Groundhogs and Men Forcing Things

I cannot get enough of the videos on Youtube of Mayor Bloomberg getting bitten by Chuck G. Hogg, the Staten Island Groundhog.  They delight me.  It is so fitting to watch Mayor Michael Bloomberg get chomped.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I don't hate Mayor Bloomberg.  Up here high atop the Potter Building, we happen to like him tons more than we liked Rudy (except for about three hours after the attacks on 9/11, when we weren't thinking too clearly).  But Bloomberg acted--forgive me, men--like such a  old school GUY yesterday. Face it: men force things.   If something doesn't work, men tend to shove it as hard as they can.  And then it breaks and they have an opportunity to get out the power tools and make a real mess. 

So the men who were obviously in charge at the Staten Island Zoo yesterday (Christine Quinn, who was also present, had the sense to stay out of the way) had decided that The Groundhog Would Not See His Shadow and Spring Would Come Early.  They already had a little banner all made up for the TV cameras announcing this fact.  

And then Chuck G. Hogg decided NOT to come out of the little birdhouse-looking thing they'd put him in, not for food, and not for kids chanting his name--this even though EVERYONE knows that lots of seven-year-olds chanting in their maniac Lord-of-the-Flies way is JUST what makes groundhogs long to display themselves to glaring TV lights.  Some fool went for the standard grown-up hubba hubba joke: "C'mon out!  Your girlfriend's out here!"

The mayor, a man of action, offered the groundhog some corn on the cob.  The groundhog twice pulled it back into his house.  The mayor took the corn away from the groundhog to tease him out with it.  Predictably, the groundhog bit the mayor, hard, right through his fancy black leather gloves.  And so, in true alpha-male fashion, the mayor Forced Things: grabbed the groundhog, who was by then attempting to escape, and held him up to the cameras.  The miserable beast squirmed.  His real handlers hustled him back into the safety of the cat carrier in which they'd brought him to the event, poor thing.  And the Spring-is-coming banner was unfurled.  

Mayor Bloomberg appeared later in the day with a band aid on his finger, cracking jokes about terrorist groundhogs and courageously keeping the city safe from same.  News reports later noted that since the Chuck G. Hogg had been raised in captivity, that there was no rabies risk to the mayor--and that his tetanus shots were up to date.

I would like to note that it is snowing in New York today.  Pretty hard, in fact.  I love it when a plan comes together.  

Mollycat, The Inauguration and A Winter Noontime

The house is empty, and I have a few minutes to blog away.

Perhaps I should start with the mundane and work towards the profound.  This morning, my cat Molly jumped up on the table next to me and attempted to steal a piece of bacon off my plate--a brazen and rude act of bad-kitty-ness never before attempted in our kitchen.  I dumped her off the table, she glared at me from the floor, and I wondered what kind of metaphor that was.  And then I suddenly thought of the chopper bearing the Bushes up, up and away from the White House.

Looting.  I have been thinking about what looting means a lot lately.

So here's what I decided: the nation has dumped Bush down onto the kitchen floor because he was looting and it took the stock market crash and the waves of misery spreading out from it to make us realize it.  Lots of us could deal with him lying, but stealing--looting--that's when you buy a gun and stand in front of your hurricane-ravaged house with it.  That's when you finally make the politcal phone calls and drag  your friends to the polls.

In our case, in America's case, it had to get as brazen as Mollycat's bacon-grab before we finally got off our asses.  But how gorgeous and inspiring and heartening that awakening, that rising to our national feet has been!

It hasn't hurt that we have an extraordinary, brilliant, and highly disciplined leader in Barack Obama.  He ran a fabulous campaign, and he is setting up a dream team of an administration. He will certainly do things that will piss me off in the next four years.  I wasn't nuts about the Rick Warren pick for the opening prayer at the Inaugural.  But I understood where he was coming from and why he did it.  He's everyone's President, not just mine. 

I know there are folks who believe that my kind of thinking--looking for symbols and portents and metaphor in all manner of places--is irrational.  And it is, but I believe that there are many kinds of wisdom, and that the intuitive can be as important as the logical.  I think that the intuitive can dance in front of the logical, in fact.

The other big metaphor lately has been the Miracle On The Hudson, much derided by hard-nosed types who call it just good flying and good luck.   But it all seems to be part of the same story: a disaster narrowly averted by a serious-minded, highly trained leader who did the right thing at at the right time.  Maybe there was a bacon-grab here, too; perhaps the plane was stricken by cost-cutting by the airline as much as it was by a flock of birds.  We'll know more about that in the weeks to come.

But it was like the Inauguration and the election.  People, inspired by the captain's leadership AND because of their better angels, Did The Right Thing.  They drove their ferryboats out to the plane and got other people off.  The passengers mostly helped each other, although there was some folly and panic (hardly to be wondered at).

It feels like some vast corner has been turned, like we can all breathe a bit easier.  And it feels like there are all these little portents, like love notes left around from God, it really does.  Happy landings.  A quiet house.  The cat, seemingly penitent, purring in my lap.

After Christmas, Before The New Year

I just blew the dust off this blog, and it's all over my computer!

I can't believe I haven't written since Thanksgiving, but that's the kind of nuts I got this holiday season.  Between Randoradio shows and family (I am the designated celebrator), I have been hopping.  My organist/choirmaster husband is born in December, just before Christmas.  And in one of my other lives, I sing in his church choir. 

Music has been committed.  Choral music.

And I got Ken a theremin for his birthday.  Clara Rockmore DVD  perfomances and audio recordings have been a part of our life since.  Tom Jones (Rando's Logovore) also received a theremin for Christmas.  It's going to be sounding like Halloween ALL THE TIME at our house in the New Year--that is, when Ken's not practicing hymns on his home pipe organ.  Tom played some Clara on his show this week, and I guess I should, too. 

Christmas Day itself at our house was better than it's been in years.  My family has a talent for having Awful Things happen on Christmas.  Flu mini-epidemics.  My mom had a cardiac incident on Christmas Eve a couple of years ago, before she had her Dick Cheney special defib/pacemaker installed.  My parents are feisty folks in their late eighties and the feist sometimes gets a little into misery territory--at least for me.

 Ken is a Christmas tree fanatic, so on recent Christmases, I've oft found myself looking at a simply glorious tree filled with vintage ornaments and light through a haze of worried or hurt tears.  Not so this year.  Folks remained healthy--my sis has a cold, but for us, that's nada--the prime rib was very good, thanks, and the Yorkshire pudding puffed nicely.  My folks did not talk politics, or shout at each other or us.  I forgot to put out Christmas crackers (we do the Brit traditions in our house), but I was rewarded by not having to sweep up the confetti from the same.  Presents were well-received by "blood" family and my darling godchildren alike.

Ken got me a bunch of jadite bowls.  OK, that sounds Martha Stewart-like, but I swear I was into them before she was.  For years, my friends have been saying, "If it's green, it goes to Christine".  And he got me  other cool stuff, too.  But for me, the biggest gift was the serenity and everyone healthy.

My goddaughter Blue, a Rando DJ herself, took THE WORST PICTURE OF ME ever taken, and promptly posted it on the 'net.  I'm not sayin' where.  I do NOT LOOK LIKE THAT, though.  I love her profoundly.  Listen to her show.  We'll be making more of them soon.

And now, we're almost at the New Year, and I have errands to do and a gym to visit today.  Or at least errands.  

And as I think about taking the tree and all the window candles down on Epiphany, I still have real happiness in my heart.  Randoradio is growing, thanks to you, dear listeners.  And in just a few weeks, my country will have a president that we can be proud of again.  Patriotism: what a thought!

I have no idea what kind of show I will be doing on Friday.  I'll be bringing my Dad up to the station to do a show, soon, though.  He wants to play Spike Jones.  Maybe when we get the New Mixer (our Christmas present to ourselves) in and the studio as it will be...as always, stay tuned.  Cocktails and music will reward you.

A Glad and Joyous New Year To ALL!!

Thanksgiving Day

I've been nuts, Rando folk--

We've got a million people on their way to our house, some from cross country.  My mother has a head cold.  My dad is all worried about her.  My sis is asleep downstairs.  My cats want breakfast. I'm about to wrangle a 25 pound honker of a turkey.  

And as head moderator at the Gazebo (www.alsopreview.com) and a poet--my other life--I've been spinning, too: three acceptances last week for new poems.  And I'm already Christmas shopping like mad because December is insane when your husband is an organist/choir master.  I promise a good radio show tomorrow, and more blogging maybe over the weekend.

Hope all is well with you, and do hold a prayer in your hearts for our friends in India.

Chow down!

A New World

Late on Tuesday night, my husband and I were trying to find something to which we could compare Barack Obama's victory. We couldn't. As I was finally falling asleep, MSNBC still on the TV in the bedroom, I finally figured it out: it was the anti-9/11.

On 9/11, I felt like I'd fallen off the map. I'll spare you the story of where I was when the Towers fell, other than to say it was when I was still teaching high school. I made it through to the end of the school day by staying away from television images of the attacks, and glued myself to the media when I got home. The days--weeks, really--that followed were like trying to walk after you've been out in a boat during some rough weather; the floor felt bumpy. Nothing was firm underfoot.

Tuesday night was the same, except that every ounce of dread and grief I once felt had been replaced by joy and hope. Ken and I found a couple of old firecrackers in the basement and blew them up down by the creek. And then we just ran around the yard and hollered. We're off the map again, but this time, it's not scary. America feels like part of the world once more.

What a night! We tasted a cocktail published by The New York Times called The Obama-rama, a Cosmo-ish concoction with white grape juice replacing the cranberry juice, and a dash of blue curacao turning it the appropriate Democratic color. It was Not Good. A far better choice would have been Rachel Maddow's election night suggestion: a Joe Rickey, which is a good shot of bourbon over some ice in a highball glass, seltzer, and the juice of half a lime. Rachel is my bartending role model.

But cocktails were beside the point. They still seem beside the point.

We took our goddaughter Alyssum to see The Decemberists in NYC the next night. She's RandoRadio's Blue's big sis, by the way. Alyssum is a big Decemberist fan. It was also her first concert in a major club, and she had a blast. So did we, by the way. I love The Decemberists--and I had a lot of fun listening to their opening act, Loch Lomand, another Portland indie band, kinda freak-folkish in sound. But anyway, getting back to Obama, there he was at the show--as a cardboard cutout, that is. The Decemberists played that big rally in Portland for him last summer, remember? And not too surprisingly, the Obama cardboard cutout went crowd surfing. Folks handled it most respectfully--lovingly, even. And they called for the encore by chanting "Yes we can!"

Gee. 

I mean, really, gee.

I can still cry pretty easily, thinking of all this.

Cocktails with Chris this week will be on more or less at 4 Friday; it's already in the can, having been recorded yesterday in a sneak peek live show. We're going to make a new Roots 'n' Ruckus in a few minutes, and I can't be in two places at once.

So you've got some cool post-election listening lined up.

And I've got to go wrangle Ed and Greg.

Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we did.

By the way: after the show, Alyssum told us she touched the Obama cutout in his surfing. She was really happy.

A Perfect Dinner!

Hi, Rando fans--

(as my dear god daughter Blue says on her mic breaks during the shows she's recorded so far).

Just blowing a little dust off the blog and bragging about a perfect dinner we ate tonight. It was loosely Southern European, but basically 'Murican Liberal cuisine. But it was easy to make and since we like to share the doings of the kitchen staff from High Atop The Potter Building, I thought I'd offer a bit of detail.

I made Osama's Lamb (explanation follows), a Greek salad from Ken's description of such things in Greece, and a little pot of pasta pesto using some leftover pesto I'd frozen in August before we went away. We drank some Pinot Noir from Patagonia which was pretty OK, too.

First: Osama's Lamb

Yeah. That Osama. Here's the backstory. The Potter Building is not far from New York City, and we were pretty seriously freaked by 9/11--not that everyone else wasn't too, but I still maintain that NYC metro folks have a slightly different relationship to it than do other Americans. Ken and I fought back by cooking food and making cocktails, not too surprisingly. And one night, I made a marinade (almost more of a spice rub) for broiled or grilled lamb chops that we've always referred to since as Osama's Lamb. Why? Because Osama couldn't have any. Because we hoped the man behind killing a sweet girl who'd sung in a youth choir my husband had directed was in a cold, damp cave, eating dirt. Because good lefties that we are--I mean, Jeez, there are limits, and we were tired of trying to understand. The rule was that you couldn't leave any lamb on the platter because somehow, Osama would get it. I know. That's psycho, a bit. But it was strange times. Behold a recipe conceived in grief that I make all the time now that the sorrow has lifted.

Osama's Lamb

Lamb chops--whatever kind you like (we go for the teeny ones). This is designed for six or eight of those.

A ziplock bag

A huge shake or two of cumin

A smaller shake of coriander

Juice of one lemon

A good splash of balsamic vinegar

Enough olive oil to do a sort-of salad dressing looking thing

A couple of tablespoons of kosher salt

Many grinds of black pepper

Three or four cloves of garlic, pressed

Put everything except the lamb in the ziplock bag, close it, and squish it around with your hands. Add the lamb. Marinate for as much time as you have. An hour is good. Two or three is better. No longer than that. Broil or grill to medium rare.

The Greek Salad that Ken describes is easy, too: just chunk up some decent tomatoes. We've still got them locally in NY, but we're counting the days. Chunk up likewise some green peppers, and some kirby cukes. Crumble over the top the best feta you can find. Toss with good olive oil and vinegar (I'm a balsamic girl, although I think it not trad), and a few grinds of pepper. You may need a pinch of salt, depending on how much cheese you use and how salty it is. Sprinkle with some chopped thyme and oregano (or a little dried that you've rubbed between your hands). Throw in a few black olives if you have them, but this works without. Toss. Ken claims salad in Greece does not contain lettuce. Eat mass quantities.

As for the pesto? Heck--you know how to make that.

Cheers!

Bill Clinton! KD Lang!!

Call me Cinderella.

My sister rang me up on the phone this morn, and said she had a couple of tickets to an Obama benefit at the gorgeous loft home of Steven and Judy Gluckstern 'way downtown in NYC .  Joe Biden was supposed to speak but he couldn't 'cause his wife's mom had just died.

...but rumor had it Bill Clinton was going to fill in.  

Wow, said I.  And that's when my sis gave me the tickets 'cause she couldn't get to the party herself.

Have I mentioned KD Lang yet?  Guess so.  She was scheduled to sing, and sing she did.  And Alice Waters of Chez Panisse did the cocktail snacks.  How about a giant silver tureen of mac and cheese, topped with about a half a foot of lobster meat?  People walked about smiling and eating it out of outsized martini glasses.  Talk about a swanky neighborhood near you!  Never ever could I match the company, the food, or the lovely, just-oaky-enough chardonnay.  

So Ken and I went to the party, as I think you've gathered by now.  And so did Bill Clinton.

I hardly know where to start.  

Maybe I should tell you first about KD Lang.  She sang only three songs, but HOLY COW.  I was just bedazzled.  Her keyboard player sat at the gorgous Victorian grand piano in the loft and she wandered barefoot through the delighted crowd.  As she launched into a stellar cover of  "Hallelujah", she was just a few feet from me.  I was melted into a little square of blonde hair on the floor, but my husband snapped a couple of cell phone shots.  

And BILL!!

OK, they say that it's like being in the room with Elvis, and that's basically right.  And yeah, I'm still pissed at him for not putting the full force of his talent behind Obama sooner, but as I stood listening to him clarify the economic crisis in terms that my cat could understand but that were at the same time well-chosen and really profound, suddenly, I didn't feel like the world was out of control anymore.  I felt like I could have a role in getting things back on track--and that we'd all survive, and that I live in a great country.  I haven't felt like that in a long time...

...as KD sang just a few minutes later, "Hallelujah".

Speaking of cats, as Clinton stood at the base of a very modern and imposing staircase, the lovely Himalayan kitty who was lucky enough to live in that loft came downstairs and sat a few stairs above him, checking out his speech.  Clinton proceeded to make the best case for Obama I have ever heard: that we hire presidents to LEAD and that Obama's got the stuff 'cause of his smarts and judgement.  Sounds basic, but there you have it. And he's right.  The kitty listened as carefully as the assembled crowd.  But when KD Lang took over the mike, Kitty joined her in song.  It was a moment.

I guess there are folks to whom this wouldn't be a big deal.  But we'll be making some phone calls to battleground states from high atop the Potter building...

...and we'll celebrate having convinced some more folks to vote the right way this coming Friday at 4 Eastern.  I promise to play some KD Lang.  

Yes we CAN!