the year of the dog

My mom called me around dinner last night.   "We're putting Dunkin down tonight, just thought I'd let you know."  Dunkin, was my family's pet dog for the past 6-7 years.  A Bichon Frise, he was affectionately known as "a little white fluff ball" with a tail that curled onto up onto his back mirrored with a quirky, "how can you not like me?!" personality.  Over the past few months, he was withering away from a bounding bowing ball shape to a frail skeleton, not eating much and barely able to stand.  As with many pets, the vet wasn't exactly sure what was up and my parents weren't about to invest thousands into a guessing game.  They'd prefer he live out whatever days he had left as best he could at home being loved.  

It's a bit upsetting to me and I'm sure to my siblings, but I know my mom and dad will take it the hardest.  As "empty-nesters"  Dunkin was the spoiled 4th child that would never leave home.  You see 2010 was a year to remember to hate for my folks, due to two big events:  my dad was laid-off and my aunt (my mom's older sister) passed away.  Every visit home came with the self-tasked attempt to make things feel better.  It was tough.  My mom never looked that sad and beaten down.  "I don't know Matt," she said, "the year, just a bad year.  I just don't know what to do anymore.  I give up." 

I want to say Dunkin's passing isn't "as bad" as my aunt's, but, for me that can only be measured by how high the degree of care and love for something or someone.  My dad did get another, better job he likes a lot and I think 2011 still stands a chance at being OK.  My brother is getting married for one thing, my sis is graduating college, there's another.  But I know, like it or not, it will always be the year we lost our "little white fluff ball."

incommunicationating

I started this post on a day much like today a few weeks ago.  It lost momentum, but today boosted it again.  So here it is.

Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote:

"We have shared the incommunicable experience of war.  We have felt, we still feel, the passion of life to its top.  In our youths our hearts were touched with fire."

I can see how "war" would be an incommunicable experience.  Every story I've heard and read from the mouths and pens of veterans cannot exactingly put across what they did, what they saw and what they've lived with since.  That makes sense to me . . . regarding war.

What makes much less sense to me is when people fail to communicate the simple, the everyday, the routine, the things that would make life just a tad easier for someone, or everyone, else.  Many try to blame technology and others' incompetence, but I prefer to put it all on the individual.  For the health of those who communicate, and do it well, perhaps what my friend said, "We need to teach you to be more Brooklyn", might be better for the mind then trying to continually strike a delicate balance.

E-mailing, the once mighty new form of communication, has become the bane of many an employee's existence.  Rather than communicating the summation of a lot of data at a fast speed and in an Inbox, professional e-mail has turned into texting for the modern supervisor.  We might like to think Blackberries are better and more professional then a 16 girls cell phone, because "I'm conducting business here, not texting about movies and boys".  But really, what's the difference?  If the success of innovation in communication has to be measured by anything, I'm going with the dehumanization of humans connecting with humans.  :) :( :\  ttyl

intro extro

I feel like I may actually be headed in the right direction with my self-image.  It hit me after my wife was asking me about the strange fact that I turned sort of introverted at my fairly recent high school reunion.
"I thought you would be going around to all the small groups that formed talking to everyone," were her exact words. 
Part of me thought, "Yeah, why didn't I?" and part of me thought and ultimately answered my wife with, "They're still the popular kids, the jocks and the drama club and I was none of the above.  I don't think I'd know what to say.  I was an am still a dork."  I guess I was even answering her as if I was still 16. 

Now I'm not a defeatist about myself, since I just called myself a "dork", I don't see a negative connotation to the word.  No, I'm fine with the fact that I can fit in some defined category of people that some person thought up.  I have, though, changed a good bit since high school and have a lot I could and would share if prompted; I like talking about where I work, my hobbies, my life since high school, I'm a much more interesting dork compared to back then, in my humble opinion.  But did I really want to try to share this with people who cared less about me back then?  Would they simply hear me talking, or really listen?  Furthermore, did I want to hear their life stories? 

In the end alcohol was a catalyst (if it had to be something, why not alcohol?) to eventually being warmly approached by people I didn't think would come near me that night.  I'll admit, it was nice, even though slurred and set on a progressively louder background noise.  Every conversation brought back good memories and laughs, and I found they also served as a way of reminding me of where I came from, who I was, what I gave up, what shaped me, etc etc. 

After coming out of the time warp, it felt nice to get in the car with my wife and head back into reality, back to 2010.  Not everything is perfect here and now, but at least I know at this point, and feel comfortable with, who I am. 

sprouts

If I had to define this week by food, I'd choose brussel sprouts.  Why brussel sprouts?  For one, we bought a bunch of them at a local market and I've been throwing them in every dish I can.  I hate seeing food go to waste.  Last night was spaghetti tossed in a pan with  brussel sprouts sauteed in olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper then given a generous dash of Parmesan cheese on the plate.  Simple and tasty and not bad for ya! 

thedailygreen.com
Googled "brussel sprouts" and liked this shot

Another reason for brussel sprouts, I hated them as a kid.  I hated cabbage too.  The point is, continual growth and change is good.  (I'm not even gonna do a whole "like the layerinf of their leaves...the deeper I go" stuff)  Continual learning, exploring and finding is good.  Cooking has been a wonderful outlet for me to learn, explore and ultimately relax and enjoy.  After dinner was done I was thinking about how I could use the rest of the sprouts; perhaps a slaw.  I've already determined that when I have a kid, he or she will be right there with me, rolling dough, chopping veggies, creating, thinking, tasting, enjoying.  And no Shun chef's knife until they're 10.   

Lastly the poor sprout gets a horrible wrap.  Tightly bundled on itself, it isn't always appreciated for what it has to offer.  Not saying that it represents me, no, more what situations I found myself in this week.  A lot going on, a lot to do, but for some reason, while people know that others can do good work and are good people with good intentions, they only have known it from afar.  Frustrating for sure, since it's not the kind of person I am.  Oh well, at least I know they're good for me.

mlk

"I say to you today even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream that is deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up, live out the true meaning of its creed."

It's only befitting that I include Martin Luther King Jr. in a post today.  Having not grown up during the Civil Rights Movement, or even been alive, I'll claim ignorance to what kind of environment and time he lived, fought and died in.  I can say, however, that it was without a doubt due to his and his colleagues' efforts that I grew up without prejudice in my home and schooling.  I didn't realize it when I was young, but today I think about how great a thing it truly was to not grow up looking on people of different race, creed or religion with prejudice and hatred.

The sad fact is, not everyone thinks this way.  People seem to find more ways to hate then to love, care or unite.   

belated birthday

I have no idea why I never published the following back in October.  My guess is I was being critical of my writing.  Well, here it is now with a few edits:

Only a few days ago I logged in another full year of life.  My dad, in his dad ways, dad tone and dad corniness made the comment,"You're catching up to me in age!".  Then I realized that someday I'd be that dad making that dad-esque comment to my child, with my child then rolling their eyes and thinking,"I'll never be that corny when I'm his age!". 

Every time I dare think about how I'm at a period in my life when pacifiers should be drying in the dish rack, I start thinking about the things I want to do before that becomes reality.  No, I'm not scared (not terrified either), I don't hate kids, I just know the same facts spat out from every parent I've talked to about being parent.

This weekend I'll be helping out at a Haunted Trail.  That is to say I'll be daunting torn up clothing, splattering myself with fake blood and scaring the bajeezes out of the following: selfish, text-messaging teens, drunken parents (yes, nothing like a half-lit adult around kids!), fried potheads, too-cool-for-school thugs, and of course the poor little ones that get drug along the trail kicking and screaming from the get-go.  It's almost therapeutic.  "Take that: guy who probably cut me off the other day! the woman who wouldn't just pay for her damn groceries!  the child who just had to touch everything in Target!". 

So the way I see it, if I do have children in the near future this trail might just be my outlet.  Or I'll just randomly pull out a ghoul mask in the grocery store on a random day of a random month. 

icing on the cake

I started writing one thing but found it had no legs what-so-ever.  So, I thought about what makes me happy and away I went.



Deli
Wayne Thiebaud



I didn't discover the LA artist Wayne Thiebaud until college, luckily early in college, via the Art Conservation Club.  We took a trip to DC for the sole purpose of gallery hopping.  I'm not sure if it was coincidental or had a reason,but three different galleries had works by Thiebaud:  The Corcoran, The Phillips Collection and another one I can't recall to save my life.  Funny thing is, I almost didn't go on the trip due to the "narrow scope" of seeking out only this one artist's work that I've never seen and didn't know a thing about.   

Thankfully some divine intervention put me in the van on its way to DC, the lone male (someone had to be) and lone freshman.  The only thing I had to go on of what to expect was the president of the club's description, "he painted what he loved and what made him happy".  So as long as what made him happy wasn't a pile of poo, it couldn't be too bad.    

Well, not much has to be said for what came from the trip.  I became an instant admirer, for one and got an itch to explore more galleries, experience more artists I never heard of.  I had been such a strict realist with my artwork that I dismissed too many artists, especially those modernists (psh).  Now I have a calendar from MoMA on my office wall.  We also visited the National Gallery of Art and the Renwick Gallery of Art; it was at the Renwick I discovered a piece I've talked about ever since visiting:

Ghost Clock
1985 Wendell Castle
Smithsonian American Art Museum
1989.68

Change can bring happiness and snatch people out of the ruts in the road. 

the great american

Right now I'm thinking of the many Christmas seasons when my parents bundled my brother and I up and headed out to Hershey Park.  Yes, Hershey (a usual summer destination, with roller coasters, etc.) Park in 30 degree or below temps.  Every year, since I can remember, the park turned their entrance "village", stands and vendor areas into a glowing, sparkling, semi-chocolate-induced Christmas wonderland.  We'd make our way from the parking lot, into the toasty, chocolate scented "Chocolate World", humming the "Hershey Song" between chattering teeth.  I don't ever recall there being a charge to enter, but of course they got ya with hot chocolate, cookies and all the "Hersheyana" you can stand.  My parents weren't as hesitant to satiate our nagging for it either, as I'm pretty sure they liked it as much as we did.   

It was only a few years ago that the Hershey Company closed its factory in Reading, PA.  This is where York Peppermint Patties, Zagnut, Jolly Ranchers and 5th Avenue bars were made for 23 years.  Next time you go to tear into the wrapper of one notice "Made in Mexico".  This jaded me more then I thought it might.  While my chocolate dipped memories are still intact they can be personified by the lost chocolate bar  in the back of the refrigerator or cupboard, found when the craving for it came, opened up to a disappointingly white, chalky film formed on the outside.  Bottom line, "Damn it!  Why'd they have to go and spoil it for me!".
 
Two years ago my mom asked if we wanted to go out to the Christmas Village at Hershey.  She was feeling nostalgic and suddenly I was 8 again.  I didn't think a minute about the factories or the workers who lost their jobs.  I sank into the dreamland that made me smile ear to ear, wanting, more then anything, to share this with my wife.  We went and it really was a great time, very much like remember, just smaller feeling.   

So it wasn't until I sat and thought about it about a day ago that I got into a quandary of "Wow, Hershey sucks for doing what they did, but I have fun when I'm at their Park!", up against the fact that they now may move the whole production out of Hershey, PA, if the union can't strike a deal, keeping a new facility nearby.  The need for the new facility makes sense, the idea that the workers and the people of the town of Hershey come a distant second, feels like a low-blow to an ailing economy.   

Kind of feels like deciding to shoot Old Yeller.