a public house

a public house
Originally uploaded by pwilnyc.

I have no quarrel with our mayor. Well... there's the... and there's HER... but yeah ok fundamentally I have no beef with the guy. He's our neighbor (supposedly) and he has been my husband's boss, and all that.

But driving downtown today I couldn't help noticing the mayor's sort of Irish pub-going reputation sprouting from the facade of City Hall.

Am I the only one to see a resemblance?

Mr. Three and the Big Man, muses

My sister-in-law Jane insists all the time that she does not take good pictures.

She came for a visit earlier this month, and just the other day mailed me a CD of the photos she took. These are from the altar at the American Visionary Art Museum

My sister-in-law Jane is full of crap. She takes phenomenal pictures.

my new favorite room

Rolling Hills by Behr
Originally uploaded by pwilnyc.

I can't stop looking at the living room.

I painted it this insane green. It was a long, filthy job and I am not a good painter. Every piece of furniture I moved, every painting I took off the wall, released gallons of dust and cat hair that immediately adhered to my sweaty, painty body. In addition, something about the pigments in this paint got into my body and gave me the WEIRDEST taste in my mouth all week.

Now that I am finished, observations:

• I am a bad painter, but the previous painters were much worse.
  
• The green contrasts with the stained wood trim so well you'd think I meant to do that.
  
• All our art totally pops against it.
• It makes our couch look like a car up on blocks.

That so sucks - not only do we not have the money to replace the couch, but also, I have no intention of spending that kind of brick on a piece of furniture that will only get destroyed. We had the couch slipcovered just 3 years ago - green frogs on black (looks better than it sounds).



The sharp new green walls pick up some of the green in the frogs but the black background now looks faded and dusty, and the cushions are all mushy and broken-down. Nuts.

On the up side, do have a look at what I just bought on eBay!



Will it look great in the green room? Will I have to tie the kids up if I want them to not swivel on it 24 hours a day? Am I an idiot to buy furniture that I actually LIKE while my kids are both under the age of 5?

Yes, yes, and YES!! But it was a hundred bucks and it will make me happy.

Beth's house, July 27 2006

When you have kids, the world becomes a Disneyland of peril.

This is hardly an original observation - I challenge anyone to come up with an original observation that is prefaced, "When you have kids..."

Improperly installed carseats, West Nile mosquitos, loose boards on the porch steps, poisonous plants, dogs - all these things can spin visions of woe and hospital visits.

But this:


Beth's house, July 27 2006
Originally uploaded by pwilnyc.

... this is what my cousin Beth, her husband, and their two-month-old baby boy narrowly missed the other night. They were on vacation at the beach, asleep, hours away from their home, when, at 3am this Wednesday, a fire broke out in their garden, spread to the deck, ignited a propane tank, and engulfed both floors of their house in flame. I'm told it's even worse inside.

When we stopped by to survey the damage this afternoon, I went weak in the knees. I'm shaking now. If I had seen the charred crib, I might have lost it entirely.

Check your smoke detectors and move the grill away from the house.

Cousin Beth and beautiful baby cousin on July 4th. They are safe and well, but tireder now.

Nobody writes an insult like this man

It occurs to me that I know a song about Loren's admirer from the Target parking lot. It's called Bicycle Kid and it's by this man, Pat Fish, the Jazz Butcher.

He's a bicycle kid, He's got his Mister T. slippers.
He's a bicycle kid, he's eleven years old.
Dog-faced spawn of a working class Tory,
Bicycle kid never does what he's told.
He's a bicycle kid and he wants to get a crossbow.
Bicycle kid had a rabbit that died:
Evil little fucker put his pet through the window,
The he ran to his mother and he cried, cried, cried.

Chorus:
So cry like an onion bicycle kid,
'Coz I'm gonna get you for the things that you did.

Bicyle kid - extortion in the playground.
What does he do with all the money he made?
Bicyle kid in Kentucky Fried Chicken
And the WHAM-BAM-RAMBO machine arcade.
He's a bicycle kid, and his mother's on Valium.
He's a bicycle kid, and his dad's on the lump.
He's a bicycle kid, and his tea's in the micro.
He's a bicycle kid and he's on the dump.

Chorus

Bicycle kid shitting in a greenhouse.
Bicycle kid down at the aquadrome.
Bicycle kid in trouble with a policeman.
Bicycle kid "he's a good boy at home".
Bicycle kid grow up and get an Escort.
Bicycle kid grow up and get worse.
Bicycle kid forget to use a condom.
Bicycle kid! It's evolution in reverse!

I mean: "Dog faced spawn of a working class Tory," dag, that's 4 insults in 8 words! Ok, 3. Bob points out that "working class" is hardly an insult.

I have a story. Pat Fish was the finger of poetic justice for me one time back in the late '80's (1990, I am corrected by a bigger fan). Here's how it happened.

I was already a Jazz Butcher devotee the first time I saw his band, The Jazz Butcher Conspiracy, live, at Max's On Broadway in Baltimore. I went to the show alone, nursed one beer so I wouldn't be drunk and stupid, approached the band afterwards... and, predictably, said something completely useless.

But as luck would have it I was wearing my Bettie Page-printed stretch pants and a ruffled tux shirt under my biker jacket (actually no luck involved, I always dressed like that back then) and wouldn't you know it, my outfit invited comment.

Turns out Pat lived nearby Alan Moore, the comic book writer and known headcase (current novel, an erotic tale featuring Dorothy Gale, Wendy Darling and Alice), and we ended up talking about comics and Augustin Pinochet. Was a nice conversation, 45 minutes or so.


Alan Moore, comic author and headcase

The next week the Conspiracy played the 9:30 Club in Washington. I wasn't going to go, but then the beloved bouncer at the 8x10 died and all my friends were embarking on a huge boozy (and probably cokey) wake - the kind of party I can happily skip.

So I drove to D.C., wearing the harlequin-printed stretch pants this time, and a jeans jacket with lace sleeves over my tux shirt. What a fashion icon I was.

As I made my way through the club, I heard my name called. I turned and there stood Jeff, the brother of an old ex-boyfriend, Mr. Back Hair. Back Hair had dumped me a couple years prior. I wouldn't have minded, but he did it in an unnecessarily mean and acrimonious way, threatening to throw me out of the car on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

I said hi to Jeff, expressed surprise at seeing him there. The Jazz Butcher was a bit obscure - I had turned Back Hair into a fan, but I wouldn't have expected his brother to be one too. As we spoke, Jeff kept cutting his eyes to his left, where a very puffy guy was standing. After a minute or so, I became aware that Puffy Man was in fact Back Hair, who had previously been a little overweight, but this guy, I was alarmed he might actually pop. "Oh!" I say, "[Back Hair]! My gosh how have you been?"

In the space of 3 minutes I learn that Back Hair is pulling down 100K a year, I learn that he is driving a Miata, brews his own beer, lives in a swanky condo, throws bitchin parties, etc. I confess that I am working a shitty office job writing software documentation and living with my parents. But I don't care, because Back Hair looks like he has been drinking down what's left in the deep fryer at the end of the night. Every night. I guess to chase down that homebrew. I shake his hand and his fingers actually squish.

The lights dim, and, inspired by his grotesque bragging, and still pissed about that episode on the PA Pike, I suggest, "Hey let's get right down in front!"

The band comes out and bursts into Roadrunner. Doug(?) the bass player sees me, gives me an enthusiastic wave. At the first break Pat steps over to our side of the stage, "Hey! [Librarian]! I didn't think you were going to come tonight! Good to see you!" Plays a song in my direction later in the set.

I didn't even bother to look at Howard. See ya, squishy.

Flip for Mr. Three!

PICT2602
Originally uploaded by pwilnyc.

Got a new little virtual flipbook for ya. Set the Delay to 1 and enjoy the mercurial Mr. Three.

little green dribbles

Started painting the living room. Rolling Hills by Behr.


behr rolling hills

It's kind of an extreme color, warranting an extended decision period. Two years ago I taped the paint chip on the wall so that we could consider and deliberate, and yesterday I cracked the can. What's the point? I should realize - I never change my mind. The passage of time serves only as rationalization.

It looks delectable. As I finished up yesterday the evening sun was streaming in the front door and onto the new green wall. Big Man climbed up on the back of the couch and watched himself living the music. I think it's Zola, from the Tsotsi soundtrack.



This is for Jaime: I got home late last night and had to park at the way end of the driveway, meaning I had to get out of the car basically IN the front garden. Mint and sage up to my knees. Then I realized I had to move the car. Waded thru the herbage again, got back into the car. Felt something scratchy on my thigh.

Because the dome light was on, I got a pretty good look at the grasshopper that I freed from high under my skirt. It racketed around inside the car, banking off the dash, my face, the windshield. I calmly opened the door and let him out, and enjoyed a moment picturing how Jaime would have reacted. Much flailing, perhaps a stroke.



This is for Loren. I've always had this craven need for people to like my children. I reason that if my boys are polite and personable, the teachers and counselors in their lives will go out of their way to help them get what they need. To that end, my two kids say please and thank you and introduce themselves and excuse themselves from the table to an almost neurotic extent (my neurosis, let's be clear).

The other day Loren met up with a child whose parents are obviously much more relaxed about this sort of thing. Coming out of Target, a TWELVE-YEAR-OLD boy pointed at her, yelling "FUPA! FUPA!" Were Loren not in her twenties and thus sometimes exposed to the Howard Sterns of this world, she'd have smiled and waved and yelled back, "FUPA to you too, young fella! Hi!" That's probably what I would have done. However, Loren, being down with the lingo and whatnot, was mortally humiliated and appalled, as 'FUPA' apparently means "Fat Upper Pussy Area."

Twelve years old this little fucker was. Loren checked and it turns out 'FUPA' is a unisex term. I don't want to go into it further. Just need to say that Loren? Not in possession of any body part (or fraction thereof) that can be called fat.

The Urban Dictionary is a worldwide slang wiki, and the examples are hilarious. However, I'm going to be my sniffy self and register my continued objection to 'urban' as a euphemism for 'black'. 'Urban fiction' my bony white ass.

weed growing through fungus

weed growing through a shelf fungus
Originally uploaded by pwilnyc.

My stellar husband has taken the children to Artscape (oh how I do not enjoy Artscape - love this year's 5-years-too-late Boogie Nights logo) and I am not due at work for another hour and a half.

An hour and a half in the house by myself! I cranked up the South African hip-hop, I read half of Wired (has Wired gotten kind of not-so-informative, or is it just that I read boingboing now?), and I've got the deep conditioner on my hair.

So now I guess there's nothing left to do but marvel at the situation. Oh! Or I could eat Cheez-Its!

Is that it? I have time to kill and all I can muster is a halfhearted snack food ambition? In fact, I keep thinking about the basket of clean laundry waiting to be folded, but I have been resisting. Such was not Bob's intention when he gifted me with this free time. Why oh WHY do I not have all 7 seasons of Buffy on DVD? One or two of those and I would really begin to feel like my old self again.

I got a glimmer of that feeling earlier this week. Our pool is so safe and supervised that I felt ok reading my book there. I didn't read quickly, as I was kid-checking at least once per page. And I felt kind of self-conscious. The other moms weren't reading, they were all being social. I felt like I really ought to strike up a conversation, make new friends, etc. I talk at the pool, I talk to the moms I recognize from the library, but I don't go out of my way, and on the whole, I'd rather be reading my book.


Antisocial Librarian at the pool. Photo by Auntie Jane.
Originally uploaded by pwilnyc.


I was telling Bob about it later and it occurred to me, "I'd rather be reading my book"? Since when do I feel bad about that? That's the subtitle of my whole life. Until I had kids, it's what you would know me for. That and beer, often together. Let's get back to all that, shall we?

So let me tell you:
The Best American Nonrequired Reading
- Edited by Dave Eggers, selected by the high school students of the 826 Valencia project
Julie and Julia - Underemployed girl decides to cook the entirety of Mastering the Art of French Cooking
Sightseeing - Short stories by Rattawut Lapcharoensap. He's Thai, the stories were phenomenal.
The Watsons go to Birmingham - 1963 - Baltimore's Book for summer of 2006. For kids, but funny and well written.
Nature Noir - Non-fiction, a park ranger working in a park that's a political football
I hate myself and want to die - The 53 most depressing songs you'll ever hear, taken apart and examined like a clock radio that will never work again

and what I want to read:
Cross Country - by the guy who wrote Rats and that book about the Meadowlands
The Devil's Picnic - forbidden foods
Under African Skies - contemporary short stories by African authors
Beasts of no nation - Fiction. Child soldiers in Uganda.

You know when I'll know I really have my life back? When I can do the Sunday NY Times crossword puzzle in a bar on a Sunday afternoon with my husband. Who's up for babysitting?

"My name is Landis, and I write a lot of songs about booty"

I just found a place you can hear our friends the All Mighty Senators for your own self. Seriously, take a minute. Ignore the mosquito sound you hear at first.

And when I said I would be proud of Big Man growing up to be a seven-foot black man wearing a Stetson, I was talking about this seven-foot black man:


Bob kept telling me, "You know, you keep saying Landis is so tall, but really he's pretty much normal size." Then at the show Tuesday, he admitted, "Ok maybe it's the hat, but yeah you're right, that's one tall guy." Everybody looks bigger standing behind a drum set.

They're on iTunes, and here, or on Amazon.

Now, they say they've been around since 1986, and that's a long time, right, but I remember a letter (remember letters? his was on yellow legal paper and he had GREAT handwriting) that my high school friend Billy wrote me in college saying, "My god come back home right now, I just heard this band and they are like nothing I've ever heard." Had to have been 1983, my first year, because Billy wasn't writing me by my second.

So I have been going to see this band since the mid 80's, but with a big gap - I moved to NYC in 1995, then had kids, so all told I missed live music for about 11 years (except for getting yelled at by that dick John Lurie at the Knitting Factory, but then who hasn't).

And after not having seen these guys for a decade, I got greeted after the show like no time had passed. I was really touched. Although judging from the crowd at the 8x10, I may be one of the few familiar old faces. Lotsa young kids, it made me smile.

The youngest fans would be my boys, who sing the words and have Senators dance parties in the living room. If we're bored waiting in line we do call and response: "Do you got the soul?" I ask, and they say, "You know that's right!"

Actually they like me to ask, "Do you got the mustard?" Mystifying. The little one doesn't even LIKE mustard.

So, will I be at the 8x10 next Tuesday night for the Booty Ball? Dyno-mite!

Keeping cool

Here are a couple little videos. Just the kids and me hanging out at the pool eating snowballs.



See it larger.



See it larger.

All my friends with older kids say there's only a short window of time between the day they learn how to talk and the day they stop talking to us at all.