The Barbershop and Leeann Tweeden

My Dad's been fighting a haircut for months. His balding hair is getting long and straggley in the back and still he resists a trip to the barber. "You cut it," he requests. Which I've done in the past I'm ashamed to admit. Not that it's horrendous, but I just ain't no hairstylist.

This weekend was the end of the road for his graying elf-locks. On the way to a birthday party I pulled up in front of a turquoise blue shop. "Chello!" I commanded in my bossiest voice. (Note: not that I have one, I must have conjured it from the ether...)We walked into the shop which was populated by three men casually lounging in barber chairs. It's a little dingy, sagging floors, pictures of thong-clad girls pasted on the walls. Red Bull and Gatorade's litter the counter. It looks just like a scene from the Movies - Barbershop 1 - 5.

"We'd like a cut and clean up for my father" I tell the guy clearing a chair for us. Sure he replies, indicating that Dad be seated. But Dad isn't paying attention. He's rifling through the magazines for something to read. His eyes light up and he clutches one as he's seated. It's a Playboy. A freaking Playboy. With Leeann Tweeden on the cover. Who the hell is Leeann Tweeden and why is my Dad checking out her tatas?

Julio expertly trims and buzzes Dad's coif with masculine ritual. Say what you will about women and their nails, men are just as habitual. And Dad's greatly enjoying this ritual. He graciously thanks Julio for an excellent job. I handsomely tip Julio who smiles like a gentleman but still checks out my booty.

Dad is all smiles as he checks out his 'do. "We'll come again," he says. I'd like to think the lure is the pampering, not Leeann...

No Fooling - This Could be Big

The 3rd highest topic trending on Twitter is 11.11.11. Being a fan of metaphysics and all that goes with it, I'm deeply interested in the symbolism of this date and strategies to leverage the monumental energy. Veils thinning between the worlds: life and death, yin and yang, what we want and what we need. Chironic healing of lifetime long wounds and karmic flaws. Scorpio & Vesta - symbolic of the sacred union of human & divine invoking transcendent sexuality.

But the experts can explain much better than I can. Here's Elizabeth Jones of Astrology of Light.

My friend and bad ass astrologer Rex Estell had this to say:

Neptune, the planet of compassion and romance, goes Direct today, after months of being in reverse (phew!), so life gets easier with this placement. The Moon enters earthy Taurus, meets up with lucky Jupiter, and harmonizes with the repairman Pluto, in the sign of success, Capricorn, which means we shift out of the past, and our latest dreams can begin to manifest now that we've eliminated all that doesn't work

Dream big. Demand and believe you are worthy of the most abundant life imaginable. The juiciest, most blissful love and the most worthy and enduring partner. Refuse to be anything but the most authentic you, and get richly rewarded professionally and intimately for being just that. Don't let fear or ego keep you from what or whom you want. Matter of fact, go for what you crave most.

Let's rock.

Editorial Note
I received some requests for contacting Rex directly. Rather not publish his phone but you can email contact him via his Facebook page. If you're FB challenged (who ARE you?) then reach Rex on his website. Sign up for his daily video forecasts. Matter of fact, call him for a reading. It's like 5 years of therapy rolled into 1 hour. And Rex's code of astrologic ethics as almost as binding as a doctors. He listens to everyone but divulges nothing.

Nothing in the Middle But Me

The setting is St. John's Lutheran Church on Christopher Street in the West Village. I'm a little late and Cary Cooper has already begun her set. She's wearing short sweater dress over tights and boots. Cowboy boots I'm guessing as she is a Texan. It's been a while since I saw Cary perform, the first time seeing her gig solo. The voice I've always enjoyed. Part little girl, part rebel, part philosopher. All dissolve into pure woman when her Texan twang meets heart softening lyrics. Like my favorite new song: Nothing in the Middle.

I don't wanna give up my story
I don't wanna give up my pride
I don't wanna give you the glory
If I could I would let you inside.

Peel back the layers
What do ya see?
Nothing in the middle but me
Nothing in the middle but me.

If I had to give up my story
If I had to give it to you
Would you hold on to it for me
Would you know what to do with the truth?

If you had to unravel my story
Would you be ok when you see
Do you think you would be sorry
When there's nothing in the middle but me.

Peel back the layers
What do ya see?
Nothing in the middle but me
Nothing in the middle but me.

Now imagine this backed up by a Ukele. That's right you heard me. Oddly fitting for the frolicksome songs this elfgirl wrote for her third album: Pink Umbrella. Performing live she's backed by Ritt Henn whose plucks on the double bass provide a gentle cushion for the lilting melodies. Then there's the drummer playing the underside of a tambourine with drum brushes. I've heard his named whispered before. Jagoda's playing on the album or he's producing the new song. Jagoda turns out to be a surnameless musican with an eerie affinity for rhythm, drumbeat in particular. That and a wickedly dry sense of humor.

That they are exceptional musicans is obvious. The ease with which they perform blows me away. Cary owns the solo limelight with the casual confidence of a longtime pro. The stories she scatters between songs mark her a true folk singer. Like Left You for Jesus with the hilarious line: "Till another fella broke your your spell." What poor sot has a chance against Jesus? Even if the son of God isn't that romantic and doesn't party much?

The timing of this solo tour is perfectly timed. Cary and husband Tom Prasada-Rao both appear on CW's Troubadour, TX. A reality show about Texan singers. Finally the big bad world gets to hear my favorite male vocalist! Topped off with the beauty and winesome charm of Cary, methinks there's super stardom brewing for that family.

If you don't catch Cary live you can check out her albums, listen to snips of her latest stuff and watch the latest episode of Troubadour, TX. If she does drop into your neck of the woods, give her a listen.

Cary Cooper

The Libra Way

The month of October has been a balancing act. Career, relationships, energy, pace. Some aspects illuminating, some exciting, some disappointing. This quote about patience adroitly sums it up: Patience is what you do when you wait for something to happen.

October was always the month devoted to my mother. Mostly because Mom was such a high maintenance woman. I've been called that at points in my life (really? because I won't drink a Zinfandel with seafood?) But my mother was the maintenance queen. She was a Libra and most of October was spent figuring ways to celebrate her birthday.

This year she would have turned 70. A fact I tended to in the most secret spaces of my heart, chosing to be with my father for the event. Strange thing happened. He didn't remember. Just like a man! At least he didn't appear to. We had dinners with family. Visited a suddenly sick aunt in the hospital. Ate the delish chicken curry and coconut rice my cousin Arun made. The bomb baby, the bomb. Look for a cookoff very soon...

Dad appeared content to play with the dogs, play passenger for long drives with me, shop on rainy days. Then my aunt called from India. This is my mother's big sister, the one I call Peddama - Big Mother. She is more like my mother than anyone else alive (with the exception of her little sister whom I call Chinnie, little mother) and gets all due to her for that title. She tells us 'I'm giving away saris to the poor villagers in your mother's name.' My father is touched and says - that's right, it's Mom's birthday. That's all.

Odd thing happened to my father after Mom's death. He doesn't remember much. He doesn't remember what happened last week, or what will occur next week. He just knows what's happening right now. I'm thinking this is a blessing. It would be criminal for the man to remember 50 years of marriage with searing clarity. Time has been kinder to him. Thankfully he lives in nothing but the moment. And each moment is just swell. Time with his grandkids. Luncheons with his siblings. Excursions with his son and daughter-in-law. Phone calls - albeit short with me. Not that I don't like to talk on the phone. Lord knows that's not the case. But Dad has never been what you would call chatty. Sometimes he'll get tired of a conversation and just hang up. Kid you not. And I find it kinda charming. A father who never has much to say giving life to a daughter who never has trouble with self expression.

A friend of mine hosted a Jewish funeral this summer. Interesting enough that a gentile sit shiva. Even more intriguing was what the Rabbi told him:

If you have one foot in the past and one foot in the future, you piss on the present.

My father lives entirely in the moment. And with touching courage. Something I fervently hope I am not forced to learn from either death or despair.

The Second Bloom

Every spring my mother and I would plan each other's gardens. A Joseph's Coat rosebush - petals altering from pink to orange to yellow - in her front yard. An indigo Butterfly Bush for the hedge next to my driveway. Tulips and Lillies for the borders and the glorious annuals to spill over terracotta pots.

Her absence this year made me lazy. Or perhaps I didn't have any nourishment left for my garden. I didn't buy any new flowering shrubs, didn't split the Tiger Lilly bulbs, didn't prune the Lilacs. I only potted half a dozen Cannas from bulb, hoping they would flame into bloom in the small corners of my garden. Somehow they did, despite my shoddy fertilizing and negligent watering. Were she here they would have feasted on egg shells and decaying banana peels. They and the other critters she tolerated in her yard.

Her death reminds me that healing comes in waves. 7 months later I still have a lot of grief in me. But nature is kinder if you pay attention to her symbolic story. Magic trumps sorrow. Take my century old Cherry Tree, the one Duke lounges atop its crusty branches like a Cheetah at high noon. The rains have stripped away all her leaves. But this week as we enjoy an early Indian summer the tree burst into bloom.

This story I understand.

The Eclipse Giveth and Mercury Taketh Away

August was the most disruptive month. After a juicy June and a chock-ful-a-fun July, August cowered into silent oblivion like an old photograph faded from too much handling. The June eclipses, 3 in one month to be precise, heralded sweet unexpected beginnings. To find someone who not only matches you but reflects back the things you love most about yourself is truly the most precious of gifts. July transported the momentum on a wave of salty fun - the ocean is not enough!

Then August hit and dammit if the month didn't move slower than the Garden State Parkway on a Friday night. A fact I'm blaming entirely on the August 2nd Mercury Retrograde. This one in Virgo the planet of service and hard work. The power of this bad boy turned working hard into hardly working.

Some indications of Mercury Retrograde: snarl-ups in technology - both my cell phones died mysteriously. Computer crashes (both of my laptops suffered the blue screen of death kiss). Loss of Data: Lost a key document moments before having to present it to senior execs. Physical snafus: a game changing case of tennis elbow bringing my bi-weekly tennis fests to a halt. Let me tell you for a girl with 4 planets in Sagittarius (one being Mars!) the loss of a physical outlet is devastating. So much aggressive energy and no way to channel it. More retrograde shenanigans; Dropped phone calls. Lost texts. Bumpy relationships: baffling and sad endings.

Things didn't improve when Mercury stationed direct on August 26. The face of my fancy Swiss timepiece shattered precisely at 6:00 pm when Mercury went direct. Time slowed down even further? Even worse, time stood still. Then Irene shimmied up the East Coast, dumped 18 inches of water in my basement, took out my hot water heater, washing machine and 500 square feet of hardwood flooring. Oh, and my karaoke machine. Really?

While the water dries at the slow coaxing of 8 fans and a dehumidifier, the storm leaves vestiges of drama. My dog ventures outdoors gingerly. The near fatal encounter with a plunging tree branch has taught him a fear he's never known. Gangs of indoor mosquitoes roam my basement seeking bare limbs to lustily suck. Mold slithers beneath my floorboards and creeps up the perfect cinnamon walls. I can feel it. My throat is coated and sore from too many late nights wading through still basement waters bestowing upon me the vocal undulations of a phone sex operator. Imagine Brenda Vacarro talking to Marge Simpson. I make crank calls just for the fun of it.

But the retrograde always accomplishes its work. What old patterns can I release? What old wounds am I ready to heal? We go deep, fearlessly deep for a 4 Sag girl is always a warrior. Illumination isn't always pretty or easy. Loss and regret abound.

I'll say this - next retrograde I'm hiding in a cave in the mountains. Oh and buying a generator.

The First Chutney

The thing I miss most about my mother is her chutney. Drop to your knees tangy, mouthwatering, with texture that delights the tongue. Truly the condimente of the gods.

I watched her make it many times. Roasting whole cloves of garlic, hunking chunks of onion, tomato on a pan that had already fried mustard & coriander seeds and chana dahl. Then it got tricky. Chilies red & green, hot and mild for depth and heat. A little tamarind, stalks of coriander and methi seeds - or was it dhania? Then shavings of doskai - ridge gourd that she packed in ziplocks in the freezer. At the very end coriander and fresh mint leaves before grinded in a blender into margarita-like consistency. For the faint of stomach she would sometimes add fresh coconut flesh to temper the sting.

I roast low and slow. I toss in seeds and pinch leaves - weighing them in my culinary mind against what she would do. Finally I grind and serve to Dad. He dips his idli into the chutney and eats quietly. My father is a reserved man so I'm not expecting squeals of delight. He finishes and sighs. "Good breakfast."

It's a start.

Weekend in New England with a Hurricane for company

My friend Phyliss has a little place in the northernest most corner of Cape Cod. Would you like to join me for Labor Day? she asks. She might be a great friend to invite me on this jaunt but she also has an ulterior motive. This chick loves the turmoil and drama that only mother nature can churn. She's weathered hurricanes in St. Martin with glee, glee I tell you! She celebrates snowstorms and thinks nothing of torrential downpours. Puddles she scoffs. I've only got two words: Freaking Scorpio.

We drive to Provincetown Thursday night, one day in advance of the most significant storm of the season yet - Earl. Phyliss can't wait to meet Earl. She hoots when hearing the bridges to the Cape are being closed in the morning. Aren't you excited she asks? To which I can only manufacture a weak Yaaay.

Friday morning in Ptown and no sign of Earl. It's breezy and dry as you could wish of any New England morning. 6:30 and Duke needs his walk as we have no yard. I pull a hoodie over my purple negligee and stumble outdoors. I'm cranky at being roused so early on my first day of vacation but that doesn't last long. The sun bathes me out of my grumpy mood, the air fills my lungs with salt and fish and pine. Gardens surround me everywhere. A tiny hiccup of lawn is bordered by thorny red roses, delphiniums, oak leafed hydreanga. Creeping Jenny scoots outside the perimeter of the short white fence. Portulaca trails on the lawn next to Icicle Pinks. P'town is littered with gardens, not too terribly tidy but darling manifestations of their owners. Some purely English garden, some manicured boxy hedges, some gone wild from either disinterest or disrepair. An apple tree is espaliered against a brick wall. It can't be taller than 3 feet but is producing apples the size of grapefruits. Apricots grow on a tree by an abandoned lot. I imagine the critters feast at night.

Duke drinks and smells it all in. Then he pees on it. These shrubs will not soon forget that little boy from New Jersey. He chats up some dogs, ignores others. Kisses almost anyone who flatters him. He nearly jumps out of his skin upon seeing a planter in the shape of a little lamb. He's never seen lamb, other than in his food dish...We see the same little old lady and her dog every morning on our walk. The woman is 80ish, wears a Sunday morning church hat and black shoes. The dog looks like a Tasmanian Devil and makes gurgling hissing sounds reminiscent of Taz boy. His orange eyes make both Duke and me recoil, really odd for me as I'll pass the time of day with any dog. Not this one. Phyliss notices Duke's utter disdain for fire hydrants. What's up with that? she asks him.

I take him to the bayside shore for a dip. He doesn't even flinch when I toss the ball into the 60 something degree water. He paddles 100 feet offshore and retrieves the shiny racketball. A blue speck against his paddling feet. His tail a rudder, swishing in circles. The salt and minerals in the water are good for his coat which is dry from the summer heat. I let him romp in the water as long as he likes, mixing it in with orgies of plowing through the sand. He digs holes the size of a Manhattan pothole and then scrubs his back on the sand.

Ever the shell seeker I'm disappointed by the lack of them on this shore. But there's a plethora of stones. Earthy tones in clay red, mossy green. Granite pebbles that have been sanded by the currents. I admire but don't gather any except for a shale stone that's shaped like a heart. Honest Injun it is!

The first night we dine at the Mews, the foodie restaurant in town. I've driven 6 hours into rocky beach territory and yet I order duck. Go figure. The garden in front is dominated by a stunning rusted sculpture of a maiden, bathed in red glowing flood lights. I call her the Cast Iron Maiden.

The wind picks up by 9 and starts to rain for real. Phyliss is thrilled. Let's go to the beach she enthuses. So being the dutiful guest I rope along the dog and the three of us sprint to the beach, in pelting rain. Get this, and me still wearing the long dress I wore at dinner. Earl, the long awaited storm is gusting winds, pummeling us with rain and jostling the waves something awful. And yet Phyliss still romps in the water. Earlier that day we had taped the windows of Phyliss's home, hearing dire warnings from the locals. Many of the shop keepers on Commercial Street boarded or taped their windows and doors. But that doesn't stop the revelers from enjoying the lures of Ptown. Couples canoodle in the bars, ladies nuzzle each other, boys walk the streets looking for more boys.

The storm lasts until morning. Duke, normally immune to the rantings of nature huddles under the pull out bed. But with morning comes the sun and azure skies so clear you feel you can see to eternity. Shopkeepers unboard or untape their windows. Waiters put out chairs and flip over tables for the al fresco diners. Homeowners retrieve shards of vegetation released during the storm. Cats patter outdoors to sun themselves after that God awful rain. Thankfully nobody sustained damage other than toppled plants or chairs. We see a tee shirt that reads: I Got Blown by Earl.

Saturday evening we prepare for a dinner party. Phyliss is a frequent diner at Chez Rekha, rhapsodizing over my chicken pot pie, which I must admit is - smack my ass and call me Helen - damn good. Francine and Rebecca, both good friends of Phyliss are coming over. Francine is the realtor that sold Phyliss her condo. Tells you how quickly people befriend each other in these parts. She also happens to own several art galleries and actually held a show while Earl was making his entrance the night before. Rebecca is a veteran chef cum real estate agent and, get this, a beekeeper. She brings a bottle of honey harvested from her Wellfleet hives as a present. It's the color of caramel and smells like Jaggery (an Indian unprocessed sugar made from cane juice) and chocolate. Apparently honey is impacted by terroir as much as wine. Rebecca tell me this hive is situated near a particular green bush from which the queens have been harvesting nectar. Honey, queen bees, chocolate? I feel like I've slipped into an alternate dimension. A sweet one.

Phyliss lays a gorgeous platter of fresh mozzarella, artichoke hearts, avocado slices and olives. I prepare fresh white Cod (when in the Cape...) stacked over with green and yellow squash, aromatics and olive oil, wrap them in foil and they're off to the grill. Then I saute spinach in fried garlic & onions to be incorporated into risotto. Rebecca and I drink Eden Valley Chardonnay that the ladies have brought over. Phyliss drinks Nero D'Avalo a recent Sicilian find that she can't get enough of. Francine sips Polar Lemon Selzer. Dessert is espresso drizzed over Scaffotelia cream gelato - also known as Affugato. The ladies have an early morning at the Agricultural Fair so take leave. Duke's not ready to call it a night yet so we sit on the deck and play music while watching the stars. Phyliss is positive that one I fondly think of as Venus (and with good reason - Venus shining down on you is purported to bring you the love of your life) is really a satellite. After a few night's viewing I concur, it's far too bright, it might emit a humming noise and it hasn't moved position in 3 days.

I'm going ultra femme in Ptown. The local liquor store yielded a bottle of Bitch rose champagne and I'm smoking Eve cigarettes. What a hoot. The Bitch is fruity with a decent fizzle, Eve however sucks. Sunday morning we are greeted by Christine the tatooed drag queen hostess at Enzos. I order the local Portuguese sausage - linguisa with scrambled eggs and onions. Reminds me of the egg filling Mom used to make whenever our family would take a road trip. Except we swapped curry powder for sausage. It's a lazy shopping day with me desperately trying to find a momento from this trip. None are to be found except pink elephant twizzle sticks. But I do buy a darling fish platter for Phyliss as a present. We stop by Wa - a Buddhist motif shop displaying colorful prayer flags, intoxicating lemongrass candles, expensive teak altars. We visit the zen garden in the back and exchange pray salutes with Kuan Yin. A magnificent wind chime sends flute-like notes into the garden. Brilliant orange and pearl Koi frolic in the square algae-crusted pond. It's dark and cool and makes me realize I might never be suited for the monastic life of a monk. Too quiet, that and the sex thing.

Dinner our last night is at the Lobster Pot, a decades old institution. I have lobster scampi, that's right, served over orzo. A ginger green tea martini accompanies the dish, cutting through the rich butteriness of the sauce. Hell yeah! since it's the last night we stroll the streets with thoughts of seeing a live show or perhaps a performance. We walk past a man enrobed in a pure white gown standing on a pedestal, perhaps Archangel Gabriel. His gaunt face is painted white - haughty and beautiful. Although I must admit I've never heard of Gabriel giving little kids dirty looks when they take pictures with him. We pop into a bar, listen to a husky voiced woman with a broken arm sing Angel from Montgomery by Bonnie Raitt. There's gotta be a story there.

There's a sex shop that I mistakenly think is named Joys of Sex. Phyliss assures me it's Toys of Sex. Must check it out. Dildoes of every color and size. Vibrators, pearls of love, a plethora of things to get embedded into orifaces - for the sake of pleasure. And here I am in Provincetown, probably the safest place for a single straight female, outside of the Vatican.

Kobalt Gallery - owner: Francine D'Olimpio, 366 Commercial Street, Provincetown, MA
Cape Cod Honey - Rebecca Matarazzi.
Lobster Pot - 321 Commercial Street,
Provincetown, MA

The importance of massage when you're losing your mind

There must be a name for what I'm feeling. I just know it. This loss of focus, squirrely thoughts rampaging through my mind like, um squirrels. Complete abandonment of my once atomic energy.

My friend David calls me Rekha Boom which simultaneously thrills and worries me. Does he mean I'm really loud? My cousin Suj once compared my footfall to that of a T Rex. You know the scene in Jurassaic Park when the kids are in the SUV watching the glass of water quiver and undulate with each footfall of old Tyrannus? Apparently that's me to a T.

Then there's the inability to express myself, which as all my friends and family know is nearly impossible. I apparently was expressing myself my mother's womb who recalls feeling pregnant with either a boy or a demon. Thanks Ma. But these days words, spoken, written, even sung just don't leave me. Should I say they leave me but not in any way you might call elegant. I gibber. I start saying things and realize i don't know what I'm saying and then try to backtrack into saying something else. See, I'm gibbering right now.

Then there's the bonecrushing loneliness. Normally I reserve that particular adjective for men with extemely large, ahem egos. But here it feels appropriate. For some reason it feels like no one nowhere can bring me solace. Not my trusty friends or relatives who coddle, cajole, bully, harass or baby me into a better mood. This ploy works for a while then they leave and along comes Mr. Bonecrusher again bruising my sparrow-like bones. There's not much you can do. I'm reminded of Steve Martin in the Jerk as he's leaving the home of his post non crossed eyed reading glasses fame. As he leaves he grabs a lamp and shouts a Bernadette Peters I don't need anything. All I need is this lamp. Lamps are helpful that way.

Actually I do know what it is. Aging. And I'm not very good at it. My cousin Cynthi says "Babe you're molten, you're being reborn and repoured." I'd like to be all alchemical but there's no getting round this - it sucks. I might be molten but it's the burning that hurts.

I discovered the brilliant Symbologist Caroline Casey a decade ago, long before Dan Brown, the other Symbologist wrote the Da Vinci Code and began offending Catholics at a global scale. She writes in her book Making the Gods Work for You at the loss she felt at the death of her daughter.

The abyss had opened up before me and I could feel the winds between the worlds.

So on top of the bonecrushing loneliness, the inability to focus or speak a formal language I'm experiencing achiness of the body. No it's not Fibermyalgia. The first woman I ever knew with the ailment was a rest stop lady in Brattleboro Vermont. My ex fiance and I were doing our annual autumn trip through New England, in which Vermont features predominantly. Beautiful land, really sweet open-hearted people and the wine, Oy! it's the 2nd highest wine consuming state per capita in the union. On this trip we stopped at the aforementioned rest stop cum tourist stop. A nice lady was sharing lots of maps to Quegee Gorge, supplementing with tips for snack and cocktail stops. By her side was a tiny black dog, who doubled as her animal care taker. No particular breed as I can recall, just a wee black dog with a shiny coat. Her name was Nino, which I believe means little boy or a rowdy wind driven from treacherous water currents. She was an assistance dog and carried things like keys and aspirin bottles for the nice lady. That was the first time I've ever heard of Fibermyalgia and being a borderline hypochondriac I've diagnosed myself with it ever since.

To combat this pain in the back, ass, neck, hip, foot - you name it I started seeking a massage therapist weekly. The massage technique is called Tua Nua which sounds much like a Star Trek character. Its based on the discipline of triggerig and draining meridians which in turn release flow of blood and energy to the 7 core chakras, which in turn allows energy to be equally distributed to the body. My usual girl Lili was not there but Amy was. One thing I'll tell you about these Korean women, they are strong. They know meridian and chakra points like nobodies business. And the good ones intuitively know what areas need most work. Intuition or the fact that your back is knotted up like an anchor hitch. Amy worked on my neck and face to prevent a migraine from shanghaing my day. She uses another technique called myofacial massage to alleviate trigger points on my skull and face. My jaw is practically locked from an old car accident. Which means its perpetually unable to open more than a small yawn. Men I've dated will tell you what a drag that is...

As Amy is poking at my face music gently plays on a portable cd player. Now music in these korean establishments can range from sappy to downright nail biting. Not that I have anything against Korean music. I like the 3 string guitar plucking out interesting note progressions. I even like the Korean singers doing remakes of popular American tunes. Christina Aguilara must be making crazy royalties in Korea. What I don't like is the church hymns piped out as relaxation. I grew up with that twaddle didn't enjoy it as a child and sure as bloody hell haven't gotten softer with age. Luckily this spa is playing really soft really slow spanish guitar.

I begin to feel better. The massage is doing it's voodoo, draining toxins, anger and despair from my body. By the time she's hammered out the reflexology points in my feet I feel I can actually breathe like a normal human, not the bewildered panting of late that has me hyperventilating like a Golden Retriever surrounded by too many exciting people. At this moment, right now I can see from here to eternity and not insanity. At this moment I know neither age nor love nor desire can distract me from my destiny.

And I will contradict the famous Mr. Fernando Lamas and say sometimes it is better to feel good than to look good.

Quote from Making the Gods Work for You. Copyright 1998 Caroline Casey.

Death by the Passaic River

Seems like death lurks around me these days. The shooting of a wild turkey dubbed Henry riled up the residents of Rutherford, NJ. Henry and his wife roamed Rutherford along the banks of the Passaic. While Mrs. Henry is a decorously behaved wild turkey (because I know wild turkey etiquette...) Henry himself was a bit of a ruffian. He would sun himself on immaculate lawns and if you pulled out of your driveway, would give chase. While this proved amusing (I mean this guy clearly thought he could take on a 4 wheel drive Jeep Cherokee), it was a classic display of over-the-top male aggression. I wonder if wild turkey fowl are fueled by testosterone? In any case Henry had his admirers but also his enemies. One of whom shot him with a cross bow, so cave man hunter-style! The neighborhood was appalled and furious. As they should be, as a local celebrity fowl Henry pulled his weight. But more importantly, he was a creature living on the fringes of a dwindling forest eco-system, making due for his mate and baby gobbler offspring. His widow is seen walking around town, probably with junior in tow. Hope she makes it through the winter.

On the other side of the river animal hijinks pervade. The possum crop was tops this year, if only they mastered the art of crossing the street. The raccoons do much better with far fewer fatalities. But none fared worse than the squirrels. They must be playing truth or dare this summer, I've never seen so many squished. And right along the center dotted line. And what's up with the birds? Would someone explain how a goose gets hit on the highway? What's he doing on the highway so close to cars? Can't he fly any higher?

Then of course my own little hunter has a few more notches on his canine belt. Count among them a possum, a mouse, several cicadas (which he promptly ate, ewwww), but still no elusive squirrel.

Animal death always gets me weepy but this summer I feel it more keenly. Maybe because for the first time in my life I'm confronted with the very real possibility of my own mortality. Maybe because there's so much change in the air I mourn for the comfort of life of times past.