Joy Co.

Joico; the first fancy, salon only shampoo I ever bought. This particular shampoo seemed to me to smell infinitely better than any other shampoo I had encountered in my short 14 years. I often left for school, hair wet and pulled back in a loose cross between ponytail and bun. Midday, I’d untie my tresses and release a fresh burst of the pretty scent I’d trapped in the twists.

Around that same time I discovered Alfred Sung. I’m not sure if I actually preferred this scent above all others or more likely, thought the name sounded impressive. Either way, I wore Mr. Sung for a good couple years.

Where the girls of Centennial High School may have had differing olfactory sensibilities, the boys seemed to be in complete agreement, Drakkar. Or to be more precise, Drakkar Noir. Kind of rolls off your tongue I must admit. I happened to like Drakkar (even talking my father into the idea that it was cool, sorry Dad.) up until the point someone broke a bottle in the hallway. At once, all the tolerance I had built up in the year or two before socializing with those clearly oblivious to the concept of ‘less is more’ quickly evaporated, unlike the Drakkar which hung thick in the air for weeks.

The smell of lilac always reminds me of biking as a child; turkey in the oven - my mom.
Fresh cut hay - my grandparent’s farm; the smells of a garage - my dad (as he often worked on cars); green grass, Spring.

I’ve tended to save these scents, concerned I guess that if I keep them too close my memories would fade, replaced by some new, lesser association. Alfred Sung has always transported me to winter, walking across a frozen lake, holding an arm for what you thought, was balance.

So as I wander past the fragrance counter or contemplate this or that scent in the candle shop I will always be directed slightly away from the scents I love the most, pumpkin spice perhaps? That may work, we always had raspberry pie.

*

You Spin Me

"Liking both Marvin Gaye and Art Garfunkel is like supporting both the Israelis and the Palestinians” John Cusack, High Fidelity

I own a record player. It was a Christmas gift a few years back that I received gleefully and by special request. I’m a bit nostalgic I must confess. Many hours I spent as a child lying on my stomach gazing into the face of Mick Jagger as Paint it Black spun on the turntable. Speakers almost as big as I was would send reverberation throughout the house, its contents, and myself whenever Dad had anything to say about volume levels.

I spent equal amounts of time admiring the ethereal quality of ABBA on the cover of Voulez-Vous and many an afternoon Neil Diamond’s life-sized eyes would stare back at me as he sang in his deep steady voice of Sweet Caroline.

Cassettes were widely available but I’d still spend summer afternoons with friends sunning on the back deck as vinyl versions of The Beatles, Peter Frampton or John Denver’s Sunshine on My Shoulder created our own personal soundtrack.

So when I passed a record store the other day on happenstance I could not resist taking a look. Walking in I was immediately confronted by the urban cool fringe. What might the gentleman behind the counter (who looked much more like Jack Black than John Cusack) think of my varied musical tastes? I carefully searched through the selections…The Eagles? Classic right? Or are they considered mainstream and overrated? And what of poor Peter Frampton? While other patrons discussed bands I’d never heard of and the rarity of certain album covers, I spotted Eric Clapton. I eventually decided on all three and warily made my way to the counter.

Flipping my selections over for inspection I braced myself for a disgusted sigh.

Surprisingly nothing, no reaction to either The Eagles or Frampton, then..

“Eric Clapton? I love this album”

“Yeah, me too” I said smiling.

Grabbing a business card from the counter I made my way towards the door. The card read “Records, CD’s & Other Cool Shit!”

"OK", I laughed, “I’ll give you that.”

*

Kitschy Cuisine

I don’t remember the first time I went to Mars restaurant, but my experience at this time warp of an eatery is always the same. Many months will go by between visits and I inevitably forget that they don’t accept reservations.

“Hi, I’d like to make a reservation” I say cheerfully into the phone
“We don’t take reservations” is the response by the clearly annoyed voice on the other end of the line.

Crap, now she knows I’m not a regular, regular.

“Ok, well, is there much of a wait on Saturday around 6?” I ask

It being Friday, I believe I may have thrown her off the scent enough for tonight and have a hope in hell of sneaking in without a connection being made. Maybe I should disguise my voice just to be sure.

Mars is the kind of place that you walk in and immediately consider walking back out. The experience may be best described as the feeling some have towards blue cheese, you know that it’s edible, but just can’t stomach taking a bite. Mars has been around since the 1920’s but sports a healthy 1970’s motif. The smell of smoke greets you like a punch in the face and the excessively loud, often tasteless conversations of the herds of rowdy locals lead you to believe that there might be an actual punch in the face before the night is over. Spinning, honeycomb like devices dangle from the ceiling, whirring precariously off kilter in a futile attempt to clear some of the blue haze. At least one person is smoking a cigar. Wood paneling, artificial flower arrangements and Great Wall of China sized photo enlargements of the area glow in their plastic, backlit cases.

“How many?” the greeter (and I use the term loosely), asks
“Two” I respond with a hopeful glint in my eye
“We’ll call you” and with that, I’ve been dismissed.

I know better than to provoke a sigh/eye roll from this woman by asking ‘how long?’ and quickly scan the perimeter for a place to hold up. Ok, spot between the two drunks arguing over the Bears and Packers or.....or….come on…. spot at the piano.

Piano it is, but this is no victory. A yellow haired woman of about 70 sits behind the piano belting out all your favorites in a raspy voice, Georgia on Your Mind? Wait, did I say Georgia? I mean, Wisconsin. Cute. Leaving on a Jet Plane; for Wisconsin? Right, double cute. And so it goes, glass after glass of merlot, song after song cleverly altered to include Wisconsin. Well at least no matter how drunk I get, I won’t forget where I am.

An hour into the ordeal I’m finally seated awaiting my food. Why did I come here, again? Before I can formulate a response, the answer is placed on a seemingly clean (as best I can judge by tea light) plate before me, ribs. Or to be accurate, the best ribs I’ve ever had. Slightly sweet yet tangy meaty goodness graces my lips. Ahhh, Mars, I’ve missed you.

A neighboring table of 20 begin a round of ‘Happy Birthday’ and I’m asked to join along, what the heck, we’re all family here right?

Satiated and a bit tipsy, I zigzag around other tables of happy customers on my way towards the door, all the while rifling through my purse for an addition to the piano players tip jar.

*

No More Autographs, Pull-ease!

So, Ringo Starr is officially out of the autographing game come October 20th, 2008. Ok, I can live with that. I mean the guy is what, 68? Leave him alone already.

And then I watch the video.

“I’m warning you with Peace & Love….” Ummm, what? Warning me? With Peace & Love? That’s odd. Toss in a “This is a serious message” and 5-6 more "Peace & Love’s" and the whole bit of strange is over. Apparently you can say whatever you like now if you tack on a bit of popular social commentary or call for change. Awesome. I’ve been waiting a long time for a get out of jail free card like this.

So now I must be off, I hope you will excuse me as I stoke the tire fire in my backyard, Free Tibet!

http://www.ringostarr.com/home.php

Facebook Restored my Faith in the Economy

Just when I was beginning to question the state of the economy, a trip to my local bookstore proved I have nothing to worry about. Facebook, is there anything they can’t do?

Clearly they know something I don’t. $14.99 for a paper, (albeit glossy) magazine about a virtual community a six year old could figure out, fantastic. If this magazine is around 6 months from now I’ll take it as a sign that I can stop checking the stock market every 15 minutes.

A note to any of you Facebook subscribers out there: I’ve compiled a list of MySpace tips on restaurant napkins that I can let go for 12 bucks.

For the Love of Tangents

Have you ever been in the middle of a conversation about how asparagus makes your pee smell funny and wondered how you ever ended up discussing this on a Monday morning? (happened to me today actually and thinking back, it began with the color ‘pea green’).

If not for my love of tangents, I might have completed many more large projects instead of beginning and (ok, I’ll admit it, abandoning) infinitely more smaller ones.

I might have purchased a purse at the store as I intended instead of noticing a piece of fabric, deciding to make my own purse, hitting a snag and coming to the conclusion a better plan might be to chronicle the endeavor on a website that I would create (that by the way, took WAY longer than actually making the purse).

I might have taken the most direct route home from work instead of noticing an interesting road, wildly cranking the wheel at the last second, finding myself face to face with a church pew pillar I couldn’t pass up making my own, and ending up discussing the history of the piece with the seller for half an hour. (very interesting fellow by the way).

I might have went to the grocery, bought what I intended to buy instead of noticing a Prickly Pear, taking it home (couldn’t resist that you know) and eating a pretty bad piece of fruit. Ok, that one may have been a mistake.

I guess my point is (wait for it, wait for it…) that while I could be the owner of a functioning purse today, could have made it home a few minutes sooner from work or eaten something that didn’t stain my counters blood red, I also would have missed out on much of the ‘interesting’ in my life.

Tomorrow I plan on going for a run, wonder what I should name my new dog?

*

Dante's Inferno

It’s warming up to a perfect 72 degrees. I open my windows to coax one of the last truly beautiful autumn days into my home and hear something indistinguishable over a loud speaker, check? Test? Something is going on.

An auction, my neighbors’ house. Through the trees I can make out items being arranged. I’ve never met them. Are they moving? Did they die?

Glassware, linens, artwork and furniture lay sprawled over wagons and grass.

“Did you know her?” a stranger asks
“No I didn’t” I reply somewhat embarrassed
“I guess she lived alone” the stranger offers

So she died. I can’t help but wonder if I missed something. I begin to search for things I hope not to find, evidence that we might have been friends.

The first few tables are safe. Porcelain horses and mass produced dinnerware. Rounding a corner, a loud flowered chair assaults my senses. Must have been a collector. Massive amounts of stamps and coins are neatly displayed under glass. I remember the last time I thought I might like to collect something, I was 12.

It’s clear that she was not a young woman. American flags with varying numbers of stars and old NRA posters line another table. Fabric and clothing circa 1930 fill box upon box on the ground.

And then I see it; Dante’s Inferno, 1880 folio alongside a vintage Tennyson. Gustave Dore’s beautifully illustrated pages draw me in. A look to my left reveals hundreds more. Classic literature, gardening manuals and cookbooks quickly expose at least three commonalities between this woman and myself.

I will bid on the folio.

I patiently wait as item after item is sold. I am drawn into conversations. These are my neighbors. A teacher, a bicycle enthusiast, a gossip, a city official. I hand out my business card and discuss how I can become more involved in my community. I need to redeem myself.

The flowered chair sells for $5 after a little coaxing.

I ease through the crowd as the auctioneer moves closer to my book. Children walk by with hotdogs and I realize I haven’t eaten. I cease making eye contact with anyone who might speak to me, bid against me. Bees attracted by sugary sodas hover over the crowd and I begin to feel the nervous excitement of a live auction. I have never done this before.

I curl and uncurl my bidders’ card anxiously. 71, 71, 71, I repeat to myself. I don’t need to remember, it’s written on the card. Why am I trying to remember? My heart skips a beat as they raise my book in the air and announce they have an absentee bid. I decide on $100 max., maybe $125.

“$25? 25 dollars where?” the auctioneer bellows
I raise my card, he’s seen it.

The call for $30 brings another bidder from behind me. I won’t look back, afraid I will recognize my opponent and feel the need to relinquish the prize to a new aquaintenance.

I quickly run through possibilities of who the other bidder might be as the auctioneer again looks to me,

“$35?”

I raise my card and nod.

Back to my adversary at $40:

Accepted.

Back to me:

“$45?”

I nod again and this time, a pause,

“50? 50? 50 dollars where?” the auctioneer yells in sing-song. He is searching now, clearly having lost the other bidder.

And with that, it’s mine. Could it have been that easy?

“$45 to…what’s your number” he asks

I turn my card over to look, why? I know this, 71.

I wade through the crowd clutching my book, searching for the look of disappointment on my adversary’s face, nothing. I pause on the outskirts of the crowd to revel in my victory. I’m admiring the well worn cover of the Inferno when I hear a voice,

“Congratulations on your purchase” a white haired man of about seventy, camera 'round his neck says in a British accent
“Do you enjoy art?”
“Yes, I do. Painting, Photography, Literature…” I respond
“Well, that’s all we really have isn’t it?” he says

I had noticed this man wandering through the crowd as I waited. Noted his camera, kicked myself for not having grabbed mine. I racked my brain for something else to say, I felt the need to make a connection.

“So, you’re local?” I blurted out

How could I have said that?

“Clearly not” he responded smiling

“Right, I mean, now” I said trying to recover

“Well, now yes, but I’d rather be in Paris this time of year.”

I commented that “Yes, it would be nice, although I’d never been”, as he continued his story of his travels with the airlines.

“I’ve been all over the world, well almost. There are a few places I would still like to see” he offered “But there is still time”

“Yes”, I agreed, “there was.”

Having said all he came to say, he nodded in agreement, smiled and walked away.