to go out and watch planes land at National Airport with me. I was rooting around in a box of photographs this morning, trying to find this wonderful picture of June and Marie, but due to time constraints I had to give up. I did stumble on photographs of Dee and Tim, and I yanked those out to have on my desk so I can see them again. I was reading another person's blog the other day, and they talked about sending out drunk text messages to a friend that made no sense. When I read that I thought, "Yup. Sounds like what I would do with Dee."

This isn't meant to be a morbid piece, but rather a remembrance of warm, vibrant people who bring joy to our lives. I hope you enjoy those you have during this holiday season. As promised, June's Sugared Christmas Pecans. I truly believe she and Marie are off somewhere, having more laughs.

June's Sugared Christmas Pecans

2 1/2 to 3 pounds pecans
1 stick of butter
2 egg whites
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Melt butter on cookie sheet in the warm oven. Beat egg whites until foamy, gradually adding sugar, salt and vanilla. Beat until the egg whites form stiff peaks. Fold the pecans into the mixture, mixing well with a wooden spoon. Pour the mixture onto the buttered cookie sheet, and stir to coat the nut mixture with the butter. Bake for 40 minutes, but check the mix in the oven every ten minutes and stir, watching closely the last ten minutes to make the the pecans don't burn. Once done (or browned), remove pecans from the oven, let cool ten minutes, then shake in a bag with plenty of confectionery sugar. Store in sealed container.

Now, something silly in memory of June, Marie, Tim and Dee: WhiteTrashXmas*

* Thank you to friend Matt for sending me the link.

*** Remember: You can also find Washington Cube at:

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Cocktail Of The Week: The Letters "V" and "W." Vicious Sid & What The Hell?

2005-12-22T05:16:00.000-08:00

My cocktail of the week project is starting to wind down now. I am at the tail end of the alphabet, and the choices are becoming more narrow. I can't wait until I hit the letter "X." This week the "V" cocktail is called Vicious Sid after Sid Vicious, formerly a member of the punk group, The Sex Pistols, formerly a mortal.

Sid's real name was John Simon Ritchie, but he was renamed by band member John Lydon (Johnny Rotten), after Lydon's pet hamster "Sid the Vicious" who had a habit of biting people. Sid the Human had some equally nasty habits. Prior to his departure from the Sex Pistols, Sid made a notable recording of Frank Sinatra's My Way. Personally? I always enjoyed his rendition of Eddie Cochran's song called Something Else, because he sings it like a really dumb American teenager. Sid is often remembered for his relationship with an American girl called Nancy Spungen (an early Courtney Love influence), whom he wound up stabbing to death in the Chelsea Hotel (222 West 23rd Street)in New York City. Months after this occurrence, he was found dead from a drug overdose of heroin purchased for him by his mother. Let's put on the oh-so-cheer and seasonal Lou Reed's Chelsea Girls while we toast Sid. Here's his cocktail:

Vicious Sid Cocktail

1 1/2 ounces light rum

1/2 ounce peach liqueur

1/2 ounce triple sec

1 ounce lemon juice

1 dash bitters

Shake with ice and serve in a martini glass

Vicious Sid Cocktail

"I'll drink it My Way"

The "W" cocktail is called What the Hell, and it reminded me of this devil ornament I have on my Christmas tree. Some of you may have seen those old-fashioned German ornaments for sale shaped like fruits and vegetables, the birds with the feathered tails, cottages and acorns. They are often reproduced off of antique molds and each has symbolic meaning.

An acorn ornament, for example, represents not only the oak tree, considered sacred in Germany, but also the coming of Christ, and his rebirth. Bird ornaments are symbolic of harbingers of good things to come, and then there is one rarely seen ornament in this country called Krumpus--a devil's head.

Krumpus

In Medevial times there were roaming bands of performers who would put on Paradise Plays during the Christmas and Solstice season. These plays depicted life and death, The Garden of Eden, and good and evil. They also included depictions of Saint Nicholas and his roving band of servants. Apple ornaments were symbolic in Germany of paradise, the temptation of evil and many glassblowers showed the apple cut in half to reflect the star pattern in the fruit which represented Christ's birth "star," as well as the seeds of fruitfulness for the coming year.

I was lucky enough one year to find a Krumpus ornament, and I have had people comment on how odd it is to see a devil's head on a Christmas tree. During the Paradise Plays, representation of the devil was to remind the revelers of the dangers of living an unholy life, and Krumpus reminded little boys and girls that he was there to punish those who misbehaved during the past year. I find it interesting that the devil's head mold used to reproduce these ornaments is one of the earliest made when glassblowers started making these symbolic images for Christmas.

"I've got your number, Cube"

" No gifts for you"

There is also a pickle ornament, another thing you rarely see on a tree, and the ritual behind this ornament is that you place it first on the tree, hidden, and that the person who finds it on Christmas morning gets an extra gift from Saint Nicholas. I was telling a friend about this tradition this past week, and he shot me a look. I knew where he was going with this. He said, "A hidden Christmas pickle, huh? That gift may take nine months for delivery."

Here is the What the Hell cocktail in honor of Krumpus and being good during the holidays, prior to Santa Claus' arrival.

                                      What The Hell Cocktail

                             1 ounce dry vemouth
                             1 ounce gin
                             1 ounce apricot brandy
                             1 dash lemon juice
                             1 dash grenadine

          Shake with ice and serve in an old-fashioned glass*

                                   What the Hell Cocktail

"Hot toddys at my place next time?"

* When I had my cocktail made up, I used a wine glass for photographic purposes. I also asked for two strawberries. I cut two little holes on either side, near the top of the first berry, and a slot along it's base so it could be put onto the edge of the glass. I then cut two little horns from the second strawberry to insert into the first, making a tiny strawberry devil's head for the drink.

Again, mucho thanks to my brother for his Photoshop work. He was complaining to me about the quality of my photography in terms of light and focus on the cocktails. I said, "Give me a break. I am not shooting these in a photography studio. I'm in a bar, for God's sake." He told me the Vicious Sid collage was one of the hardest things he's worked on recently, requiring forty layers and the dissembling of the cocktail glass to rework in an imaginary straw and other patterns.Is he dedicated, or what?

I would like to remind readers that there is a blog called DC Drinks which describes itself as "Reviews, rantlets, and ribald on all things alcoholic." DC Drinks

Oi! Cheers!

*** Remember: You can also find Washington Cube at:

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Stop And Smell The Poinsettias

2005-12-14T12:35:00.000-08:00

Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow...

In the past few years, I have set a pattern that seems to work for me in celebrating the season as I wish to do. I usually start my Christmas cards in November with personalized letters so that I can have them mailed by December 1st. I've learned over time that if I wait beyond that date, it just won't get done. I try to have my trees up and decorated by the first week in December. I was running late this year for that task, but just a few more ornaments to be hung and that is done. I want to finish ordering gifts today, I need to deliver some wreaths this week, and then next week is about truly relaxing and enjoying the holiday.

My mother's wreath

When my mother died a few years ago, (too soon, but is there any good time for that?) I set aside some dates to take flowers to the cemetery: her birthday (which was also close to Mother's Day), the anniversary of her death, and then I got into the habit of making a wreath for the grave in December. My mother always made wreaths at Christmas, and I suppose, in part, this skill and task is an ongoing affirmation of what I learned from her.

I've been buying my Christmas trees from the same landscaper for a few years now, and this year his tiny son was helping and had his little spiel down in greeting the customers and guiding them to the trees. I started talking to the father, and he said he had been teaching his son how to work in the garden and take on adult tasks since he was five. I think the boy is about nine now. I told him that my mother had done the same with me. I distinctly remember her handing me sharp pruning shears to do edging work with grass with the admonishment "Don't cut yourself," as my guideline. The landscaper told me he had done the exact same thing with his son, and that it had been that way for him, as well. I'm not a parent, but I think it's important that children learn these responsibilities early on in preparation for what the world has ready to land on them down the road.

I was going to give the father a tip, and I added in some extra money for his son, and he said, "Please hand it directly to him. If it comes from me, he won't understand the meaning of it." I gave the little boy a five-dollar bill, and he stood there with the stretched out money in his hands and stared at it before putting it in his pocket. I just loved seeing him out there in the cold, working side by side with his Dad.

My friend's wreath for her parents

This year my friend in Annapolis lost both of her parents. Her mother got up one morning in January, bathed, dressed, put on her makeup, made the bed, laid down on it and died. Just like that. It was a terrible shock to everyone, but it became a nightmare for her father who went into an immediate tailspin and decline. He never seemed to be able to recover from this horrible loss, and he died this summer. This isn't the first time I've heard of or seen this phenomenon. You will never convince me that people can't die of a broken heart. Her parents were buried just across the road from my mother's site, so I told her that this year I would make up another wreath for her and we would go out with my brother to leave these things for our parents.

My wreath

For me, this time of year is about traditions, as I am sure it is for a lot of people: which ornament is hung on the tree first, or always serving a certain food for a holiday feast, giving a party (which one of my friends does very well from his swinging bachelor pad), those special Starbuck's lattes, or seeing relatives from whom you may be geographically (or emotionally) removed. Try and honor your own traditions, and try not to get too frazzled during the coming weeks. Stop and smell the poinsettias.

*** Remember: You can also find Washington Cube at:

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

The Miracle On Park Heights Avenue. Is There Chanukah In The House?

2005-12-10T19:38:00.000-08:00

The Chanukah House, 6211 Park Heights Avenue

Baltimore, Maryland

I was going to hold off writing about this until a little later in the holiday season, but in the past few days some people whose blogs I follow had written about what it is like to be Jewish during the Christmas season and how alienating it can be. I've been so wrapped up with my tinsel and trees, I'm out of it, but when I read their blogs, I thought, "Hoshanah, Hon's. Have I got the place for you."

Klezmer Band and Fiddler on the Roof. Note the disco ball

above the portico. Too much? Not for Balmer, Hon.

For some time, I had read about a Chanukah House in Baltimore, the kosher version of Miracle on 34th Street. Baltimore is already known for it's over-the-top camp charm, and this house is no exception. Last year on a very rainy night I sought it out, and I was not disappointed. The house is actually divided up into four apartments, and each resident has a role in setting up the display. How would you like that (not Santa) clause written into your contract?

                                                 The Shalom Flag

One of the residents, Irv Cohen, began the tradition in the late 1980's when he spotted a two-foot high metal knight in a crafts store in Virginia. Cohen, a graphic designer with an artistic eye, purchased nine of the figures, lined them up, wired them for electricity and the "Knights of the Menorah" were born.

                  The "Knights" of Menorah. The initial inspiration.

Things evolved and every year another section was added: Fiddlers on the Roof, wearing cast off clothing from Mr. Cohen and his father, Herschel Harry Potter and so much more.

              "We knew some Shreks in Miami. Lovely couple."

The house is located at 6211 Park Heights Avenue, and there is a website with more information on the house, the lighting of the centerpiece menorah, and directions:

                         About.com: http://www.thechanukahh ouse.com

                 The six-foot high menorah with oil-fueled flames

It takes about 100 man hours to set the house up, but only 10 hours to take it down. The centerpiece menorah has traditionally been lit by the Mayor of Baltimore on the first night of Chanukah (this year on December 25th), and for every night of Chanukah, prayers are offered followed by informal tours. In an article from the Baltimore Jewish Times, Mr. Cohen was quoted as saying, "Chanukah is a mitzvah, a blessing, and Jewish people are required to publicize the miracle of Chanukah. It's called 'Pirsumei Nissa, and for over 2,000 years people have been putting the menorah in a very prominent place in the home where people can see it." In the case of Chanukah House, that is easily accomplished: the menorah is out at the entrance to the sideway blasting away from it's six-foot base on oil-fed flames that shoot up into the night."

                Dreidel! ...and the Eternal Flame Menorah Under Glass

                                                  Dreidel!

                        Dreidel! ...and it spins..all five feet of it.

There is so much to take in: Mr. Potato Latke Head, a life-sized four member klezmer band seated inchairs on the house's upper balcony, a dreidel tree, a "Shalom" American flag in red, white and blue lights, Schmoopy and more.

          Mr. Potato Latke Head. Note Speidel Man on the left pillar.

"Shalom, Y'all."

"W" and his red, white and blue menorah candles.

                              Herschel Harry Potter and friends

                                    Poo? Jewish? Who knew?

Not all are enthralled with Chanukah House. It is located in a religious community on a street lined with synagogues, yeshivas and social centers , but somehow over time they have arrived at an acceptance of this tradition.

                       Spare me the JAP jokes. Chanukah Barbie

This sign is next to the glass-encased Barbie. It says: F.Y.I. Why is Barbie lighting Chanukah candles, you ask? As a Jewish girl, why shouldn't she? Did you know that Barbie was created in 1959 by Ruth Handler? She and her husband Elliot Handler, a nice Jewish couple from Denver, Colorado, were the founders of Mattel, Inc. They named Barbie for their daughter Barbara and two years later, in 1961 when the Ken doll was introduced, named it for their son Ken. So now you know!

Given the time to put this showpiece together every year, and the high monthly electric bills that must come as a result, it truly is a marvel.

                                            The Menorah Tree

To quote Mr Cohen, it's creator, "Who in their right mind would do something like this with no monetary gain? It's a labor of love, and we love doing it." One housing director was quoted as saying, "It gives a little bit of extra character to Park Heights Avenue." Santa Claus, Schmanta Claus. Now that is an understatement, Hon.

                    Happy Chanukah, Hon. Shnaidel The Snowman

*** Remember: You can also find Washington Cube at:

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

All I Want For Christmas Is My Own Desktop Missile Deployment System

2005-12-08T05:41:00.000-08:00

Malum Discordiae

I finally decided to break down and treat myself to an iPod nano for a Cubie Christmas present. I had been prepared to buy an iPod Mini, and before I could decide which color to get (how girly, I know), Apple had come out with the nano. Then I was slowed down even further when I learned that if you ordered online through the Apple website, you could get two lines engraved onto the machine.

Carpe Diem!

I knew the first line would contain my name, but what to put on the second line? I was almost certain I wanted the second line to be in Latin, so I started going through phrases, putting aside lines that I found appealing:

Alis volat propiis -- She flies with her own wings.

Audere est facere -- To dare is to do.

Braccae tuae aperiuntur -- Your fly is open.

Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus -- Never tickle a sleeping dragon.

Fabricati diem -- Make my day.

Fac ut vivas -- Get a life.

Id est mihi, id non est tibi! -- It is mine, not yours!

Intellectum valde amat -- Love the intellect strongly.

Latine loqui coactus sum -- I have this compulsion to speak Latin.

Omnes una manet nox -- The same night awaits us all.

Ubi spiritus est cantus est -- Where there is spirit there is song.

Ad eundum quo nemo ante iit -- To boldly go where no man has gone before.

Cogito sumere potum alterum

While I pondered, there was controversy when a woman riding the Washington, D.C. Metro system had her iPod stolen off of her by a "gang of teenaged girls." The issue in the public mind surrounded the fact that Metro security wasn't effective in keeping people from being robbed and assaulted. Surprisingly enough, the girls were tracked down and the iPod recovered. I think the retrieval of the iPod threw a lot of people. Who would ever believe? One saving factor was...the woman had her name engraved on it.

I'm going to be a tease and not report on which phrase I chose. You figure it out. While I was cruising the net early this a.m. I found the perfect gift for the workplace: a desktop missile deployment system. I didn't check to see if it is offered in this country, but it is being sold by the British department store, Marks & Spencer: a USB toy with compressed-air darts, in a set of three, and Mac and PC compatible. Cube-ical warfare. You'll never know what hit you.

*** Remember: You can also find Washington Cube at:

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Can't We All Just Get Along?

2005-12-02T05:29:00.000-08:00

I had to use personal time to get a billing problem straightened out with two doctor's offices. My new primary care physician (soon to be replaced) incorrectly made up a referral which later was rejected by a another's doctor's office, due to multiple entry errors, and I received a bill for close to $400.00. A friend went with me on the not-so-much-fun chore of returning to the primary doctor's office to get them to fix their mess. I wasn't thrilled with this little task, and I suppose some of my displeasure was showing, because while we were waiting in the reception area for the new paperwork, my friend picked up a children's book and said, "Let me read you a story."

He has this wonderful dulcet voice with calming tones, so I was game. The book must have measured about 5 x 5 inches, and it was foam, covered in washable plastic, I suppose for those drool moments. My friend was squishing the pages of the book, then held it up to his chest on display and said, "What a great idea. Tactile and you can wipe the messes off of it. Why don't Hustler and Playboy print their magazines this way?" I choked back a nasty guffaw, while heopened the book and began to read.

The book was called The Rainbow Fish, and it is the story of a brightly scaled fish who has multi-colored glittery scales (holding up book to show you the picture), and one day a little, plainer fish swims up and asks Rainbow Fish if he might give up one of his pretty scales. Rainbow Fish refuses, and then all of the other little fish ignore him and he is lonely. Rainbow Fish goes to meet with the all- wise Octopus (holding up picture), and asks why he is so alone. I halted the reading at this point to say to my friend that I thought they had drawn the Octopus rather poorly, making him look like an elephant with eight trunks.

Where were we? Oh, yes. So the Octopus tells Rainbow Fish, "Give away your shining scales. You will not be as beautiful, but you will be happy." "See Rainbow Fish thinking about this?", my friend asked. I replied, "This story sucks." So Rainbow Fish swims off, and the next day a fish approaches him and asks for a pretty scale, and Rainbow Fish gives him one. In fact, Rainbow Fish gives away ALL of his scales until he has only one left. "Rainbow Fish wasn't as pretty as before, but now he had friends and swam off to play in the sea...the happiest fish." The End.

I looked at my friend, "Who wrote that garbage?" "Why this book was written by Marcus Pfister and translated into English by J. Alison James." "Translated into English? From what?" "This book was originally published by Nord-Sud Verlag AG, Gassau, Switzerland," he spoke in his still-reading-to-little-children voice, "It is a soft little book with it's message about sharing, and it is perfect for bath time, bed time, beach time, any time!," he said, reading from the back cover. Then he added, in the same tones, "What do I care if you take these hidden Nazi treasure scales from me? Just don't touch my numbered bank accounts." He sighed and added, "Those peace-loving Swiss."

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Fade To White

2005-12-02T05:15:00.000-08:00

I was out with a friend today, and we saw a aged lady talking to a postal carrier. She was quite tiny, white-haired, and extremely pale. He said that she looked "bleached by time," and I told him about pigment loss as we age... and other fossil facts.

He turned to me and said, "So. Are we on our way to being ghosts?

In the meantime, on your way to that fade to white.....

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Cocktails of the Week: Tie Me To the Bedpost & Umbrella Man

2005-11-28T15:16:00.000-08:00

I hadn't wanted to post another cocktail entry so close to the Thanksgiving offering, but I am still researching what I wish to write about next. The irony is that I can do my homework and in the end find the whole piece falling apart and never coming to creation. Such is the world of blogging. I'm getting close to the end of the year, the end of my cocktail project, and the end of the alphabet. This week's cocktails were Tie Me To The Bedpost and Umbrella Man.

The Tie Me To The Bedpost cocktail consists of the following ingredients:

1/2 ounce coconut rum

1/2 ounce melon liqueur

1/2 ounce sweet and sour mix

1/2 ounce lemon vodka

Shake with ice (re) strain and serve in an old-fashioned glass.

My brother (who did the Photoshop work on these two pictures) was funny. I had taken the photographs of the cocktails and found the background art (in this case, the bed), but I had to laugh when I saw what he came up with in his creation. When we spoke on the phone, he said (in all innocence), "If you think the Dominatrix is too much, I can take her out, but I'd like to leave the rope I made." Not something you usually expect to hear a relative saying to you. I asked friends what they thought, and they all said "leave it as it is." So...not exactly PG-rated, but...

Tie Me To The Bedpost Cocktail

When I first heard of a cocktail called the Umbrella Man, it made me think of so many things, and it fascinates me how one idea will trigger a string of others including the lyrics to The Hollies song, Bus Stop:

Bus stop, wet day, she's there, I say

Please share my umbrella

Bus stop, bus goes, she stays, love grows

Under my umbrella

All that summer we enjoyed it

Wind and rain and shine

That umbrella, we employed it

By August, she was mine

Also the bespoke umbrellas made by the British firm Swaine, Adeney, & Bigg. They are a wonderful London company that has been in existence since 1750 when the company made whips (appropriate subject for this blog), and they have since expanded over time to hold a Royal Warrant to make leather goods and exquisitely crafted umbrellas.

Swaine Adeney Brigg

Their umbrellas are carried here in Washington by a company called Sterling and Burke, Ltd. on Connecticut Avenue: ClassicLuggage.com by Sterling an d B urke Lt d

I also thought about the French film The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (Les Parapluies du Cherbourg) made in 1964 and starring Catherine Deneuve. Deneuve plays a 17-year old girl working in an umbrella shop with her widowed mother. The movie was novel for it's time in that all of the dialogue was sung. It's not well remembered, but Catherine had an older sister, also a beauty, and also an actress, named Francoise Dorleac. She died in a car accident in 1967.

Catherine et Francoise

Now, Memoirs of a Geisha is about to open in movie theatres, and there are even more umbrellas, lovely paper ones in the snow:

There are also intrigues surrounding the umbrella: in 1978 a Bulgarian dissident named Georgi Markov was killed by a poison dart filled with richin fired from an umbrella.

Markov

Just after crossing Waterloo Bridge in London, Markov felt a sharp jab in his thigh and saw a man picking up an umbrella. He developed a high fever, and four days later he was dead. The only reason his assassination was not detected is that the pellet carrying the poison had not fully dissolved, as expected. Since that time two people suspected in the assassination died under odd circumstances: one in an unexplained car accident, the other committed suicide. The third suspect, a General, was sentenced to prison after destroying his ten volumes of material on the case. All had ties to the KGB.

Mysterious Umbrella Man on the Lower Left

And then there is the infamous mystery man: The Umbrella Man connected to the JFK assassination. His actions have long been speculated on in terms of being a signaler to the assassin, and JFK Umbrella Man remains a mystery to this day. The Umbrella Man

Umbrella Man Cocktail

Lastly, I thought of the French artist Rene Magritte who used umbrellas frequently in his paintings. His bowler-hatted men fell from the sky like rain, held umbrellas, even danced with them...as did Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain. The Umbrella Man cocktail is created in equal parts use the following:

vodka, coffee liqueur, Bailey's Irish Cream, Grand Marnier orange liqueur, Drambuie Scotch whiskey

Mix in a shaker with ice, serve in a highball glass with a tiny paper umbrella. Oh yes...more umbrellas...for cocktails.

A Postscript:

Phil of The Playaz expressed disappointment in no mention of The Penguin from Batman (and his umbrella), so just for you, Phil:

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

And Another One For My Little Friend--The Thanksgiving Cocktail

2005-11-25T13:32:00.000-08:00

A drink called the Thanksgiving Cocktail. Have a wonderful day with family and friends.

Thanksgiving Cocktail

                      1 1/2 ounces Wild Turkey Bourbon Whiskey
                      1/2 ounce Applejack Brandy
                      1 teaspoon Rose's Lime Juice
                      4 ounces Cranberry Juice

*

Nothing says "Thanksgiving" like drunk pets

*Thank you to The Bro for his photoshop work

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Benjamin Franklin: Geeke Or Nerde Charting Your Virtues...All 13 Of Them

2005-11-21T18:30:00.000-08:00

"I had them put in some low lights" ~~ Benjamin Franklin

This past weekend was odd in that I kept receiving telephone calls from the people that provide me beauty services. The first call was from the hair stylist to pass on that another stylist had "quit" rather abruptly (I later heard "fired,") and "what does it all mean", keeping in mind that my stylist recently had a house built on the Eastern Shore and is commuting back to the Washington area mid-week to work. I'm asking myself how much longer they will be around. Then my manicurist called to tell me she's quitting and moving to a new upscale spa where she will have better pay and full health coverage, but concerns over losing clients and would I be following her and so forth (yes on the following), and then I heard from the skin esthetician who called to say the owner of her shop was moving to New Hampshire where her husband is being relocated for work, and the owner will be managing the salon from there. We went over her concerns about someone trying to manage a long-distance business and how long that situation would last before it collapsed, affecting her future business and would I be following (yes), and thus it went so that by this morning I was thinking of blogging a piece about the transitory nature of beauty services and how we either stay or shift and how often the shifting is done with some cross over back and forth to the same salons and spas, and the whole incestuous networking of the beauty field as a career. I was googling around this morning looking for a photograph of an old-fashioned chart made up of multi-colored pieces of string to show the confusion of these transitions, and while I was searching I stumbled onto something that sent me into an entirely different direction. When I told Direct Current about these changes in the game plan, he told me I was suffering from "BADD: Blog Attention Deficit Disorder." DirectCurrent http://directcurrent.blogspot.com/

Apparently Ben has problems with being messy

and keeping his mouth shut

What altered my writing plan was this. I stumbled upon a photograph of a chart that Benjamin Franklin created to track his success in fulfilling life's 13 virtues. By further research I learned that Franklin devised this plan when he was 20 years old. Quoting from The Bible, Phillippians 4:8 : "Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report, if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise,think of these things." (King James Version). Takingthis idea and running with it, Franklin created a list of 13 virtues:

1. Temperance: Eat not to dullness and drink not to elevation.

2. Silence: Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself. Avoid trifling conversation.

3. Order: Let all your things have their places. Let each part of your business have its time.

4. Resolution: Resolve to perform what you ought. Perform without fail what you resolve.

5. Frugality: Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself: i.e. Waste nothing.

6. Industry: Lose no time. Be always employed in something useful. Cut off all unneccessary actions.

7. Sincerity: Use no hurtful deceit. Think innocently and justly; and if you speak, speak
accordingly.

8. Justice: Wrong none, by doing injuries or omitting the benefits that are your duty.

9. Moderation: Avoid extremes. Forebear resenting injuries so much as you think they
deserve.

10. Cleanliness: Tolerate no uncleaniness in body, clothes or habitation.

11. Chastity: Rarely use venery but for health or offspring. Never to dullness, weakness,
or the injury of your own or another's peace or reputation.

12. Tranquility: Be no disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable.

13. Humility: Imitate Jesus and Socrates.

From everything I read, Franklin followed this plan until late in his life, mapping out on his charts whether or not he had succeeded with his day. He tracked out his progress by using a little book of 13 charts. At the top of each chart was the name of the virtue, and the chart had a column for each day of the week, with thirteen rows marked with the first letter of each of the virtues. At the end of each day, he would review his day, it's successes and failures, and he would dutifully make a circular dot mark next to the virtue for each fault he believed he had committed that day: his ultimate goal being, of course, to have a chart that was mark free. I've read that at first he found the pages covered with dots, but as time went on he b<SPANSTYLE="FONT-FAMILY: ms? trebuchet>egan to see the dots diminish. To quote from Wikipedia, "He eventually realized that perfection was not to be attained, but felt himself better and happier because of his attempt."

Ben Jah Man Flow Charts His Day

What a nerd! If they had pocket protectors in the 18th century, you just know Franklin would have been wearing one. I'm surprised he didn't take it further and use different colored inks to mark his levels of failure: blue (not too much off the mark), black (about average), and red (whoa!). Little gold and silver stars when he had a bang-up day of success. If Franklin were alive today, I have no doubt he would have been the inventor of the emoticons. :) I loved the idea that he always had these projects going, checked his progress and knowing he was falling short of perfection, still ending up better than when he started off. Franklin would have been an amazing software engineer. Binary code was meant for him. He could write (wait for it) Benary code. And you just know he'd be at every Trekkie convention. It's logical. ;)

14. Vulcan: Live Long And Prosper.

** Once again, I must credit the wonderful brother with the great Photoshop work on Mr. Franklin.

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Cocktails Of The Week: Red-Headed Woodpecker And Sputnik

2005-11-16T10:22:00.000-08:00

It's funny. When I made the New Year's Resolution to have "a cocktail a week," my friends had said, "Well..work your way through the alphabet a few times," and here it is with the end of the year approaching, and only if I'm diligent will I have made it through once. With a record like this, how will I ever be part of that louche lush life society?

The cocktails this week were "R" and "S": Red-Headed Woodpecker and Sputnik, followed with some Lemon Drop Martinis to cleanse the palate. I had an idea in my head of what I wanted to do with the photography. It would involve my brother's skills, so I took the drinks out to the bar's patio area, and I used my black coat as a backdrop to set the drinks off in the light. A man who looked vaguely like Joe Isuzu came wandering out with his drink and a cigarette and said, "Are you getting ready to do a magic trick?" Well. In a sense I was, through the wizardry of Photoshop, but more on that later.

I used to have about four or five species of woodpecker come into my yard. Most are smaller with dots of red on their heads, but every so often I would see a pileated woodpecker which is the largest species in North America (19 inches) and is the origin of the Woody Woodpecker cartoon character with it's shock absorbing red crown. Sometimes you will see things in nature that will stop you dead in your tracks, and this bird can do it. Here's how you make the Red-Headed Woodpecker cocktail:

2 ounces Malibu coconut rum
1 ounce Amaretto almond liqueur
2 ounces orange juice
2 ounces pineapple juice
splash of cranberry juice

Pour ingredients into shaker with ice and serve in a hurricane glass. I garnished mine with a strawberry impaled on a straw to duplicate a woodpecker's head with the green of the strawberry duplicating it's crown.

Table for One? The Red-Headed Woodpecker Cocktail

When the Russians successfully launched their satellite called Sputnik in 1957, it heralded a turn in the Cold War. It was the first time the Russians had the chance to control space with the threat of nuclear power always looming large in the background, but it affected culture as well.

You can still find retro Sputnik light fixtures at auctions, and Vegas lounge singer Louis Prima recorded a song called "Beep, Beep, Beep," that was basically a song about his girlfriend going to the moon, and as the lyrics tell you:

My baby's going on a trip to the moon,
And she won't be back soon.
She doesn't write me, and I can't sleep
All I hear from her is BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

All of the beeps and bloops were not provided by the singer, but rather sound effects culled from cheesy sci-fi flicks. And the space race began. Here's how you make the Sputnik cocktail. I borrowed some toothpicks to decorate the cherry and keep the drink thematic:

1 1/4 ounces Vodka
1 1/4 ounces Peach Schnapps
3 ounces orange juice
3 ounces light cream

Mix all ingredients in shaker with ice until frothy. Pour into brandy snifter glass and garnish with cherry with four toothpicks to duplicate the satellite. The original instructions say to garnish with a peach slice, but I prefer my method for the visual.

Beep! Beep! Beep!....the Sputnik Cocktail

*** I would like to thank my brother, battling the flu, for using his graphic artistic talent in creating these images. I provided him with the raw material, but it was his skillful manipulations that really made the pictures work.

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Capote, Correspondence And Communion

2005-11-14T14:41:00.000-08:00

I went to see the movie Capote a few weeks ago, and I've been floundering over a written piece ever since: not a review of the film, nor a commentary on the book, In Cold Blood, but rather a reflection of the time. I'm still stewing with it. I will say this about the movie. It left me haunted and thinking for days afterwards--always the sign of good cinema in my mind. In the meantime, I went back and re-read In Cold Blood for the third time. One of the big issues when this book appeared was that it heralded a new method of writing: "historical fiction," so my latest reading was, more than anything, analyzing Capote's style. I've also ordered up from the library Gerald Clarke's biography of Capote, and I just finished reading his correspondence, Too Brief A Treat: The Letters of Truman Capote, edited by Gerald Clarke. Overall, the letters were a disappointment. For all of his love of his craft, for all of his love of society and gossip, it turns out Capote was rather a mediocre letter writer. Clarke states that Capote didn't write with posterity in mind, but rather in a free and natural voice. That proves unfortunate, because the decades fall flat even though they cover a succession of name dropping, a chronicle of the Trans-Atlantic gay crowd that Capote called "The Lavender Hill Mob," moanings about getting on with his work, and all of the varied physical ailments. He was, however, a dedicated friend and letter writer, and he did strenuously keep up with friends as he moved around the world. It is little remembered that Capote spent ten years of his life living in Europe, and oftentimes he was residing in remote, rural areas. You would have thought Capote was hunkered down in a hotel room in Holcomb, Kansas, but the bulk of In Cold Blood was written in a tiny village in Switzerland, while he was out taking the air with his pet bulldog or buying friends cuckoo clocks.

Our collective past relied so heavily on letter writing to keep in touch. I've often wondered what historical papered archive will survive in our generation of e-mails and texting. I just finished reading Capote's correspondence today, and in one letter written in 1962, he talks about the difficulties of sustaining friendship. He said, "There are certain people with whom one can be the closest and longest and most loving of friends--and yet they can quite quickly drop out of one's life forever simply because they belong to some odd psychological type. A type that only writes letters when he is written to, that only telephones when he is telephoned. That is--if one did not write him or phone him, one just will never hear from him again. I have known several people like that, and this peculiarity of theirs, this strange eye-for-an-eye mentality, has always fascinated me. Phoebe Pierce was like that: I have not heard from Phoebe in six years--merely because one day, in the nature of a test, I decided I would wait and let her call me. And she never did. Never. After sixteen years of the closest friendship! No quarrel. Nothing. It was just that all of the mechanics of the friendship had been worked by me. But--as I say, she would have behavedthat way with anybody. It's a type." He was writing this to a man he did sustain a friendship with over time, a man whowell knew societal isolation having being fired from Smith College over issues of his homosexuality.

Reading this struck a chord within me, because this past weekend I spent time updating all of my social calendars for 2006 which include birthdays, anniversaries and days of note, as well as re-doing my address book, including a Palm Pilot format which I had written of earlier. Every year it's always amazing who gets "dropped." I may carry some of those "types" that Capote writes of on my lists for several years then finally give up and cast them off. I still mail Christmas cards with personal letters inside, and this is another dated concept with little return. That list, too, undergoes revisions every year. I'm as baffled as Capote was when he wrote that letter in 1962 in terms of the mechanics of friendship. I was talking to two friends online yesterday about this. We were discussing people we mutually knew and how they just never made any effort to keep in touch or show any effort to sustain a viable friendship, and like Capote, there was never any contention or upheaval to announce a break. Another friend today (speaking of this same group) said, "I would be happy with just an occasional "hi."" It is just beyond their capabilities or interests to do so, and thus the people fall away from us. One group of friends that I belong to have managed to keep together, and we talk with pride that we haven't had these silences and droppings off. We do pick up the telephone to reunit, we do mark important passages in each others lives (two had birthdays this weekend), and we do value what we've learned from holding on to this connection that binds us. The tasks I undertook this weekend, the conversations I had, and the reading of Truman Capote's correspondence reminded me of the work good friendships command. The friend I was speaking with this afternoon said, "Perhaps the real question we should be asking is "why do we go on trying?"

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

PIA PDA

2005-11-09T13:12:00.000-08:00

I finally broke down and bought a Palm Pilot (PP) yesterday. A few years back I carried the then popular Filofax, but it was bulky and, let's face it, heavy. I actually went to the doctor with a shoulder pain, only to have him pick up my tote handbag and say "Just what are you carrying in here, anyway?" The Filofax came out.

I went out looking for a PDA (Personal Digital Assistant) when the Filofax went onto the bookshelf, but at the time the prices seemed through the roof, and I wondered just how much I needed such a thing. Plus, by then, I had gotten into the habit of carrying around a digital camera, so the issue became one of values, as in "which has more." Last night I got the PP configured to work with my computer. I just finished printing out it's 318 page handbook, and now I'm asking, "Just what have I gotten myself into?" I've already had a friend instant message me, telling me what my first mp3 has to be. I know I have a lot of data to enter, plus a 318 page handbook to learn. What a PIA.

What DSL Really Means

2005-11-06T15:16:00.000-08:00

It's always fun to have a day out with girlfriends. I met my Cape friend, Ingrid, and we went out for some shopping time. I found new makeup (eyeshadow, blush and a lip gloss in a shade called "Desire"), and a pretty (but not pricey) velvet scarf for my Boho winter with a jewel toned crystal hair ornament to match. And fishnets....lots of pretty fishnets. Ingrid was looking for a elegant bar stool for her kitchen, so we decided to pop in to a local Ethan Allen. The girl at the desk got on the telephone to summon an aide to show us around the shop, while Ingrid wandered off into the next room. The way she chose to identify us sounded like a cop describing two perps. I stood there and heard the receptionist say "Teresa, you are needed up front. There are two females: one in black, one in red," and I threw out, "...and one is wearing Desire lip gloss." She never cracked a smile.

We stopped in a local coffee shop to recap our day, and I told Ingrid a story I had picked up earlier that day when I had a facial. The spa where I visited provides a full range of services, including monthly visits by a plastic surgeon where he injects ladies with their poisons of choice: botox, collagen and this new thing called Restylane. Restylane®

There is a stylist at the spa named Susan (We'll call her that as in "Desperately Seeking," as she and her husband are part of a couples swapping group. I know. I didn't think they existed either, but apparently they do). Susan used to have a very tight, hot, body, but two years ago she was diagnosed with MS, and they have her on drugs that have bloated her out. Unfortunately, she's still dresses in her old wardrobe of skin tight and short, short, short. Susan knows this woman in the group that wanted a procedure from the doctor. I was told she is shapely, tall at 6'1", and a lot of boobage. (We'll call her Lynda after Lynda Carter in Wonder Woman).

Lynda wished to have collagen injected into her lips. Everyone was trying to talk her out of it, but she was insistent that this is what she wanted. She was left to fill out the paperwork, which included a section where you state what you are having done. The doctor arrived. (We'll call him Doctor Carter after ER), and his assistant Wendy. When it was Lynda's turn, she was brought in to meet the doctor, and he was flipping through her paperwork. Dr. Carter said, "It says here you want DSL. I don't know what that means. Wendy? Do you know what DSL is?" Wendy stated that the only DSL she knew about was broadband. The patient Lynda spoke up and said, "I wrote that. It means "dick sucking lips." I want lips that look like that." When I was told this story I added, "Why doesn't she just get her teeth knocked out, prison style, so she is perfection." Lynda got her DSL lips, and when they were finishing up and Lynda had departed Wendy said to Dr. Carter, "I'll bet you can't wait to tellthis story at the conference you are going to this weekend." He shot back, "I'll be telling this story as soon as I get to my car phone." Have a good work week everyone...and keep smiling.

DSL

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Time Goes By

2005-11-02T20:50:00.000-08:00

We all have remembered dates noted on our mental calendars: birthdays and anniversaries, but I've always had such a good memory of the history of my days that I carry a lifetime of associations with dates. People have told me they are envious of good memory. I've always said it's a blessing...and a curse. You remember the good things, but also the bad.

This summer I had a conversation with someone who was once close to me, and he told me "I have never forgotten a thing." He meant "about us." I held him to his boast when I asked him if he remembered what had occurred on the day we were speaking. My mere mention of it angered him so much he hasn't spoken to me since. Granted, it was a time when he acted less honorably than he should have with me. I've had time to regret mentioning it in hindsight, but in my own defense the matter preyed on my mind that day. Now when I remember that day next summer, I will undoubtedly go back to what happened that day in 2000, and factor in his ongoing silence of 2005 as another remembrance. Today is another one of those days, and it too involves Mr. Mute. Sadly, I remember what happened on this date in 2002, but I am sure he doesn't. I wish I didn't.

I asked my friends their feelings about dates and memories. They said when they are life-transforming you never forget them, and we are attached to them in the sense of experiences creating who we are. People say "we are only what we remember." I suppose this is true. Having been around people with Alzheimer's: people who lose all sense of their history and their selves, I've seen their personalities altered forever from that loss. It truly is frightening to see a person disappear before you, so I should be glad I haven't been ravaged by such a fate.

But... there are times when I have to ask and even wish, "Why remember?"

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Acorn Serenade

2005-11-02T13:50:00.000-08:00

One of my neighbors telephoned me last week with one of those checking-up "how ya doing" calls. There was news: she has a new job which started on October 31st, another neighbor's dog that never stops yapping, how many leaves have fallen...or not, and then she said "I keep thinking I'm hearing cymbals somewhere." I had to laugh. I had forgotten, but before I left town, I had boobytrapped my back yard.

Most drummers are passionate about the sound of their cymbals and the unique sound each produces. Zildjian, the best known quality producer of cymbals began their family craft in 1623, with the company as we know it in the U.S. started in 1929. These are the cymbals treasured by drummers internationally. These are not, however, the cymbals being offered up as part of the package when a new drum kit or pieces are purchased. A drummer that I know was discarding what he felt were inferior cymbals, and I asked if I could have them, thinking they might be interesting to play around with in some creative capacity outside of music.

I have freestanding double hooked iron rods in my yard that usually hold planters or bird feeders. I also have oak trees. Knowing I'd be getting my bumper crop of acorns that I normally do, I thought it might be funny to string up the cymbals on thin rope and put them under the oaks and see what happens. The acorns hadn't started falling before I left D.C., and in the flurry of my departure I forgot all about them. Apparently they are working. I asked her to take a photograph of them for the blog, which she has obligingly done, and I also asked her to move them away from the oak if they become too annoying. They make a ringing ker-ching sound, and she says she laughs everytime she hears one go off. ...but we'll see. Further into the season and whimsy may turn to weariness.

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Google Defines Failure

2005-11-02T13:45:00.000-08:00

Do this quickly before The Google fixes it. Go to Google and type in "Failure." Use the "I Feel Lucky Button," (not search) and see what appears.

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Do this quickly before The Google fixes it. Go to Google and type in "Failure." Use the "I Feel Lucky Button," (not search) and see what appears.

Lucky 13 Skeletoons

2005-10-29T15:43:00.000-07:00

Teenage Werewolf -- The Cramps

I Walked With A Zombie -- Roky Erickson & The Aliens

Dinner With Drac -- Zacherley

I Put A Spell On You -- Screaming Jay Hawkins

The Brain That Refused To Die -- Slickee Boys

Monsters From The Surf -- Monsters From The Surf

Who Do You Love -- Bo Diddley

Zombie Jamboree -- Eloise Trio

Vampira -- The Misfits

American Psycho -- D12

Frankenstein -- Edgar Winter Group

Creature From The Black Leather Lagoon -- The Cramps

Jack The Ripper -- Screaming Lord Sutch

Welcome New Blogger: Narcisstic Nihilism

2005-10-26T09:25:00.000-07:00

My friend Drew has started a blog today, and I wanted to welcome him to blog-o-sphere. He can be read at:

Narcissistic Nihilism

http://3fingeredsalute.livejournal.com/

It was Drew who gave me this photograph, that I am still trying to think of something to do with it:

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Silly Sea Birds...And Losing My Marbles

2005-10-21T06:26:00.000-07:00

We have a mixed relationship with seagulls. Some rhapsodize how "...no dreams may possess you, no voices can blame you for sun on your wings," while for others of us they are flying rats. When you live in isolation with these birds, they get to know you and your own habits and patterns while you witness theirs. Every morning when I am up and stirring about, they fly reconaissance past the wall of glass, coming in slow and low to see what's for breakfast. Usually it's oatmeal, half a bagel, or yogurt, which is of little interest to them. I've discovered seagulls have their likes and dislikes, yet you wouldn't think it possible the way they eat. Unlike the communal crow who will call others of his troop when food is located, even holding off eating until the others have joined him, the seagull is all about swoop, grab and gulp. I've seen them eat all manner of things: a carcass from roasted chicken, leftover pizza and popcorn. Their true desire, however, are for those rare mornings when I make French toast or waffles with honey. I've seen them go into a frenzy over sweetened, eggy bread. I've wanted to say at times, "I am not making crepes for you winged beggars."

Path on the Cape Cod Canal

The Cape Cod Canal cuts in from the sea, effectively breaking off what was called a peninsula and now forms a truer island. Along the length of the canal, from it's sea entrance, to the Sagamore Bridge, which is the chief means of crossing onto the Cape from land, there is a paved walkway which is taken over by walkers, bicyclists, rollerbladders, and birds. The sea birds have learned to use the sidewalk as a tool. You can see them diving into the water for their meal, then they will fly inland, hover over the pavement and drop their catch. They have learned through practice and time that the hardness of the surface will shatter open the quahog shell and save them the labor of prying with their beaks. Authorities having to deal with this shellfish detritus have tried everything to unlearn the birds, even an attempt to try alarm them by painting the shape of a man with arms upraised in white outlines on the black tarmac. The birds are not dissuaded, and they continue to drop and feed.

One time, in a pique of whimsy, I bought a box of Dunkin' Donuts on the last day and threw out donuts for them. One bird was so pleased with his booty, he strutted around with the donut in his mouth in front of fellow gulls, turning his head to the left, then right, to show off his treasure. Once I am gone, they know it's a long winter of sand crabs and clams to come.

I'm not without my own quirks. One autumn when I was on a stretch of sandy beach, watching an old man methodically move along with his mine sweeping metal detector, it came to me to start burying coins under the sand. We all seek potential treasure whether in Powerball or pennies. I realized it would give him such pleasure to hear his sweeper beeping while he took his walk and that it was more about the moment when the meter starts to click and the anticipation of what might be there. Beachcombing is much more than discovering what the sea has washed up. It is returning to a childlike fascination with the found object.

A few years ago, I decided it would be fun to toss marbles back into the sea while I take my strolls. I went to a local market and found a tray that displayed 500 or 1,000 marbles of varied sizes and styles: cat's eyes, ghosts, agies, shooters and alleys. The largest marble in the collection, sometimes called the moon marble, is black irridescence, and I always held onto that one for last. As Tibetans tie their hopes and prayers to pieces of paper that flutter in the wind, I would wish, hope and pray with each lobbed bit of glass into the water. I had a fantasy that it would be nice if the marble could work it's way back to shore, with the movement of the tide and some nice hot summer day a child walking on the beach, bent over in search of treasure, could find one washed back up amidst the rocks and shells of the shoreline.

This is not French toast....and it's cold....and where's the honey?

Moorings

2005-10-20T00:48:00.000-07:00

My beautiful ship

O my memory

Have we sailed far enough

In waters vile to drink

Have we sailed far enough

From the beautiful dawn

To the sad evening

~~Apollinaire

Cape Cod Bay

When you live in rooms that stand at the end of land, you can sense that you are floating into nothingness at times. You turn from the room to the sea for too long, and you are suspended in the sky and adrift. At other moments, you turn your back on the sea and retreat into your shell like those creatures you find on the rocks and sand. Walls become your second skin, and the space that you inhabit is indistinguishable. You are sheltered from vacuity. The wind coming at you from the sea speaks of places unseen and unknown. You look for mental paths to return you to your life and the things you should be doing. You mind becomes a bridge built from driftwood and scraps of sea salvage and everything remains fraught with meaning: the book lying bent on it's spine, the glass reflecting sunlight on the counter. Staring off into objects, you think back: shared moments of happiness and sorrow, and your joys and regrets bob like buoys.

A flooded road. Scorton Creek.

Is this what life is finally all about? The imperative to go forward and the varied paths, some flooded with misreadings? Solitude seeks answers. Walt Whitman said, "To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow. All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means...I think I will do nothing for a long time, but listen and acrue what I hear unto myself." Introspection can lead you to deeper levels of memory, and you can easily sink, wondering if you will ever surface again. We remain in each other's memories...for as long as we chose to. For those we have lost-- we know they won't be swimming to shore, shaking away time, joining us with where we have gone on in our lives.

Ultimately, we can never truly know others. At best, we guess. We are condemned to being these isolated islands of self. What remains important is to keep trying to break through, even though we know we can't. Tonight, I watched clouds pushing against the sky and setting sun, pushing their heads against the darkening sky. I turned my face back to the land hoping the way will be smooth: trying to remain true on course and keep from taking false steps again.

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Co-Inky Dink...Or Not?

2005-10-19T10:48:00.000-07:00

I was on the computer last night, dropping comments around the D.C. blogger's pages, when a friend sent me an instant message. He had just returned from a bad date and wanted to know if he could talk through it with "his girls." His girls would be my friend Laura and myself. I rounded her up, and we went into a chat room to listen. I'll call him "George," since the woman he dated said he reminded her of a buffed up version of George Chakiris in West Side Story.

I should say that George definitely falls in my range of what I define as a "guy" guy. He does all the normal things you expect of a man, and there are no quirky little shadows. We were watching the Redskins game on Sunday, and he was yelling at the television during the game, something a "guy" guy does. He's the lucky owner of shared season tickets, so half of the time he's yelling at the Skins live, but on those off weeks, he makes do by yelling at the t.v. During the first quarter, Clinton Portis was getting yelled at a lot on blown plays. I kept hearing "Fuck you, Portis, you fucking suck." This went on until Portis finally did something right, then George said, "We love Portis." I added, "...for the moment." Another talent George possesses that I marvel at is that he can predict the next play before it happens. I told him on Sunday that I had fond memories of my father and brother yelling at the television during sports games. Laura said her brothers and father did the same. Someone needs to add that habit to their potential date's "pro's and con's" list. Last night, while we were waiting for Laura to join us, George told me "Fuck the tuck rule."

George was at a local watering hole. I asked him, "upscale, or dive." "Dive," he said. Sitting at the bar, to his left, was an elderly man. On his right was another guy, and to that guy's right were two women. The younger guy (not the geezer) was talking to the two women as George arrived. The man made a comment to George about a football game on the television above the bar, and when he got to talking to him, he realized he used to play against him at pickup football games. They swapped "how is so and so stories" for a bit. George said, "I wasn't really in the mood to talk...I was pissed that the bar was playing music during the game." "Communists," I said. He joined the group of the man and two women, and they wound up talking at the bar for three hours. He said, "She was definitely showing the signs: hand on arm, compliments, etc." At some point she asked him if he wanted to listen to someone who sounded like Alison Krauss. He said to us, "I was game, so the four of us headed back to her place, but before we left the bartender was giving her a hard time about picking me up." "Orgy time," Laura replied. Laura and I had to divert him at this point to ponder what kind of a woman would ask a man if he wants to listen to some chick who sounds like Alison Krauss. She did other weird things, as well, like played her saxophone for him. I mean..am I missing something?

We asked what she looked like, and George stated, "She had a young Liz Taylor-Lynda Carter thing going." I commented, "you mean like Black Irish: dark hair, blue eyes, fair complexion?" "EXACTLY!," he said. He went on to say that things were "pretty cool" at her house. He couldn't remember the name of the singer she was playing, but he wasn't too impressed. Regarding bar girl, I said, "Does she sit and scream "Fuck you Portis at her television? I think not." He laughed and said, "The evening ended nicely, and "No, I didn't close the deal." Laura said, "Good. We can't have you being slutty." Bar girl asked him to call her later, so when they finally talked, they decided to hook up yesterday and met again at the same watering hole. I'm guessing he was at something like the Grog and Tankard in Glover Park, but he didn't say. Laura and I went off on a tangent about football, and Laura pointed an arrow back to her screenname and typed, "guy guy." I said, "We are guy girls, Lau."

George went on with what he called "pertinent information." The girl had just broken up with her "artsy" boyfriend who had majored in theatre lighting. Laura said, "That's a hard major. I bet he pulled all nighters." I snorted. He said, "Okay. Back to tonight...", but we couldn't let it go. "Can you imagine", I asked, "Theatre lighting is my major?" Laura shot back, "I'd think you'd learn everything there is to know about theatre lighting in three credits." "Two," I quipped, "with one credit for lab." George said, "I love my girls. Group hug." He pulled us back into the story by saying the girl had started pondering if his family would like her or not. This is what I mean about some of her weird ways: Alison Krauss, saxophone playing and "what would your family think of me?" On a first date?

George continued, despite our interruptions. "We're sitting in the bar and out of the blue, her old boyfriend walks in." I stopped him and asked, "Did she set you up for this for some jealousy thing? He just "happened" to walk in?" "Yes, Cubie," he said. "Stringy long hair, smoker's face...I didn't consider him competition." "Not when you look like George Chakiris," I shot back. He went on. "Well..talk about a buzz kill." I raised my hand. "Yes, child?", he asked. My question was, "Is this one of her regular watering holes where she and her ex-boyfriend hung out?" He said, "I didn't gather that." I replied, "Rotten in Denmark time." George observed how her demeanor was with him, so he went off to the bathroom, and when he got back he told her he was going to call it an evening. She walked him to the outside of the bar and as he put it, "handed me a line about wishing that it was the ex-boyfriend that was leaving." George simply said "good night" to her and left.

Laura asked, "Can you tell if a person is sincere or not? Do you have a gut feeling about this girl and what her motives were?" He said, "My gut right now is based on circumstances and her reaction, but my instinct is that I was being used, that it was too improbable to be a coincidence." Laura said, "Well...that's what a coincidence is: an improbable occurrence." We all laughed at that, but we agreed the odds were not in her favor on this one. She said to him, "You're probably not going to call me back, are you?" I told her to go fuck herself." Laura screamed, "GEORGE!" He said, "I felt like saying that, but I only said good night." We asked who chose their meeting place, and he told us she did. Laura told him that in the future he needed to pre-clear his dates with us, and he said, "It sure would have helped in this case." Laura said, "Even if this was co-inky dink (which none of us believe it was), I really think she is on a major rebound, which is not good news either." My take was that she set him up to make her "ex" jealous and try to get back with him. We wound things up. It was getting late. So. What do you think? Co-inky dink...or not?

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

What's It Worth, Mary?

2005-10-14T05:21:00.000-07:00

What's It Worth, Mary?

2005-10-12T12:33:00.000-07:00

Meanwhile, back at Charterstone....

For new readers, an explanation:

I've been spoofing the cartoon strip of Mary Worth for some time now. In the real strip, she took in her alcoholic friend, Rita, who then proceeded to trash Mary's house and life. I thought it might be funny if Mary tried to pimp her friend out into her staid community. You'll have to go back into the archives to pick up the story line, but the last entry was on September 5th, which you will find in the archives, and earlier entries during August, 2005.

Note: The Blogathon continues. I'm up to the letter "J."

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Here The Bride Doesn't Come & Blogathon Part II

2005-10-10T22:30:00.000-07:00

I'm still working through my blogathon (see previous entry). I've worked my way through all of the other category listings with the exception of "D.C. Lives," and I'm up to the letter "G"- #314, in that grouping. I will be so glad when I hit ZippyLand which is the last blogsite and I'm done. Patrick Thibodeau of DC Blogs, whose list I am working from, was kind enough to give this silliness a mention in his blog last night: DC B logs.

In the meantime...life goes on. I was out getting a pedicure on Saturday morning, joining a group who have standing appointments, so I got to hear the local gossip and catch up on news. One of the ladies asked my manicurist how her cousin's wedding had gone. The manicurist was supposed to be a bridesmaid in that wedding. From what I could pick up, she had gone to extra expense with her dress because it needed additional tailoring in the bust area: a few small tucks, but to the tune of $90.00. When asked about the wedding, my manicurist said rather curtly "It was called off," and when asked why she reported, "personal reasons."

As the people shifted about in the shop and I had a little more private time with her, I queried, "I don't mean to pry, but do you mind my asking why the wedding was ended? She said, "I don't mind talking about it. I just didn't want to be talking to the crowd." My cousin found her fiancé with another woman." What happened was, the groom-to-be told his intended that he was going to his third bachelor party, and she thought that sounded "off."

Time has changed customs. I know someone that had eight bridal showers last year. One of my friends had ten wedding cakes (if I got the number wrong, she'll be correcting me since she reads this), but it was the most amazing thing. The cakes came down in a curved tier effect, and each was a different flavor. Her now husband told me well in advance of the wedding, "...and I'm going to taste every one of them." Apparently, the cousin's groom had another tasting in mind.

The bride started checking the groom's emails and found a reservation for a local hotel. She called her girlfriend saying she needed moral support and off they went that night to wait in the dark hotel parking lot. Not too long after, here came the groom, with another woman in tow. They got out of the car, walking hand and hand toward the hotel, and the bride walked up and screamed at the woman, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY FUTURE HUSBAND? WE ARE GETTING MARRIED IN TWO WEEKS!" She hauled off and bitch slapped the groom as hard as she could. The girl was swearing she had no idea, and that he had never told her that he was getting married. The bride and other girl wound up swapping telephone numbers in the parking lot. Later, they got together and started piercing his story together, trying to follow his string of lies.

The bride and groom had been living together prior to the wedding, and just after this night she didn't return home right away. Neither did he. She finally did go back, and when he came through the door, she started pounding him around the head again. My manicurist said, "He just stood there and took it." The bottom line in this charming tale is that the manicurist had just moved into a new place herself, and now the cousin wants to come and move in with her--until June. I asked her how she felt about that, and she made a face, then said, "I don't really have a choice. She helped me out during a bad spell in my own past, so the way I see it, I owe her one." Here's the kicker. The loving groom? He's trying to win back his bride.

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Blog-A-Thon

2005-10-07T11:59:00.000-07:00

I wasn't going to reveal this until I had finished, but I was outed in comments this morning by "I-66" in his blog, Yeah, So I'm... Earlier this week, I decided to take on a little project of working through every Washington, D.C. blog mentioned in Patrick Thibodeau's blog, DC Blogs. Patrick, aka "KOB," is a well-known figure in the Washington blogging community and it's chief supporter in terms of highlighting the writings of close to 450 people. I told KOB of my plans on Sunday. At the time I made a rather grandiose proclamation that I would do all of the blogs in a 24-hour blogathon. Patrick said, "Are you sure you can manage that?" Well...he knew, didn't he? DC Blogs

I started at midnight on Tuesday night, and whenever I had a spare minute during Wednesday I was hitting the sites by groupings. I didn't stick to KOB's blog ordering as I had initially hoped, because I had to keep making breaks for other things going on in my life. By midnight Wednesday I had actually gotten to my last group, and the biggest: DC Lives. Patrick has that broken down into alphabetical groups, and I started with A. Here it is Friday, and I'm only in the B's. However...I should be done within a day, and I have to say it's proved a fascinating glimpse into the D.C. blogging world.

What you might think the most difficult--dreaming up something to say on 450 blogs, isn't the hard part at all. What is difficult is working with everyone's security codes. There are only a few, luckily, where I was asked to register before I could even comment: the Mayor's blog being one of them. One I wasn't able to enter at all without a pre-given password. For the ones who use Blogger.com's word verification-- "Curses," uttered in a Snidley Whiplash voice. On the system I use, every time I stumble on word verification, I have to go over to Firefox's server and enter your blog name, which often doesn't match your blog's given name, and take it from there. Many more steps for me, and it's really been slowing me down.

Initially I was just going to make my comment and depart, but a friend suggested I also leave "Washington Cube Was Here," followed by the number I had worked up to, for example #220. Until I-66 mentioned it this morning, not one person has emailed me and said "Just what is that all about?" Equally appalling, in it's way, is that I've heard back from less than ten of you. Of that group, some kindly wanted to link and some had nice things to say about my blog. It left me wondering if people even watch their blogs, and if so, upon seeing a name not familiar to them, do they bother to go check on that person to see what they are about? Apparently not.

In the past several days I've written about knitting, dogs, insurance, politics, baseball, neighborhoods, cooking, photography, painting, movies, architecture, hockey, football, and interior decorating, to name a few. I've written to Singapore, Moscow, Bangalore, and Manila. Oh yeah, and relationships, relationships, relationships. Some sadly query in their own blogs if anyone is even reading their words, or are they writing to the void. I've read about illnesses, deaths, accidents, and traumas. The quality of the blogs varies, of course, but they've all proven intriguing to realize how many people are compelled to share their thoughts with the world.

If I could say one thing to the blogging community it would be this: Go outside your blogging box. Check and see what other people are writing about. You might be surprised. Don't see "knitting," and think "NEXT!" Any group bound by a category might surprise you. Since I've been there, I can tell you, the given subject is not all that they are writing about. Read the community blogs to get an intimate glimpse into a neighborhood you might not know. And leave comments. I've often wondered myself if I am reaching anyone when I write. I already know I will continue to write, regardless of the comments, but it is nice to hear back from people. I've seen blogs this past week that are slobbering in their slavish praise of the author. Do you people delete the negative? I have to wonder. I discovered one writer who wants to give up, because of the anonymous negative comments being left on her site. She isn't, by the way...just taking a breather.

During my blogathon I left town on my usual trip to Cape Cod in the fall. I'll be here until just before Thanksgiving. I don't really anticipate writing much about the Cape, this being my first blog year here, but we'll see. The picture that I found on Google which I use on my blog profile was chosen because it is very akin to the view I have when I'm here, and it captures the mindset I have of writing out into the void of other bloggers and the internet. I know you're out there people. Keep writing. Keep sharing. Keep exploring...and I'll get back to my "B's." I know I can do this.

Washington Cube Was Here. #226

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Birds Of A Feather

2005-10-04T10:59:00.000-07:00

For a time I was feeding birds in my yard, until I realized that the urban rat population was also benefitting from my largesse. As the feed drew the birds, the birds drew the hawks. Another symptom of the disrupted ecotone is that Peregrine falcons have reappeared in cities, and they love perching on building cornices, watching for their pigeon dinners. I saw a Peregrine perched on a steel guardrail on the Beltway once, staring with his piercing gaze down into a gully behind him. They aren't large birds, but they know how to get the job done. I also have witnessed a larger hawk being chased by two crows to get him out of their territory, and I admired the crow's braveness for taking on such a dangerous bird.

What are you looking at?

One day I was sitting in my back yard, and I stared at a corner that had dried pampas grass. It didn't look right. When I focused more intently into the grass, I saw a Regalis hawkblended in and staring me down. He was two feet tall seated, and he had a very cold, hooded stare aimed back at me. I remembered a story my Cape Cod "mother"told me about walking in the woods where hawks nest. She said to always carry branches to wave above your head, because if you inadvertently walked too close to a nesting area, the hawk would swoop down on you. She is always giving me good advice about the nature of bees, foxes, coyotes and other things I encounter on the Cape. The Regalis is well named. All hawks have a rather imperious nature to their features, but the Regalis is one of the largest hawks that exist in North America. They average 25-inches long with a 56-inch wingspan. To be accurate, I was meeting Ferrugenous Bueto Regalis Accipitriade. Ferrugenous means rusty colored and refers to the bird's plummage which is a mixture of cream and rust. Bueto is Latin used to define the larger species of hawks or falcons. Regalis is Latin for royal or kingly and is only used to define the largest of the Buetos. Accipitriade is Latin for hawk. With a mouthful of a name like that, he had the right to look down his beak at me. I stared him down. I realized later how foolish I was, because he could have read that as a sign of aggression and gone on the attack.

Bill and Coo

I am no fan of the lowly pigeon, but they do have their fascinations. I've had enough in my yard in the past to have their seen their mating dance. The male approaches the female and nods his head several times, puffs himself up really large then he starts spinning in tight circles next to her. Then he spreads out his tail feathers and starts dragging them on the ground. "I'm big, and I'm twirling, and I'm a low rider." Usually the female ignores him and keeps on eating. Playing hard to get. You half expect to hear the male pigeons saying to each other, "What is with these chicks and their games?" The real ritual begins where she moves away from him, he follows, shift, follow all across the yard until they both start bobbing up and down, he jumps precariously onto her back, blink and the act is completed (and yes, I've seen pigeons mate...shaking head at self and sighing). It is quickly done, then back to the grub. I've even discovered in writing this piece that pigeons have their own Viagra. It's called Zuchform and is a supplementary feed to ensure good breeding with pigeons. Hard to believe, isn't it? As if we didn't have enough of them.

Have you ever seen a hawk kill it's prey? It is swift, and it is brutal. One day in the hard sunlight of early Spring I was watching the birds feed and saw a hawk's shadow pass over the yard with his full wing spang reflected. It was like seeing the shadow of a stealth jet. The pigeons panicked and flew off in one grouping, the hawk swooped low, grabbed a pigeon in mid-flight and all of the pigeon's feathers flew out from the shock of the attack. When the feathers fall, they makea large ring. I used to find a lot of feather rings in my yard for a while, and I would know what had happened. On one occasion, within the ring of feathers, I found a span of pigeon wings with the bared bone of the breast. I suppose this is on my mind lately because I had the equivalent of all of my feather's fall out this weekend and it brought the hawk to mind.

Washington Cube http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Ito! The Rolls! We're Going To Annapolis

2005-10-02T13:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was spent in Annapolis with my friend, Tammy. The original plan had been for us to wander around town, do a little shopping, and visit Metropolitan, a new restaurant with lovely al fresco dining. Our plans were diverted when Tammy took over the watching of her nieces, so I got to take her two little charges under my wings and become Auntie Cubie for the day. I met up with Kate (age 7) and her sister Halley (age 11) while they were getting their hair cut. Kate sat next to me in the salon with her American Girl doll, Abigail, and plotting out our day, as she saw it. "You'll sit in the back seat with me, and we'll do different hair styles for Abigail. See? I've got her hair brush, hair ornaments and book to show us how. Do you know how to braid?" I assured her I did know how to plait hair and that we could make Abigail look quite glamorous.

                               Kate and Abigail in front of pink oleander

Honest to God, on our drive to the restaurant, the children were saying "Are we there yet?" Halley is the serious one. Bookish, a natural athlete, and she takes everything you say to heart. I drew her out on her passions of penguins, origami and anime. Kate is very girly and loves clothes, makeup, dolls, and theatrics. The last time I saw Kate she approached me with a large shawl, and I had to wrap and rewrap her into different styles, so she could then go and admire the results in a mirror while she played out her varying "looks." I've known both girls for some time now, and it's interesting to see their relationship to one other. Halley is very much the responsible older sister who tolerates her sister's penchant for drama. Kate demands your constant attention as her audience, but with great charm. While in the backseat, I consulted Kate as to the hairstyles she wanted for Abigail, while telling Tammy and Halley how I had given off playing with dolls at a very young age. Six? Halley proudly announced that she had given them up at age two. I said to Tammy, "...and this is my punishment for giving up on them so early." I gave Abigail her plaits, and Kate said, "You did that really fast." I told her, "I don't do everything fast," and Tammy shot me a look in the rearview mirror.

While we were giving our orders, Kate (who also has excellent reading skills) noted the specials and asked the waitress what the martini of the day was. It was peach, and Kate said, "I'll have that." It reminded me so much of the comedic novel Auntie Mame by Patrick Dennis when through Mame's teachings her young nephew learns how to mix a "mean little martini with the memory of vermouth." Kate had very specific ideas on how she wished her salad to be prepared and which rolls she would and would not eat. I've seen such bad behaviors over time in varying restaurants observing other people's children running between tables unattended, and it was such a joy to sit with two articulate children and hear their viewpoints and reasonings.

                        The cover of my copy of the 1955 Auntie Mame

After dinner, we visited a Barnes & Noble where I was physically hauled through the store looking for Kate's books. We chose four for her and again, it was pleasurable to share an undersized stool while she flipped through each book weighing it's pro's and con's in terms of interest to her. A little toddler came up to us and kept trying to pick up Kate's books and put them in his mouth. She shot him such a look of disapproval, I had to laugh, but she didn't speak up to stop him. She waited for his mother to control him. She was more interested in making sure I knew what she already had and what she needed in the Junie B books. I saw one Academy Plebe walk by me with his arm full of books, and I admit I did think "cute." Later, a friend said to me, "What did he look like," and I couldn't provide much detail. I said, "How much could I take in when I had a seven-year old tugging on my arm and pulling me along?" As a treat, I bought Halley a book that teaches you how to draw anime figures as well as a 2006 18-month calendar with penguins, issued by the World Wildlife Fund.

She had seen March of the Penguins, and she told me how sad it made her to see the penguins under attack and dying, but she has a scientific mind, and she understands nature and is acceptant of the order of things. We talked about Antarctica, her desire for a new computer, and sumi-e, the art of Japanese calligraphy. I told Halley I had always wanted to go to Antarctica someday. She said, "But there's nothing there. It's just cold and empty." I said, "Yes, but maybe the interest is in seeing if you can withstand those conditions and survive. There is also the contemplation of void and nothingness at being at the extreme of the earth ...like in deserts." She paused and said, "I can see that." I have a sumi-e paint set myself, so I had Halley explain to Tammy what it is and how it works: how you make your own ink and use bamboo brushes. She gave such detail about the dragons carved on the ink blocks and how you prepare ink. She never fails to amaze me. Tammy paid me a compliment later when she said that I was like honey to the children and that I drew them to me. I'm rarely around children, so for me, the feeling was mutual. I love being around them and really listening to them.

Annapolis is a town where you cannot escape the water and the boats. There are boats dry docked where you park your car, there are boats next to the windows where you eat, and there are all of those beautiful young Naval Academy Plebes in their whites. I drove home on Route 50, sated with my day and remembering Auntie Mame's famous quote, "Life is a banquet--and most poor suckers are starving." I also remembed a quote from her author, Patrick Dennis (Edward Everett Tanner), "I always start writing with a clean piece of paper and a dirty mind."

                                 Auntie Cubie's delicious little cocktail

*** Remember: You can also find Washington Cube at:

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Cocktail Of The Week: Q Is For Quentin And Queen Of Hearts

2005-09-27T19:08:00.000-07:00

This week's "Q" cocktails were Quentin and Queen of Hearts. The Quentin cocktail contains the following:

1 1/2 ounces dark rum
1/2 ounce Kahula coffee liqueur
1 ounce light cream (I asked for less)
1/8 tsp. grated cinnamon

Combine the rum, Kahula and cream in a shaker with ice. Strain into a highball glass and sprinkle with cinnamon.

Put on the Cadillac hood ornament you ripped off the neighbor's car, knock back a few before getting into the Pussy Wagon and passing out.

The Queen of Hearts is a raspberry concoction which I invented. It would make a nice Valentine's drink down the road:

2 ounces Chambourd raspberry liqueur
1/2 ounce brandy
Club soda

Pour over ice in a highball glass. Fill with club soda. Garnish with raspberries.

I have been reading about a very sophisticated drink that's been around forever called the French 75. I finally had one today. It consists of:

Juice of lemon
2 teaspooons powdered sugar
2 ounces gin
Chilled Champagne

Stir, then pour into champagne flute. Decorate with lemon slice, orange or cherry. A votre santé.

*** Remember: You can also find Washington Cube at:

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Friend, Fool Or Foe--Part One

2005-09-27T05:24:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading a book called The Friend Who Got Away: Twenty Women's True-Life Tales of Friendships That Blew Up, Burned Out, or Faded Away, edited by Jenny Offill and Elissa Schappell. Women writers created essays of how friendships begin and evolve, only to be ended through a variety of reasons: time, geography, discord, or death. Friendships are formed without the bonds of blood or romantic love, yet these relationships can have the same power in our lives. The end of love is written about in countless ways, yet the loss of friendship is one subject that seems rarely discussed in our tell-all society. Someone asks you "Whatever happened to your friend," and more often than not the answer you give back is carefully worded to reveal nothing. "We had a falling out. It's complicated." We hold nothing back from friends: they know all of our weaknesses, and they remember our history. Often they know a self that is hidden from the rest of the world, yet they accept us as we truly are, and we value this.

I wondered if I could write of a break in friendship through a haze of distance and memory and write with some subjectivity, since it was such an emotionally charged experience. How much could I trust my own accounting of it? There are some breaks I rejected in telling, for the sole reason that they were way too personal and raw, but there wasone break that still strikes me as odd. Logically, it should never have happened, yet my friend seemed on a course she had set and could not free herself from, and it scooped me up into the drama and ultimately caused the break. So, we'll begin at the beginning, as they say.

Patricia and I had known each other since we were very small children. Our mothers were good friends, and we attended the same church. That is how I saw her for the most part, every Sunday in church, or at church activities, but also family gatherings. For the longest time, our families, with another family, did Thanksgiving dinner together. The three woman (who were all friends) had arrived at this plan, and this way they would have two Thanksgivings where they never had to cook. They all did, anyway, of course. "Let me bring the pies," or the green bean casserole, or some offering. The children all got along. My brother had three other boys to run around with on that day, and I had Patricia and Mary. One infamous Thanksgiving, we climbed out of Mary's bedroom window and toilet papered a neighbor's house. The police were cruising the neighborhood, caught us, and hauled us back to our parents. To this day, it is a favorite telling to remember how mortified our mothers were, and how our fathers were trying so hard to keep straight faces and not burst into laughter. I think I was five years old when I met Mary and she was three, and I am still friends with her to this day. That is another odd thing about the break with Patricia. I consider myself the type of person who sustains friendships, who works at being a good friend, keeping in touch, being concerned. I've since had to learn that even with that in place, some things just can't be saved.

Patricia was a pampered girl. I make no judgments on that, she just was. Whatever fancy took her interest, her parents let her explore it: music lessons, ice skating lessons, swimming lessons, horseback riding lessons which we did that together at Rock Creek Park stables. (Somehow the subject came up recently with a friend who didn't know they allowed horses in this city. Yes. They do.) Every Christmas when I would see her, she would be flooded with presents, yet I never got the sense she was arrogant about it or obnoxious. I am still in touch with her mother to this day, and I know Patricia had a very sweet, very loving mother. I suppose I report these things because my parents were much stricter with me with the consciously voiced concern of "not spoiling me." She was the first to have a television in her room, the first to wear a bikini, the first to be given a car. When we were teenagers, we would hop in her car and go joy riding. It was through one of her boyfriends that I met a boy I would date for a while, a blonde god who was Captain of his football team at another school. It was also because of her that I can say that I've gone on a date with an Amish boy. We went to an ice cream parlor. Sweet, yes?

We had fun together. In all of the time we were growing up, I can't honestly think of one incident where we had words or there was any tension. Yet she had this terrible need. When I look back now, I can see where she had this strong desire to be married. I think, without exaggeration, that she was engaged to be married at least four times before we were nineteen. She would call them her "fiancé." No one blinked or balked at the suggestion that they were anything but what she said. They would disappear. Nice boys. Attractive boys. What most would call a "catch," yet they would be gone, and another would be on the horizon, and in a remarkably short time they would become the "fiancé." Even then, I marvelled at it. I didn't know anyone with those persuasive powers over a young man of 17, 18, 19 years, other than Patricia.

Our friendship rolled along over the years. We went to summer camp together. We egged cars together, with our brothers. We'd go to parties together. We made out with boys in cars in dark places together. We lay on the beach together. We'd see each other every Sunday. We spent shared holidays. Probably in my junior year of college, that spring immediately after finals, Patricia approached me about driving to Alabama because she needed "a rest." Some down time. That was always how it was presented to me: a rest. I didn't believe her for a minute. Patricia's mother was originally from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and she still carried the accent of her birthplace. Back when we were in high school, Patricia's parents had taken a young man from Tuscaloosa into their home to live for a while. His name was Dan. He was slightly older than us, and he was the son of a longstanding friend, I think. He had finished college and done a stint as a Marine. He was attractive, but not in a way that appealed to me, and I never had a sense Patricia was interested in him during that time, what with four fiancé's being juggled around. Ultimately he moved back home to Alabama, and when she first approached me with this trip, the light bulb went off, and I thought "she wants to go down there after Dan." I just "knew."

I was quite worn out from my finals. It seems I was recovering from some minor illness. I only remember being overwhelmingly exhausted and in need of rest myself, not feigned rest. I told my boyfriend at the time how much I absolutely did not want to drive to Alabama with Patricia. I told my mother. I told Patricia's mother. The deal was: Patricia couldn't drive down there alone. She had to have someone with her, and I was the logical someone. I made the rounds again, citing my own fatigue in not being up for it. I knew I couldn't help with driving that far, but that was waved off as not important. She would be doing all of the driving. I made the rounds again: boyfriend, mother, Patricia's mother. My boyfriend backed me. "Don't go." My mother initially backed me, especially when I told her what I thought Patricia might be up to, but she had no easy way of presenting that explanation to Patricia's mother. I forget how many times we went through my rejection of this trip. Three? Four? More than should be required, but it wouldn't stop. Finally, my mother begged me, out of her friendship to the mother, to please just go. It would only be a few days. It might be fun. I would see a part of the South I had never been in. In retrospect it's amazing someone didn't cave on this plan and write it off, but they did not, and the persistence paid off. After talking with my mother that one last time and hearing her awkward position and perspective, I folded and I went.

Friend, Fool Or Foe--Part Two

2005-09-27T05:23:00.000-07:00

I can honestly say that from the minute we got into the car, somewhere heading into Virginia, I knew it was a huge mistake. Patricia was flying. Speeding. Driven. I could see it in her face, this focus and determination that disturbed me. We had made plans to stop at one of my Aunt's home to spend the night. I remember we didn't get there until quite late, and I could barely swallow a sandwich before hitting the bed. Between my lingering illness, existing exhaustion, and the tension in the car, I was drained. I remember sitting in my Aunt's kitchen and quietly voicing concern to her over the trip. In retrospect, I find it very disturbing that everyone kept telling me things would be ok, and me having this horrible sense that things were not ok. At the worst, I pictured us arriving in Alabama, staying at Patricia's Aunt and Uncle's who were in Florida, so we were in the house alone, and then her running off with Dan the entire time, and me either being a third wheel, or sitting alone, and neither vision sat well with me. This is what I had warned everyone about from the start, but other than my boyfriend, who did see what could happen, the adults were all trying to put the best face on it.

Early the next morning, we were back on the road and speeding, speeding, speeding. I remember falling asleep at one point and this seemed to piss Patricia off. Somewhere in Alabama (I think Montgomery, I just can't remember), we hadstopped at a carryout store, and I stayed in the car. When Patricia came out, she had a young man in tow, and she announced we were driving him to Tuscaloosa with us. His name was Patrick, I think, and his father was a drama professor at the university. He had been in that part of Alabama participating in some theatre event and was returning home. I yanked her aside and said we couldn't take a stranger in the car with us, but she pushed my concerns aside and off we went. Patrick was pleasant enough. Engaging, locaquious and intelligent. He was also attractive. He sat in the back seat chatting away, and at some point he and I connected on something, but it left Patricia out of the conversation. I could see her becoming angrier. He was paying attention to me, not to her, and I could also see he was an intelligent enough boy to try and keep her involved in the conversation where most would not have that sensitivity. Her answers became terser, and I knew things were not good. I certainly had no interest in him. I hadn't even wanted him along. This was solely her doing, and it was turning on her. When we arrived in Tuscaloosa, we dropped him over by the university, and then she went ripping through town to get to the house. As soon as we entered, before we even unpacked, she was on the phone and calling Dan. My heart sank. "Here we go," I thought. "Now, it begins."

Within minutes, we were back out and into the car, driving to Dan's apartment. Here is where it gets very crazy. Dan opened the door, we entered, and there was a young woman. A redheaded knockout. "Surprise, surprise, surprise," as Gomer Pyle used to say. I could see that Patricia was clueless that he had been living with this woman. Even now, I cringe at remembering how the woman looked. Bewildered. Hurt. Who were these two women, and what did they mean to him? Why were they here? It was all in her face. I can't remember her name. I want to say "Kathy," but I just don't recall. I do remember being entirely in her corner on this, and I worked very hard through unspoken action to let her know I was not a threat to her relationship. Patricia, however...what can I say? She was flirting, she was overt, she was horrible. I was so ashamed to be there. I forget what was said during that time. I know it was established that Kathy was a nursing student, still in classes, and I could see her wondering "Just how safe am I going off and leaving him with this girl?" I sat off to the side feeling incredibly trapped and sunk.

From that point on, I resolved I would stay far, far away from any more trips to Dan's place, and that's exactly what I did. That night, I did not go back with her, nor the next day when Dan, Kathy, Dan's cousin and Patricia all went off to shoot guns somewhere. I declined. I was there to "rest." I remember lounging around, reading magazines, realizing that even my worst fears had somehow been exceeded, and knowing there wasn't going to be a "best face" to put on things. I went outside, and there was a young couple at the house next door with their baby boy, sitting on their steps. Friendly person that I am, I wandered over, introduced myself, made small talk, and spent the afternoon with them, watching the little boy stumble about on the sidewalk, learning to walk, diaper drooping, and realizing I was far better off than going with my other option. Patricia returned home that night, and I could tell things had not gone as hoped. Her fallen dreams and fury came off of her in waves.

Things weren't any better the next day. She had me join her that afternoon at Dan's place. I probably declined at first, but I am sure some reason was proffered as to why I couldn't stay behind--dinner later, some activity, I don't recall. I asked Dan if he would mind me resting on his bed for a while. In truth, I couldn't bear sitting in the room with them. I went and lay down, listening to their voices in the living room. Somewhere during their conversation, Patricia totally turned on me. I don't even remember the transition. She started ripping me to shreds: how I was such a pill in her efforts to be there, how I was being a total drag now (true, but I was trying to protect myself), and then the real attack launched. Venom, venom, venom. I listened for a while until I couldn't stomach another word. I entered the living room, I never made eye contact with her, but I quietly asked Dan if he would drive me back to where we were staying. She started screaming at me then. She may have called me a "bitch," I can't remember it all, but it was nasty. While in the car, Dan and I said very little, but close to the house he asked me, in this very low voice, if I was ok. The whole time in the car, I had turned my face from him and stared out the window. I was afraid I was going to lose it and start sobbing, and I absolutely did not want to put him through such a thing. I told him I was not okay, but that I would be and not to worry.

In truth, I was a wreck. I had just walked away from character assassination and now what was I going to do? I didn't have a credit card. I had very little money on me. I didn't know. I had to take a key or something and lift the latch on the screen door to enter the house (thank God for lax security). I do remember purposefully going to the bedroom and packing my things. In that act, there was never any hesitation. I knew I had to leave. I went next door to the couple's house where I had spent time. What amazing people they were. They had two children, one who was three and one under two. She had just had back surgery and was white with pain. I sat and told them everything. Everything. I used their phone, reversed charges, and I called my boyfriend. I must have been sobbing at that point, just to get rid of everything I had been holding in for days. He was incredible. So calm. So sure of himself. Because of his father's work, he had been travelling the world since he was a small child. When he was ten, he flew alone to Korea. When he was 16, he flew alone, via a European route and stopovers, to Vietnam. He was far more worldly than your average teenager. He asked me if there was an airport or a bus station? Yes. Was there a Western Union? Yes. He took the number where I was staying, and he set about wiring me money and made all of my travel arrangements to get me back home.

The next day, early in the morning, the woman and I walked in her garden while she showed me her vegetables coming up. She was so kind to open her house to a troubled stranger. I remember I slept in her child's bed that night, with the black lab sharing my space, and I tossed all night, just sick with worry about the whole mess. During the night, I heard Patricia arrive back home, and she began screaming at the top of her lungs when she realized I was gone. You could hear her cursing me through the opened windows. I had never told her about my getting to know the neighbors, so she had no idea where I was. That morning, the neighbor drove me to Western Union, and then the airport. I made sure I had their names and address so I could send them a small gift and thank you once I had arrived home (which I did), and my return back to Washington was interesting, to say the least.

Friend, Fool Or Foe--Part Three

2005-09-27T05:22:00.000-07:00

I sat alone (with no other passengers arriving) at that Tuscaloosa airport for hours. I had to fly first class, because that was the only thing available. So I flew knowing I was going to be out that money. Then I was told the flight would ultimately take me 10-12 hours to get from Tuscaloosa to Washington, D.C. with a stopover/switch at the Atlanta airport. The plane looked like something out of 1953. A real rust bucket. You had to enter via the rear of the plane, and we made several puddle jump landings before arriving in Atlanta. At one point we landed in a cleared corn field. I didn't even know a commercial flight would land in a corn field. A pickup truck blew up red dust driving out to pick up the passengers getting off. I had a lot of time to think about things on my flight back, but even then I couldn't get clear in my head what had just taken place. I was sleep deprived, my nerves were shot, and I was a contained mess.

My boyfriend was waiting for me at National Airport. I probably burst into tears again. I remember feeling the sheer relief of being free of it all. That night, I went over to my parent's house and told them the entire story. I held nothing back. I know that my mother never discussed the situation with Patricia's mother. Shortly after all of this, my mother told me that Patricia's mother had heard from Dan, and that he wanted my address. Would that be okay? I said, "no," and I never knew why, but I am guessing to write a note of apology or explanation. He had never spoke against me that afternoon, but I do think he felt badly about what transpired. I also later heard he had sent a letter to me, via Patricia's mother, to be forwarded to me, but it disappeared, so I never saw it. I do think Patricia's mother knew that I wasn't the kind of girl to walk away from her daughter, unless something really bad had happened, and even now when we talk, she has never asked me about it. Just this past year, however, she did say to me out of the blue, "Do you hate Patricia?" I told her I had never hated Patricia, and she said she was relieved. That was it.

If I had to guess what ended our friendship, I would say thwarted need. I was there to shamefully bear witness to it, and I walked away from it. I don't know where this need came from in Patricia. She was secure, she was loved, but it wasn't enough. She married at 20. She married a divorced man with custody of his children, and she married a man her mother can't stand. Her mother did tell me once, "He doesn't treat her well, and I have told her that she needs to have him show her more respect." I don't know what to make of that, either.

Now, for my kicker of a postscript. My mother died a few years ago. I never dreamed what happened would happen. No one did. I always saw her as her own mother was: strong, autonomous and able to do anything. It was too soon, and it was horrible to watch, and it was incredibly sad. She went into a coma a week before she died, and I never left her side at the hospital, other than to honor my father's wishes and go and choose her coffin and plan her funeral. The day she entered the hospital, the word was out in the community of friends, and Patricia showed up in the hospital room. She told me she came to "pay her respects." She didn't stay long. She also showed up for the funeral. I have never spoken to her again.

*** Remember: You can also find Washington Cube at:

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The Key To Aubrey Beardsley, Salomé and Me

2005-09-27T05:17:00.000-07:00

I was driving home from work this evening, and I glanced down at my key ring, eyeing the skeleton key to the back door of my childhood home. I always get asked about this key due to it's size and obvious antiquity. When my parent's sold the first house I knew, the house I learned to walk in, I took the duplicate key to have a memento of my past. The writer Vladimir Nabokov wrote a book of his childhood memories called Speak, Memory. Later he was to say that while he told everything about himself in the book, it wasn't a very pleasant portrait. "All that chess and those butterflies. Not very interesting." Nabokov was haunted by his past. "The act of vividly recalling a patch of the past is something that I seem to have been performing with the utmost zest all of my life."

Staring at the key, remembering words I had written the other day about my upbringing and the strictness imposed by my parents (as opposed to my friends and their lives), the next thought in my head was "my bedroom door." How could I have forgotten that door? When I was 16 years old, I first learned of Aubrey Beardsley. I found a book about Art Nouveau in the library with a huge section devoted to Beardsley, his work and his life. I was immediately smitten with his black and white drawings with their sensuous lines and subject matter.

Beardsley did the bulk of the work that earned him fame in his early twenties. By age 25, he was dead of a lifelong struggle with tuberculosis. Aubrey Beardsley Through work he did in art publications, he came to the attention of Oscar Wilde, and at age 21 he was asked to illustrate Wilde's Salomé, a joint venture that proved scandalous and almost became his professional ruin.

One day I returned home from school: it was autumn, and I remember retrieving a piece of lime green poster board that I had on hand, sitting down with a felt marker, and drawing Beardsley's "The Climax," from the Salomé book, with no pencilling in or guide. In retrospect, it's bizzare that I wouldn't wait until I could purchase white paper, but the lime green was all that I had available, and the image had to come out. I had this overwhelming feeling that I could draw it. No doubts. My hand was steady. I worked without a net.

In retrospect how odd for a Washington, D.C. school girl to have such a strong reaction to these fin de siècle images, that I could reproduce one without reference or outline. It was almost as if I were channeling this coughing aesthete. It is moments like this that drive people to analyze the creative process. Where did it come from? I only remember this overwhelming understanding of technique and knowing I could do it. It went beyond knowing I could do it, into knowing I had to do it. Obviously the work had sounded something deep inside me, to the point I knew these drawings with my entire being. The drawing was a success. My friends demanded that I show the school art teachers. Within a day or two of completing the drawing, I stopped at an art supply store on my way home, bought black enamel paint in small bottles and several finely feathered sable brushes.

This part stands out in time. I arrived home, changed clothes, and I began painting this same image of Salomé onto my bedroom door. I did not discuss it with my parents. I did not seek permission. I just painted. I remember this very distinctly, as well. If you study the image, I can tell you I began painting from the upper left corner, which was highly stylized clouds, and I worked down the painting from an angle, always working from an angle, into the southeast portion of the picture. You can't see the detail from the image I secured, but there are many tiny dots around Salomé's head, and many minute hatch marks along the edge of water that curves into the sky. It took me about two weeks, all told, to complete the work. It wasn't easy. It was the first time I had ever had to paint upright, and the door wasn't coming off it's hinges. It couldn't be tilted at an angle to ease the control of the brush. I had to contort my body to adapt to the work. I didn't even think to remove the door, to be honest. I told my friends about my project, they came by, then they told other friends, and it became a pilgrimage for people to be knocking on the door asking if they could see the work in progress. During all of this time my parents never uttered one negative word about what I was up to. Given the subject matter, Salomé holding John the Baptist's head, in my very religious parent's home, I can't believe they reacted the way that they did. Parents can surprise you. The painting remained and wasn't even painted over when the house was shown for sale. The house stands. I am sure the painting is long gone, but the memory isn't.

....The Climax, from Salomé by Aubrey Beardsley

*** Remember: You can also find Washington Cube at:

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Two Women Discuss Little Women, Part One

2005-09-27T04:44:00.000-07:00

I was talking to my friend Kathy today. It started when we discussed the piece I had written previously on friendship. Last night, I took flak from some other friends about it. Some thought I wrote it to seek closure on the issue, some that I was still plagued by what had happened, and I was faulted by one who said I had "not even said goodbye" but just walked away from the person. I pointed out when someone has just finished ripping you to shreds, "goodbye" isn't high on your priorities. Kathy immediately got at what I had been trying to do, however, which was write a piece comparable in style and quality to those that I had read in the book on friendship. Nothing more. A writing exercise. As I told the other friends: for the most part, when our friendships end, it is usually due to far more mundane reasons: marriage, children, geography, moving, interests. I wanted to see if I could write objectively about the subject.

It pleased me that Kathy zoomed right in and comprehended my mission, but she and I are in sync on so many things. While we were talking we shifted in topic to old movies, Leslie Howard as womanizer, and Little Women, the movie and book...oh yes, and monks. With her permission:

Cube: Little Women is on today at 4 on TCM. The June Allyson as Jo version.
Kathy: I liked that one, but I like the earlier one better, with Katharine Hepburn as Jo.
Cube: The Winona Ryder version got on my nerves. Oddly enough from me, I thought it took too much of a feminist slant which skewed the story line.
Kathy: That's what I heard...that it was "preachy." There is feminism in the book, but it has to be played authentically. I used to read and reread that book, and all of Alcott's* other books that followed* (Louise May Alcott, author).
Cube: I agree with you, and I did exactly the same thing. I still have my childhood copies of Little Women, Little Men, Roses in Bloom, Under the Lilacs, all of which I inherited.
Kathy: I think mine are at my parent's house. I wonder if they donated them?
Cube: All little girls wanted to be Jo. I wanted to be Amy.
Kathy: You're kidding. I hated Amy. Until she matured.
Cube: Bingo. It was her maturity and change that appealed to me.
Kathy: Yeah. I could see that.
Cube: Beth was too sweetly drippy, and Meg was boring.
Kathy: Really boring and too pliant, especially when she did the marriage thing. Blech.
Cube: I liked Jo until she hooked up with that old professor. He was a turn off to me. I thought she was trading her independence to lean on a man's shoulder.
Kathy: He never seemed real to me. Just another way to preach. I guess Alcott couldn't sell a woman character without a man.
Cube: Amy was a selfish brat early on in the book. What intrigued me was how through distance and grief her life completely altered. In retrospect, this was an odd observation for me to be making as a child.
Kathy: The change seemed too sudden, and her falling in love with Laurie seemed too sudden, but the book needed to move on.
Cube: Well, the whole thing seemed rushed at the end. What did you think of Marmee? She was too much for me. She never snapped at the girls. Total sacrifice.
Kathy: She seemed a little too saintly. I think Alcott was about creating the perfect family to balance her more bohemian, bluestocking family. Did any man ever read this book?

Two Women Discuss Little Women, Part Two

2005-09-27T04:43:00.000-07:00

.....Louisa May Alcott in her writing room at Orchard House

Cube: Good question. I would doubt it. Odd. I inherited all of these old children's books. I read Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys and Tom Swift as a child. The Nancy Drew's were all written in the 1930's and Nancy was always in a roadster with a rumble seat going to roadhouses and tea rooms. It all seemed so odd to me. Why do you think little girls read Little Women?
Kathy: Do they still read it? I don't know. I suppose it could be the maturation process. Each girl embodied some personality trait. For stronger female role models, there are better contemporary books. I always go to the American Association of Libraries web site to see what the award winning kid books are...just to see what's out there. If you look at that site, you'll know how old you are by seeing what the last book you read as a child by when it was published.
Cube: Little Women was published in 1869, just after the Civil War. I wonder what appeals to children about the book? Sisterly love? Family?
Kathy: I think it was family for me. Safety and security were important. I loved the period details.
Cube: It certainly seemed to be about Jo, Jo, Jo. She was Little Women's Marcia in the Brady Bunch. I looked at it's family aspect and interactions as well, andI didn't have sisters, so I suppose there was that fascination. Did you envy Jo her garrett? (the attic Jo went to escape and do her writing).
Kathy: Well, it was certainly romantic, but in reality gloomy and probably cold.
Cube: The whole "noble poverty" thing grated on me. When she asked her already sacrificing children to give up their miserly little Christmas breakfast to the German family, it seemed a bit much, even for Christian charity.
Kathy: How poor could they have really been? No new gloves and only one servant? Gee. Ain't it tough being the middle class. A lovely noblisse oblige gesture that didn't do much for the poor Germans, and what was Alcott's message there? Anti-immigrant? Useful plot point?
Cube: Well, that engagement of charity with the Germans ultimately killed her daughter. I do have favorite scenes that I love. Amy writing her will, when Beth is ill, making sacrifices of the mateial things that she loves. Jo running into Laurie in the street. He thinks she has a toothache, but she's really just submitted her stories. And I still love that scene of Amy in Europe, missing her family, knowing her sister is dying, alone and feeling her emotions as a full-formed adult, now, not the selfish girl. Also, Jo who stand so close to the fire she scores her dresses.

Two Women Discuss Little Women, Part Three

2005-09-27T04:38:00.000-07:00

Louise May Alcott wrote about the March sisters, based on her own self and her sisters, and she gave the characters in Little Women her sister's characteristics:

.....Louisa May Alcott was Jo

.....Anna Alcott was Meg

.....Elizabeth Alcott was Beth

.....May Alcott was Amy

Kathy: The scorched dress was a wonderful visual moment. That and Jo cutting her hair to sell it for money for her father's care. More sacrifice. How short would it have been?
Cube: A few inches, probably, but remember back then all women's hair was long and their crowning glory. They had to wear it up, so it had to be long.
Kathy: One reason I liked that PBS show "1910 House" was for the same things in Little Women: the detail to life's labor. Hand-hemming sheets, muddy dress hems, hand washing clothes, no flushing toilets, all of the cooking on wood stoves. I see seminarians, and they walk around in their yard with the long white robes that haven't been hemmed properly, and they drag on the ground. And you know those pampered pups don't do their own laundry. So they don't care if the hem needs to be pretreated or scrubbed.
Cube: I know in the rectories of churchs, the priests always have a housekeeper. Some loyalolder, widowed woman. Safe and totally dedicated to servant mentality.
Kathy: Whenever I say "Good morning" to them, they look right through me like they were raised in a barn. The priest who live there get their meals cooked for them, their apartments cleaned, clothes cleaned and pressed. They do nothing for their care.
Cube: (talking about Catholic row over by the Shrine) One time I was over there, walking on the sidewalk just before Trinity's chapel, and some seminarians were circling around the wall outside the chapel, entering it from the back, and they had on long white roped robes with hoods, with their heads bowed and hands folded inside their sleeves. I swear. In that one moment, it was like falling back into the Middle Ages, to see such a thing. What else can we say aboutLittle Women? What about the father?
Kathy: There were no realistic male figures in the book. The father was distant. Mr. Lawrence was distant, for the most part, except when he gave the piano to Beth. Laurie was okay, I guess.
Cube: Laurie seemed rather submissive, looking for strong, dominant women in his life. He probably needed a Dominatrix.
Kathy: It was a strangely sexless book in comparison with Jane Eyre. No passion between the men and the women.
Cube: Despitethe ragings of the Civil War going on in the South, she presented a rather contained world, but I guess we should remember the time frame she created it in.

...Louisa May Alcott's family home,
Orchard House, Concord, Massachusetts

*** Remember: You can also find Washington Cube at:

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What's That You Shui?

2005-09-26T12:44:00.000-07:00

With an increasing Asian population in Metropolitan Washington, I've been noticing for some time that the yard statuary of the past has taken on new forms. Lawn jockeys have given way to Buddahs and St. Francis has transformed into Fu Dogs.

There is one house I stumbled across in suburban Maryland that takes it's Feng Shui seriously. It started with a pair of oversized Fu Dogs then other embellishments appeared over time.

.....Fu dogs at the Imperial Palace, Forbidden City, Bejing

Fu (or Foo) Dogs are guardian lions considered mythical protetectors thathave traditionally stood in front of Chinese imperial palaces and emperors' tombs since the Han Dynasty of 206 B.C. The lions are presented in pairs. To the intruder's right is the male lion, with his right paw on a globe, representing his "feeling the pulse of the earth." To the intruder's left is the female lion, essentially identical in appearance, but playing with her cub at her law paw. The male of the pair is said to guard the structure, while the female protects those inside. Following the beliefs of Feng Shui, these dogs draw wealth and prosperity. Quan Yin (or Kwan Yin) is a Goodess of Prosperity as well. She is also a protector of mothers and children.

...small Fu dogs at the door. Two overscaled Quan Yin to the right.

I expect to see the Publisher's Clearinghouse Prize Patrol pulling up any day now with a door-sized check. If they don't? Fu YOU, Ed McMahon.

The Key To Aubrey Beardsley, Salomé & Me

2005-09-23T03:07:00.000-07:00

One day I returned home from school: it was autumn, and I remember retrieving a piece of lime green poster board that I had on hand, sitting down with a felt marker, and drawing Beardsley's "The Climax," from the Salomé book, with no pencilling in or guide. In retrospect, it's bizzare that I wouldn't wait until I could purchase white paper, but the lime green was all that I had available, and the image had to come out. I had this overwhelming feeling that I could draw it. No doubts. My hand was steady. I worked without a net.

In retrospect how odd for a Washington, D.C. school girl to have such a strong reaction to these fin de siècle images, that I could reproduce one without reference or outline. It was almost as if I were channeling this coughing aesthete. It is moments like this that drive people to analyze the creative process. Where did it come from? I only remember this overwhelming understanding of technique and knowing I could do it. It went beyond knowing I could do it, into knowing I had to do it. Obviously the work had sounded something deep inside me, to the point I knew these drawings with my entire being. The drawing was a success. My friends demanded that I show the school art teachers. Within a day or two of completing the drawing, I stopped at an art supply store on my way home, bought black enamel paint in small bottles and several finely feathered sable brushes.

This part stands out in time. I arrived home, changed clothes, and I began painting this same image of Salomé onto my bedroom door. I did not discuss it with my parents. I did not seek permission. I just painted. I remember this very distinctly, as well. If you study the image, I can tell you I began painting from the upper left corner, which was highly stylized clouds, and I worked down the painting from an angle, always working from an angle, into the southeast portion of the picture. You can't see the detail from the image I secured, but there are many tiny dots around Salomé's head, and many minute hatch marks along the edge of water that curves into the sky. It took me about two weeks, all told, to complete the work. It wasn't easy. It was the first time I had ever had to paint upright, and the door wasn't coming off it's hinges. It couldn't be tilted at an angle to ease the control of the brush. I had to contort my body to adapt to the work. I didn't even think to remove the door, to be honest. I told my friends about my project, they came by, then they told other friends, and it became a pilgrimage for people to be knocking on the door asking if they could see the work in progress. During all of this time my parents never uttered one negative word about what I was up to. Given the subject matter, Salomé holding John the Baptist's head, in my very religious parent's home, I can't believe they reacted the way that they did. Parents can surprise you. The painting remained and wasn't even painted over when the house was shown for sale. The house stands. I am sure the painting is long gone, but the memory isn't.

....The Climax, from Salomé by Aubrey Beardsley

*** Remember: You can also find Washington Cube at:

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