Hello Blue Moon - Farewell Decade

It's a shame the last day of the year began with the clouds swollen with snow as tonight heralds a blue full moon. That's the second full moon of the month, a phenomenon known as a blue moon. So actually a blue moon isn't a rarity, it occurs once every 2.7 years. On top of which we are graced with a full moon lunar eclipse in Cancer. Read more about that eclipse. So adieu to last day of the year and of a tumultuous decade. May you manifest all your desires in 2010.

The Artist's Bliss

The post came late last week. Was I up to seeing him perform at a small small gig in Jersey? It came from my cousin Tommy, Tom Prasada-Rao or TPR as he's known in the biz. The answer was a no brainer. Hell yeah.

I've always loved his voice. Heck, EVERYone loves his voice - throaty, sexy, surging over you like a wave of Mexican hot chocolate, dark and sweet, flecked with bits of spice. Any chance I get to hear him sing I grab. And here he was minutes away from my own little casa. I didn't know the circumstances that brought him to perform, especially after he closed a chapter to his touring life and embarked on the less traveled road of producer. I do know he sat in public transportation for at least 8 hours, in various modes of transport involving trains, buses and automobiles to get there. I do know an eager audience sat patiently awaiting him in the basement of the First United Methodist Church in Westfield, NJ.

The church provides a venue for Coffee with Conscience, a concert series in its 10th season. The original intent was to provide the congregation with a vehicle to service the greater community. The coffee house setting provided the ideal venue to showcase musical talent with a folk bent and raise funds for local charities. Mostly a 40 - 50ish congregation that has been exposed to world-class songwriters and damn good singers. They gather Saturday nights to sip coffee provided by Ahrre's Coffee Roastery

I flatter myself into thinking he started off with Sleeping Beauty because he knew that was one of my favorites. Followed by songs I know well and others I don't. Smoke and Mirrors, a collaboration with his wife Carey Cooper. The Randy Travis song, Indigo and a sweetly raunchy song featuring Barbara Eden and his boyhood fantasies: "Call me master. Do it faster." And of course my hands down favorite Rishi's Garden, a tribute to Ravi Shankar in which he convinces his guitar to imitate the passionate moaning of a sitar.

Punctuated between songs are Tommy's wryly delivered but intimate observations about fatherhood, being a husband, the homeless, his grandfather, his parents, his ancestry. Some of these I have insight to, as I've been privy to the same childhood. Others are as new to me as the rapt audience of coffee sipping music lovers.
I've known artists in many genres. Some happy, some rich, some bordering on Van Goghism. My question has been can you devote your life to the expression of yourself and live a fulfilled life of abundance? Chock full of sexy photo ops, gushing adoration, 1000 friends on Facebook, oodles of money in the bank, critical acclaim?

Watching Tommy give of himself for 2 solid hours, share his insight, his vocal and musical talent, his love for himself and his life I realized the artist can live abundantly. And surely then, this is a life of bliss.

From Nobel Prize to War with the Moon

Last week's headlines were abuzz with news of President Obama's Nobel Peace Prize award. While I think it was premature, I found the timing extremely ironic given the NASA expedition to "impact" not explode rockets into the surface of the moon.

Experts like Christian Science Monitor assures us the intentional detonation was the moon's equivalent of a mere flesh wound.

How would the moon have felt about it? It’s hard to ask an inanimate, non-sentient object. But using Sir Isaac Newton’s action-reaction law — the one that describes why a rocket moves one direction when its exhaust flows out the back in the opposite direction — researchers estimate that the two collisions combined would have the same effect on the moon that dropping an eyelash in the aisle would have on the speed and direction of a Boeing 747.

All this in the hunt for ice water reservoirs in hopes that the moon can support life. Scientists expect the impact would release a huge plume of moon dust and debris. The moon dust blast should be large enough for amateur scientists to view from Earth through normal telescopes.

All this lunar activity has caused an uproar. Numerous petitions to stop the moon bombing pop up everywhere like this one.

Time will tell if the impact of rocket Centaur will have a repercussions on the moon and the lunar bodies surrounding it. Will it throw off the tidal pull or monthly moon cycles? What about its relationship to the zodiacal sister planet? and astrology in general? Time and the moon herself will tell.

Back in the old country

When my cousin Patty returned from Tanuku, India after teaching English to grade schoolers for a year what I remember most of her recollections is her commentary about trash. Basically, there isn't a trash can in the smaller, rural villages. Organic matter is composted, if paper is used, it's to write on and Bounty doesn't exist. Compare this with the 2 hefty bags of trash I easily generate on a weekly basis. And this is after recycling plastic, metal and even some organic matter to my compost heap.

What's more disturbing is the prevalence of refuse created by my parents, despite the fact that they used to live in the very same village mentioned above. What's happened? Does America foster a careless home disposal policy. Do people not care how their lifestyle effects nature and the flow of life in general? Of course they do. My parents are avid gardeners and revel in the cycle of soil to plant to plate and back to soil. I think it boils down to the predicament of unawareness. Folks aren't aware of the options for rubbish disposal, so they follow outworn methods that reinforces the problem of increasing garbage and dwindling land.

Here are a couple ways I've unearthed to combat the issue. They include composters, leaf suckers (not blowers!) and recycling tips. Send your own and I'll add to the post.

Composters: Costco has a pretty decent array of wood, plastic and metal composters.

Suction mulchers: Combines leaf blower, mulcher and a yard vacuum. Can't wait to try it!

Recycling: Some handy tips on recycling various plastics, metals and paper.

Godmother Weekend or Why Don't Dogs Like Barry Manilow?

Labor day weekend and the long anticipated Godmother weekend arrives. The baby and girls show up around midnight, but that doesn't keep us from staying up till 3 in the morning. As children our all nighters were executed under the guise of sleepovers. We'd whisper about our latest crushes, who said so and so, the latest antics of the Hambleton brothers. But we're adults now and we drink Cosmopolitans, snack on chicken salad and yell about our latests crushes.

To honor the baby's Latin heritage we dine at La Estrella Del Caribe a Puerto Rican themed restaurant. Radha devours Chuleta Frita - seasoned pork chops fried on the bone. Polly sighs over shrimp fajitas, sweetly sizzling and fragrant with non a traditional Mexican marinade. Patty savors the classic Arroz con Pollo and I happily crunch on Pernil - marbled with indecent amounts of pork butt fat. The baby tries all of it but prefers flirting with the male waiters to food. Hmmmm. Must come from her father's side of the family, since nothing takes precedence over food to a Ched female.

Given the Latin theme for the evening we come home and dance on the deck. Sophia takes turns in our arms as we attempt to Salsa and Merengue. The night serenades us.The 17 year cicadas make whirring Predator noises. A bird simpers in a tree sounding like an injured dog. The motorcycle boys whiz past on their way to Newark. Then the music starts, decently enough with Stan Getz's Brazilian jazz. Ella, Marvin Gaye, Gladys Night. Then it gets weird. Somehow Andrea Bocelli is followed by Meatloaf. And LL Cool J by Barry Manilow. Thy neighbor dog voices his displeasure at a weekend in New England. Then comes the Carpenters. We sing every song word for word of a 2 CD Carpenter complilation. Don't roll your eyes at me, you know the words to Top of the World. Sing it!

A chill enters the evening so we light a fire in the outdoor fireplace. In middle of the immolation of fallen tree branches and a tarot reading Sophia exlaims "Hi Mommy!" This being landmark as her only intelligible words thus far have been "Puppy?"

By noon Monday the girls have already left. No juice bobbies, milk bobbies. No manipulative toddling baby girl flopping around in her pink crocs with a stealthy dog eager to devour bits of bacon falling from bacon, avocado and tomato sandwiches. Just a very tired little white dog, sparkling sangria glasses and an empty house still throbbing with love.

Bollywood Challenge

Ok, I'll admit I'm hooked. I'll give Randy Jackson props for creating the best reality TV series since, well Julia Child's The French Chef. And yes, that was REAL television. Enjoying it's 4th season on MTV America's Best Dance Crew pits street dancers against each other utilizing reality tactics like judge scoring, audience voting and elimination rounds.

Since the first season when the masked menacingly acrobatic JabbaWockeeZ won the title, each season delivers insanely talented dancers. This week I was riveted (twice!) by the episode titled the Bollywood Challenge. Each crew is assigned a particular Indian dance style like well known Bangra & Bharatanatyam as well as lesser known Kathak, Giddha & Garba. Having a mother who used to dance bharatanatyam I was hugely entertained by talented street dancers incorporating hip hop, lifts & acrobatics to classical Indian dances. I also appreciated the difficulty of my native dance artisty. Hustle this!

My favorite by far has to be AfroBorike doing Kathak. But I gotta admit I was blown away by all the performances. Made me wanna jump up, paste on a bindi, hook up my ankle bracelets and shake some ass! Also staggering were the dance mixes fusing Indian riffs with contemporary Latin and Hip Hop. If somebody knows where I can find the playlist, please tell!

Catch the episode it's entirety.

Downfall of an athlete, emergence of a change agent

Can Michael Vick bring down dog fighting in America? I supremely doubted this when he was convicted 2 years ago. Matter of fact I was too infuriated to contemplate how dog fighting could benefit from Vick's downfall.

Two years later Vick has been reinstated to the NFL after signing a deal with the Philadelphia Eagles for $1.6 million with the second-year option worth $5.2 million. Hearing the terms of the deal my first reaction was to hope some or all of the earnings would be seized or matched for animal relief agencies. But Wayne Pacelle, President & CEO of the Humane Society saw an implausible opportunity and recruited Vick as a spokesman against dog fighting. Of all the rabid Vick opposition the Humane Society could very well be the most virulent, which raises eyebrows for this partnership. Pacelle offers this justification:

“I sat with the man, but I still don’t know what’s in his heart. He told me he did terrible things to dogs. He said he grew up with dogfighting as a boy, and that he never sufficiently questioned it as he grew into manhood. He said this experience has been a trauma and he’s changed forever. And he said he wants to show the American public that he is committed to helping combat this problem. He asked for an opportunity to help. I want to give him that opportunity.”

Pacelle scratches on the ultimate driver for Vick's potential success as an agent of change - street credibility. Vick witnessed his first dog fight at the age of 8 years old. His experience is the norm in inner urban cities. The Anti-Cruelty Society in conjunction with the Chicago Police Department offers these frightening statistics: "More than 25% of K-6th graders had attended at least one dog-fight. When asked about his experiences, one 3rd grade boy responded that dog fights are a great place to meet girls. The children who are taught from ages as young as four and five that animals are meant to be fought to the death and treated with cruelty are more likely to be future violent criminals."

The Humane Society has worked diligently since 2002 to combat the alarming trend of dog fighting. However legislation in the form of anti dog fighting laws has not been able to stem the proliferation of the sport. Conservative statistics indicate 40,000 professional dog fighting rings exist with an additional 100,000 street fights, mostly gang driven.

What's the allure? Money for one as some fights can offer a purse of $100k. But undermeath the financial payoff lies a deeper problem rooted in socio-economical struggle. And it starts with kids. Statistics indicate the most active dog fighters are aged 13 - 17 rampant in almost every urban city. Dog fighting has become a means of acquiring social stature for children born to low income families, living in dense urban cities, where the likelihood for education, much less income above the poverty limit, is hopeless.

Dog Fighting establishes their reputation for toughness and macho street cred. And while the fights are more skirmishes than the gladiator pits of organized matches the result are the same; tens of thousands of emotionally maimed, physically mutilated or dying dogs and a generation of juvenile owners self taught in apathy and violence.

But in the end it all does end in violence. For the dog reared in abuse & aggression. For the thousands of household pets stolen from happy homes and used as "pit bait". For the kid raised to view animals and brutality as entertainment. Where hope does a child have coming from the degradation of an animal? Obviously none. It's pretty obvious the only place to go from commiting a crime on an animal is escalation to violent crime committed on a human.

Hopefully Vick will be able to penetrate the dispassion for the sport and the glamour it holds. In a 60 minute interview he says "Blame me."

What's Road Rage Got to Do with It?

Sometimes premonition is not enough. The inkling of something bad on the brink of happening is not enough to prevent disaster. Saturday night was one such episode. Leaving the city, just departing the Lincoln Tunnel and I'm sideswiped by a big white commercial laundry truck. Just moments before, as the truck lumbered next to me racing up the helix I thought, go as fast as you want bucko, just don't hit me. Then slam! Crunch! and I'm being grinded into the median.

That's pretty sucky in its own right. Getting slammed on a busy concourse like the Lincoln Tunnel. The Transit folks hate a breach in their precious traffic patterns. And the cops sure as hell hate having to endanger themselves for twisted metal. But wait, it gets worse. After taking off most of my front bumper and annihilating my right rear view mirror, the bastard drives off. First I thought he plans to pull over at a convenient exit. But after passing 2 such exits I realized the POS intended to pull a hit and run. This enraged me almost as much as animal cruelty or human trafficking. Confronted with two options - let the rat bastard drive away without accountability or chase him down. I chose the latter.

Luckily my Honda CRV earned its ranking as the highest rated SUV, even post body trauma so when I hit the gas she raced up the helix in pursuit of the hit and runner. I cruised by the passenger window and vehemently motioned for the truck to pull over. I believe I used words to the effect of: "Pull the fuck over. You hit my car." The passenger blithely denied any collision until I forced him to pull over in the median between Route 3 West and Exit 15E of the NJ Turnpike.

At this point I had no idea the extent of damage my CRV had sustained. Luckily the fender, hood and right front door were the victims. I pulled out my camera and took shots of my car, their truck, especially their license plates, which were NY state. At this point they began protesting. There was no damage to their truck, the driver said pointing meaningfully to his aged white piece of crap. My response was calling 911.

It must have been a quiet day for I was immediately picked up by an operator. She dispatched 2 cruisers who arrived within minutes. I am happy to report the first question everyone asked is, Are you ok ma'am? The officers were young and friendly. They didn't strike me as authority thirsty gun-loving men. Matter of fact, to depressurize me one asked if I had a nice evening. Was I enjoying the weather?

The tactic worked and provided no end of amusement to my GFs in later tellings. I told the officers my story, to which they nodded but were unable to issue an accident report given their limited jurisdiction. Apparently the WPD - Weehawken police department were the only ones capable of capturing my report. So they requested a dispatch from the appropriate department. Meanwhile, given that we were in the middle of traffic the officers escorted us to a gas station. Antsy to get along his merry path of destruction the truck driver almost side swiped me in an effort to follow the cops! Dude! can you be more incriminating?

Well, alls well that ends well, I suppose. The Weehawken PD issued me a report, corroborated that the accident was the truck's fault and kindly hammered the fender back into place with his fist.

I didn't even think of myself as a road rage instigator, but upon reflection I suppose that's exactly what I was. I won't make a habit of it, that's for sure. Although I felt fine from the impact when I got home I was nauseous all night long.

Must have been all that road rage adrenaline.

Music makes the world go round

Sometimes you work in an office with colleagues that synchronistically compliment each other. Each brings a specific set of talents to the table, which in turn get absorbed into the mother talent pool and becomes a greater entity than its individual components. Kind of like the Borg. My office had such a dynamic. Men and women with disparate and infinitely unique skills would meet everyday to flex their specialty muscles and bounce off each others.

I say HAD since we are no longer the team we used to be. Some of us have been abruptly pulled away to work for new masters. Again like the Borg. What you have left are splintered groups of a former team. Contributing to the mission but like shells of our former selves. Need I say it again, like the Borg?

That is until we are reunited not at the beckoning of our masters but for a much more primal call - to fill our guts with booze and enjoy the musical stylings that only karoake can bring. Wednesday night found 12 of us crammed into a tiny booth, colored twirling lights casting psychedelic beams on the walls, knees crammed to chests, microphones clutched in hands no longer programming or updating content.

It started off a nostalgic note: Dream by the Everly Brothers. It stayed pretty high brow with Shea squeezing out Blondie's One Way or Another, unfortunately playing 5 keys to high. Then it got silly with yours truly and Damarys lisping I know you want me (Calle Ocho) by Pitbull. Any song by a man named Pitbull is destined for disaster, especially I don't speak Spanish and Damarys had to heroically brave forward.

Drinks aplenty arrive. Manali must always do one retro song that has us simultanously laughing and blushing at the lyrics. This time it was a George Michael song, does it matter which one. Really now?

More revelers arrive. The newly married Mrs. ah Yang (I guess as she doesn't intend to change her name) and her hubby Peter. Jamie, the English hubby of Mariana shows up. The joint is packed but no deterring us, as long as we have room to sit the drinks. Ping shows us what he's been practicing at home no doubt (that boy MUST have his own karoake machine. how else to explain his impeccable timing and throbbing baritone?) Push and Mack the Knife.

Mariana doesn't usually sing but this time she makes a request. It's Big Balls by AC DC. Just read them and you'll know why we watched her in slack jawed shock. Michael sang a few Irish ditties very well with a pint of beer in his hand. Last thing I remember before fleeing the scene was another duet with Damarys. This time Push It by Salt and Pepa. We helpfully provided choreography in addition to the lusty lyrics.

Beer at the White House

Getting a kick out of the Beer Summit President Obama threw for police Officer Crowley and Harvard Professor Henry David Gates. Read my comment in Newsweek.

I think it's a brilliant way to diffuse a volatile situation. Especially impressed that an off the cuff comment by officer Crowley was the impetus to this landmark summit. If only the White House kitchen served bread instead of nuts and pretzels we could have witnessed the parties breaking bread. Talk about civilized.

So much for the dry heat

Arrived in Vegas a few hours ago and it's bloody humid. What up! Lots of eye candy, especially the tatooed kind. We're staying at the Palazzo and thus far we've been oogled by a table of tech geeks, a group of brothers in towels and a lady with HUSTLER tattooed on her neck.

Must say the food out here is really surprising. Impeccable ingredients, top notch cheffery (although no evidence of that hot Scot Gordon Ramsey, dangit!) and innovatively presented. Of course the price tag for all this is flinchingly high. Go to my sister blog Disciplined Foodie for a play by play for the food UX.

Cocktail hour starts at 5:00, 8 PM EST and dinner is at midnight! How will ever will I last without food till midnight?

In the wilds of New Jersey

Not enough that the month of June reminded me of London, now I have to contend with strange critters in my suburban Jersey home. The other day I found my Jack Russell - Duke bouncing off the garage doors. Not unusual by any means. What was unusual was the response inside of the garage to his mighty pounding paws. Screeches, growls and hisses. Closer I went to investigate and came eye to eye with a raccoon. She recoiled. I jumped and squealed like a little girl at a Twilight premiere. Happens to the best of us, I don't care if I can take down an entire bottle of Cuervo at one sitting, I still get rattled by furry critters with pointy clawlike hands, especially when they are protecting their young. Which this mama raccoon was as evidenced by the ruckus inside the garage.

I wisely grabbed the dog and bolted inside. He was rather put out by being abruptly removed from the noisy object of his fascination. I told him to watch the Animal Planet and consulted Google about *raccoon new jersey*. This is what one listing says:

A raccoon is often rabid, without showing any outward symptoms of the viral disease. The public's fascination with this native New Jersey animal, rabies becomes even greater a threat than previously thought. Not only can a raccoon carry (and spread) the rabies virus; the female raccoon can actually pass the virus to her unborn kits through her uterus.

Despite what a group of Nutley animal activists believe, I am an ardent animal supporter. I fervently support the protection of wolves from that helicopter riding, aerial shooting Sarah Palin. I'm happy to foster small critters and babysit fish, birds and reptiles (although I draw the line at snakes...) But when it comes to the safety of my dog, my elderly cane-dependent parents and myself, I confess I'm all for establishing my boundaries.

So in comes a specialist who rummages through the garage rafters. No raccoon nests here, he informs me casually. Although apparently the squirrels have been stockpiling twine, rubber foam and other winter goodies that make a squirrel's life toasty during snow days. Just to make sure, the wildlife guy sets a trap to catch any unwanted visitors. You'll set what you catch free? I ask nervously. Appalled at the thought of my visiting raccoons being sold for their coats. Or even worse, to some backwoods Pennsyltucky Cletis for food. The wildlife guy assures me he releases the catch in a wildlife habitat that could accommodate a new entry - such as the woods.

The trap catches nothing till the dog decides to investigate and nearly gets caught himself. He slinks indoors, suitably chastized by the encounter. I retreat indoors as well, sobered by the realization that as much I love nature and wee animals, there is no Disney happy ending when it comes to the two of us conjoining living spaces. Moreoever nature is sometimes disturbing, not always tidy but always demanding of respect.

Lucindas is Back

Say what you will about downtown Jersey City, but you can't deny it's vibrant mobile food scene, nor the rabid fans of those establishments. Take Lucindas Burritos, a yellow truck stationed on Hudson Street at Exchange Place. Once conceived as a small business Master's Thesis, the original owner Joanna has since sold the business to a young couple so she can focus on the pleasures of motherhood. Lucindas has been out of commission for the better part of the year so it was with great joy I spotted the truck back in my 'hood. Natasha and Chris, pictured above carry on Lucinda's menu with a few touches of their own. My chorizo, egg and blackbean breakfast burrito not only is drizzled with crema and hot sauce, but also pico de gallo and a spritz of lime. Mmmmmm, lime. Also new to the menu are seafood and vegetarian empanadas. Check Lucindas out some time.

Boasting an equally fanatic following is John's Soup Kitchen on the corner of Montgomery & Hudson. Distinctive not for a moniker truck but for the gigantor line queued up for soup or rice dishes. BTW, many of whom are of East Asian descent. Jersey City is after all the operations base for many of New York's large companies - Barclays (formerly Lehman Brothers), AIG (formerly AIG...) The soups are a hot commodity, you must try the white chicken chili which is really a Middle Eastern stew of chicken thighs, white beans, onions and chilies with spices redolent of the East - cumin, coriander.

And although I've just swooned over the chicken chili, the Chicken over Rice is John's signature dish. Let me tell you it's far more than just chicken over rice. It's chicken marinated thighs (I just LOVE thighs instead of white meat. As any Indian will tell you, white meat ain't got no flavor, it's the dark meat baby, the dark!), grilled so the exterior is crusty while the insides are still moist, chopped with a sharp-edged spatula and server over basmati rice. Oh, and there's a salad of iceberg lettuce and grape tomatoes. Drizzled over the whole shebang is a raita-like, tzaziki-ish white sauce of probably yogurt, herbs and salt.

Finally there's Nick and Peri's, a Greek diner on wheels. While their sandwiches are fine - gyros, chicken kebabs, hamburgers and the like mostly consumed by construction workers - their call to fame has got to be the sausage, egg and cheese on a roll. Hands down the best breakfast sandwich in all of New Jersey. Why? because Nick grills the bread with the cheese under the broiler, giving a melty, saucy, cheesy topping to the hearty but simple sandwich. Go ahead and prove me wrong.

Next time you're in Jersey City give these hard-working small businesses a try.

Weekend in New England - Ok ok, just Maryland

I love hearing my New England friends talking about their weekends. Went to the fish market. Bought half a dozen lobsters. Picked some corn. Made sangria from Reisling and peaches. Went to the beach but it was too cold. Drove back early Sunday to avoid traffic.

Compared to my hectic weekends at home.

Saturday: Drive down in 5 hours of stop and go traffic. Late lunch with Mom and Dad. Mom makes not one but two Pillaus. Her world famous vegetable Pillau chock full of turnips, peas, beans, califlower & meat Pillau with curried chunks of lamb. I'm hungry enough to eat 2 platefuls, but eat three. I've observed one of those unfathomable occurances when it comes to eating. Sometimes you can barely put away half a 12 oz steak. Other times you can devour an entire plate of pasta bolognese. What's up with that? I think it's because we are conditioned to eat plentiful based on our culinary roots. Take for example Indian food. An Indian girl who picks at her large Cobb salad could easily take down a plate of heaping coconut rice, topped with a chicken curry, egg and potato curry, maybe a lamb curry, dahl and yogurt salad. Not just once but twice! It's the same conditioning that allows an Italian to devour an entire plate of pasta and sauce. Or the Polsky to gorge on a dozen pirogy with kielbasa and sour cream. It's the culinary hood you feel most comfortable with that you can ingest stupid quantities.

Take dog for a walk in the park while Mom sits on the swing. while driving back the radio blares SHE SHAKIN THAT THANG LIKE. Mom wants to know. "What is that thing and why is she shaking it?" Take a nap. Hit the stores for presents for my neice. Head back home to entertain friends visiting from out of town. Watch an Indian movie. Watch more of the movie. Keep watching the movie. Go to sleep.

Sunday:

9:00 am and I am tilling the fields of my parents backyard. Loosening the soil for Mom's vegetable garden. I've inherited their love of soil and shrub, attested by the sheaf of mint I plucked from my garden so Mom would have fresh mint for her chutney. The parental garden consists of a 8 x 6 plot of land designated for veggies. Adjacent to a similar plot beneath a wooden trellis under which grows water gourd, bitter gourd, zucchinis, melons and squash. The zucchinis are in flower, which Mom drops into her okra and tomato curries. Very tasty she assures me. In the uncovered plot grows Methi, a pungent small leafed green - delicious stir fried with onions, mustard seeds and red chilies. Sugar snap peas, extraodinarily sweet but tough skinned flank one side while small shoots of gongera spring in neat if parched rows. While New York suffered through daily floods of Antideluvian proportions, Maryland barely got damp. Jalepenos, serranos, tomato plants rigged by individual fences for support and as a deterrant to the leaf-thieves. Mom suspects the wild kitty. Me thinks a bunny a better culprit. Duke doesn't care, lemme at him! is all he says.

It's almost noon and time for a late breakfast. Then I'm off to my neices birthday party. Then the long drive back home.

Somehow weekend's in Maryland just don't have that calm allure. But then, when has my family life ever been calm?

Sophia's First Birthday

Today is my magical neice's first birthday. Her wise mother has made a request to the God parents of her child. Every year we will write a letter to the baby. I will track those letters in this blog. So here is letter 1, The First Year.

June 30, 2009

My dear Sophia,

You don’t know this but you are celebrating your first birthday. Years from now you will look back and think Wow, all that happened when I wasn’t even cognizant. Which is why your beautiful and smart mother thought it would be wise to write a letter to you every birthday. So the three of us, your fairy God mothers – Aunty Polly, Aunty Patty & Aunty Rekha will write a letter every birthday.

I think it’s brilliant. You will see not only how our letters change as you grow from babyhood to teenager to adult. But also how we alter as we, alas, grow older.

There are a few things you should know from the beginning. First of all, you are a magical child. You were conceived, gestated and birthed by extraordinary means. Ask your mom what those words mean in case she hasn’t already had a talk about the birds and the bees.

Your Mom wanted to have a baby for a very long time. But the forces thought it wise to prevent that baby from arriving. You will learn more about the forces as you grow. You will hear about God, about angels, Goddesses in due time. Know they are with you always. If you require their assistance all you need do is ask. So your Mom couldn’t have the baby she wanted and this broke her heart for she is a loving, nurturing, mothering woman. Then one day when she least expected it she found out she was going to have a baby. She was shocked and delighted. This is another thing you will learn, you don’t always get what you want when you want. It’s the law of the universe. I have fought it most of my life as have your aunties. Safe to say the sooner you accept this law, the less time you will spend fighting it.

And then you were born.

You get your beauty from your Mom. You get your gray-green eyes from your Dad. But if I’m not mistaken, you get that irresistible allure, the thing that makes people stop and say Ye Gads, what a charming baby! from your female lineage. It is a powerful and beautiful and mystical and emotional ancestry that you are born into. I hope as you grow you will cherish and ruthless use it, for it is yours. As we are yours to guide, adore and spoil you.

So happy birthday Sophia. Know you are loved by so many people that if we could we would shield you from any pain. We would protect you from any harm on this earth, above or below it. But we will also try to leave you alone so you can taste the glories and miseries of this world. Welcome little one.

Aunty Rekha

The Comedians

Only the comedians could induce me to such depths of depravity. Only forces as omniscient and (seemingly) punitive as the Gods could drive me to drink unholy amounts of liquor and smoke myself into oblivion. And not my usual swanky beverages of choice - Anejo Tequila, multi distilled Vodka and unoaked Chardonnays. No no, the brink of madness the Comedians drove me to caused me to nonchalantly sample Vodkas named after Polish composers, branded by rap stars, distilled from wheat, rye, potato, grape and even hemp. Ok, I didn't taste the hemp vodka, but if anyone knows where I can find it please give me ring...

Who are these Comedians and why do they torment Rekha, you ask? Ah, fine question my friend. Caught in the midst of the chaos that is my life these days all I can say is in the spirit of hammering new nuances into my writer persona, I've been forced to endure despair, rejection, depression and that fine old friend - rage.

Which is why last night found me in the company of my lovely friend Mariana who never fails to bring insight in dark hours. Even better, who can throw back booze like no mans business and loves the puff of tobacco products. Who better to accompany me to a wine and cigar tasting? To Jamie's Restaurant in Lyndhurst we went. The cigarman - Tony Santana was nowhere to be found so we moisied to the tasting table. My buddy Ryan was pouring a provocatively named Shiraz by the moniker of Layer Cake Shiraz.

Now Ryan is one of the wine assistants at Shoppers Vineyard, my favorite local booze emporium. Favored by me for their off the beaten Napa path selection of wines and decently priced spirits. Even closer to my heart is the fact that this wine shop allows pets. I know it sounds bizarre but it works. When Duke was a wee puppy I would pop him into my canvas bag and carry him around everywhere. When hitting the wine shop I'd pop him into the shopping cart and wheel down the aisles in pursuit of the perfect libation to accompany my latest dining creation. Now the wine assistants at this store are a convivial bunch, not over-pressured from sale quotas or domineering overlord managers. Upon spotting the dog in the cart, they'd relieve me of my Dog Mom duties and play with the pup till I was done shopping.

So here it was, years later. The dog stretched out on the couch at home and me being poured a tasting of an Australian Shiraz by Ryan, one of the guys. Small world, even my Comedian oppressed brain could appreciate the moment. The wine was poured and tasted, found to be deliciously deep-berried without harsh spice. Best of all, it finished with a flicker of dark chocolate. Gimme a case of that, baby.

By this time the cigarman - Tony shows up. Tony and his promoter - Rob Menaker do an upscale combo of cigar + beverage tasting once a month. Tony knows his stuff, descending from a proud line of Cuban and Mexican cigar makers. He swung into his demo of handrolling a cigar. The purity of tobacco based on location or terroir, just as important with tobacco as it is with the grape. Then Tony really got rolling, or dipping to be precise. Apparently Latinos of European and American descent have honored the art of dipping cigars in brandy to sweeten and compliment the leafy bouquet. Tony shared his family secret which involves soaking branding in a snifter of honey, then dipping the cigar in the mixture. It sounds sexy & decadent and tastes even better. Even the menfolk present - a macho handful of Italian-something guys who looked like they enjoy a weekly puff at Uncle Primo's house - got a kick out of the honeyed cigars.

Rob the promoter sidles next to me and hands a freshly dipped cigar with a flourish. "My compliments darling," He says. "Just do me a favor, smoke it in front of me." Glad Rob, gladly. Which is why hours later Mariana and I have chuffed down the whole freaking cigar. One each. Accompanied of course by glasses of the excellent wine. I could feel the Comedian yoke levitating off my body for a few breaths. Either that or I was blacking out from the heavy smoke. My friend Mariana, having no such burden to bear was displaying her comely left foot to a few men, at their request. She is voluptuous, flirtatious. All woman. I am heartened by our time fraternizing with friendly albeit aggressive men. (Yo, if I wanted to fly to Las Vegas for dinner I would!) By the chocolate-tinged wine - what will I make to bring out that note?! By the astoundingly unctuous lamb ravioli tricked out with slivers of mint in a demi glace. Or perhaps I'm just tongue dead and suffocated by smoking an entire Robusto in one shot.

In any case, for a few hours I forget about the Comedians.

40 days and 40 nights

Seriously, it's been raining so long in the tri-state area it feels like Biblical times. The Dog and I are ready to slit our wrists but since it would be a crime to soil my Santoku with human blood I'm opting to drink and smoke myself into a stupor.

Despite the deluge the air remains muggy, encouraging me to think of the tropics and a lush, soft Tequila. My latest Anejo amour - Gran Centenario certainly fits the bill. However I'm loathe to chug that beauty as one of my dinner guests recently did. "Effing Chug that Anejo?" I ranted. "No way, back to Cuervo my friend."

Speaking of Anejo I hit my basement bar to compare my Gran Centenario against my old standby - Patron Gold. I've long been a fan of D'oro but was shocked when a mouth to mouth comparison revealed Patron to carry nuances of flint and SOAP! I shelved D'oro back in my basement bar and cradling my new amour in one hand, a Nat Sherman in another, watched the rain with the Dog.

On a happier note I've discovered a wonderland of drinking pleasures via the Intoxicologist. Check it out and find a cocktail for your next soiree.

By the way, thanks to Priya for the soggy NYC skyline pix.

Frost Nixon Werewolf?

Really hating living in Seattle. No I haven't moved to the Pacific Northwest, just feels like it with the interminal rain, mist and humidity.

The Seattle on the Hudson weather has forced me and the dog indoors to engage in banal activities, like house cleaning and movie watching. Particularly amused by the diametrically opposing movies Frost Nixon vs. Rise of the Lycans. What's the unifying factor - the lead actor in both - Michael Sheen.

You might not remember him, since he's been a revered English stage actor. Not until the eeriely gory Vampire vs. Werewolf flick Underworld (the movie that single-handedly resusticated Kate Beckinsale's career from pretty English chick to ass-kicking leather bitch)debuted in 2003 did he get much attention on our side of the pond.

Can't help but appreciate the guys's cahonas for pulling off a tepidly polite David Frost. But I couldn't figure out why his face looked so familiar. Not till Lycans came around and I thought, holy crap! Why that's the same guy. Obviously a talented actor, and I certainly tip my hat to the guy for his range, which also includes Tony Blair in the Queen.

To sleep perchance to walk upright

Sometimes a good night's sleep is better than sex. Sometimes you crave sleep more than sex. Ever happened to you? It's been happening to me especially since I threw my back out. If you don't miss someone till they're gone, then I firmly believe you don't appreciate what you have till you can't use it anymore. Case in point the ability to walk upright. Never thought much of it since I mastered the ability to walk as a wee lass. Not until I compacted a few thoracic disks from lifting a heavy garage door. My back seizes up and I can't seem to walk upright. I try to stand tall but both back and hip seem locked in an abnormal position. And it isn't a pretty one.

Chiropractic helps, as does my stiff office chair. Sleep does not, which is odd since I look so foward to resting my aching back and stressed out legs. But sleep evades me like a boyfriend after boy's night out. I begin to realize I feel better OUT of bed than in it. Forsoothe! The luxurious sanctuary of my bedroom has begun to bring agitation rather than pleasure. I begin fantasizing about falling into a deep sleep, my back restoring itself after 8 hours of healing torpor.

Then I make a decision. I'm giving up my pillowtop Vera Wang Serta mattress for a firmer, more back friendly posturpedic. Yup, I've swapped comfort and indulgence for, well, a healthy back. To anyone I ever mocked for sleeping on a firm bed, I humbly rescind my words. A firm bed is the bomb! for my back, that is.

So now that my back is back, I'm back to thinking of better things, like sex...

The God Daughter

About a year ago I blogged on the magical conception and birthing of my neice - Sophia. Here she is a year later, green-gray eyes! hair now curly and 6 teeth and counting. Her mother strongly believes in bonding her to her fairy Godmothers so they both visited for a weekend. Here's a rundown of events.

Friday night: After 6 hours of driving in traffic the girls arrive at 11:00 pm. Duke slobbers over Sophia (or was it the other way around?) and after a few minutes of playtime she's ready for a nap.

Saturday: Sophia sleeps in till 7:30! We eat bagels and while I run errands Sophia takes a nice long nap. We take Duke and Sophia to the park and wear both of them out with an hour's walk. Sophia naps while Radha and I sip cocktails and have some adult time. All three of us girls dress for dinner and head over to La Cibeles. We are met by all the male waiters who are utterly charmed by Sophia. She spends a few quality minutes with each of them, blaring her green eyes to the helpless males. Our friend Barb & Lou join us for dinner and are convinced Sophia looks just like Halle Berry's daughter Nahla. After grawing on a few chicken fingers she falls promptly asleep until we get home.

At home I spread a deck of cards in front of her (the very same ones I read for her mother 2 years ago). She picks 6 cards so I spread the core of a Celtic Cross for her. Not surprisingly, she is one mighty woman, old souled and with a destiny as majestic as it is beautiful. Every woman should have a destiny as promising. And I must say, every woman does if she chooses.

Sunday: Radha makes us Crab Cakes Benedict. Yuuuummmm! But Sophia, on the brink of welcoming new teeth has decided New Jersey is just not fun anymore. Radha packs them up and off they head back to Maryland. As I tidy the house I find one lone booty sock on guest bedroom floor. All the remains of my God Daughter's visit.

Don't Let Your Sun Go Down on Me.

Hugely amused these days by the Jimmy Dean breakfast commercials. Can't help but being tickled by the portrayal of galactic powerhouses played by intentionally weak and sissified humans.

The premise of each commercial is the Sun, channeled by an Opie-reminiscent actor, boosting his fellow planets and other atmospheric entities through their cycles via the fuel only a Jimmy Dean breakfast can provide. The Rainbow lacks color, the Moon is crescent when he should be full. Fog is surly and clouds up the kitchenette.

The most recent ad is clutch-your-stomach hilarious. Setting: gray carpeted office. The sun stands proudly amidst the galaxy. The planets totter & stumble through their eliptical cycle as if drunken or in a weakened stupor.

Mars, the warrior planet is played by balding man who lists his rotund crimson belly off it's epicenter. Now we know Mars is volatile and was prone to volcanic activity, however we're pretty sure it never tumbled off it's planetary axis. This Mars does and rolls onto his so-not-warrior ass.

Neptune, a kindly looking guy-next-door, resplendant in his light blue sphere streaked with ribbons of white, bumps into a table and skids to the floor. Accordingly to astrology Neptune represents spirituality, mysticism, and ideals. Neptune also covers the misfits of society. Ah, say no more.

Jupiter, second only to the Sun in galatic and astrological fire power, stands in the corner facing a wall.

Of the planets, only Earth and Venus are cast as women. Venus hugs a potted plant. Not quite what you would expect from the planet of Love and Beauty. While Earth looks confused and stalled in her rotation.

My favorite is the avuncular actor portraying Mercury. Barely 5 feet tall, the guy looks like an uncle I might meet at a Church meeting rather than the messenger of the Gods on feather light wings.

Of course it all turns out well. The sun feeds his cronies a breakfast sandwich and as quick as you can say Gravitational Pull the planets are right as rain.

I'm so glad the folks at Jimmy Dean are sticking to simple planetary events. Imagine their re-enactment of Black Hole Sun or Saturn Return?

View it.

Vacation Backlash

Back from vacation and feeling more than the usual back-to-my-life-blahs. While I could blame this on my fading tan, I'm more compelled to point a finger at the celestial bodies wreaking havoc above and on this earth. Alex Miller offers a robust analysis of our most recent state of unrest, caused by Pluto digging into Capricorn after a 13 year stint in Sagittarius.

So as a balm for my vacation blues I'm offering you this nugget to muse over.

The Road to Ronda

A new friend from Marbella invites us to her country home in Ronda. A summer house in the mountains? Lovely I think, envisioning deep green pastures and rolling fields of clover. The fact that my fantasies of European country life resembles the set of the Sound of Music should tell you something. Cecilia tells us it's a very curvy drive. The roads vindicate her comment, proving to be delightfully twisty, and in some places, treacherous. What I don't count on are the radical shifts in terrain. One moment deep ravines, around another curve water trickles down a boulder, presumably from melting ice. The sun adds intensity to the landscape by dodging through metallic clouds. Across a ravine the sun breaks on the side of the mountain shining on what appears to be snow. On closer look the chalken cliffs reveal themselves to be nothing but rock. But what a surreal, lunar moonscape! Surely this could double as a set for Apollo 13?

I'm told this magnificent range of mountains is the Sierra Bermeja.The animal life appears as abundant as the landscape pristine. Woolly sheep hug the rocky crags, in coats of dirty white, rust and yellow they graze on spiky shoots of grass. The possibility of crossing paths with one of these guys or a cow, sparrow hawk, long-eared owl or an Egyptian mongoose! is a possibility that thrills me as they are all inhabitants of this Sierra.

We reach our destination within one hour, with Cecilia skillfully navigating the curves, Julie closing her eyes lest she hurl and me devouring the countryside. Our hosts, Maren and Ignacio Diaz meet us at a gravel path, beckoning us to follow their dusty Land Rover. We follow down a dustier path that might be mistaken for a road. Later we are told this adventurous driveway had to be built as no other means existed to navigate to the house. This comment personifies our hosts, as we learn they are masters of conjuring whatever they envision.

We arrive at the house, which is more of an estate than the snug country home I anticipated. It's all a country home should be: a gorgeously sprawling main house; horse stables in which live Uniquo - a tall dark handsome fellow with an almost black mane and Flora - a dainty former working horse with a wheat-colored mane plaited coquettishly over one eye; an eternity pool built for swank patio parties and summer lounging with a jacuzzi inserted in the middle. Best of all is Puccini, a feathery, blond Labrador who gently grabs my sundress in his teeth and leads me to his favorite spots. He's so obviously a human lounging around in a canine body. I can't help but kiss his muzzle and melt at his beseeching gaze that seems to say 'You wanna pet me. You know you do.'

Our hosts serve champagne, olives grown on their olive grove, jamon serrano and crumbly Manchego cheese made from sheep's milk. Normally I love the holy trinity of bubbly, briny & salty. But today I'm a wee bit queasy from last night's Sangria, made with delicious local wine but an ungodly amount of sugar and ultra sweet fruit brandy. So instead I sip lightly, hoping to do justice to our lunch - Paella Marinara.

Lunch is served in an indoor courtyard, reminiscent of a Moroccan palace but with distinctively European views of rambling hills. Olive oil, grown from the olive grove and pressed locally is passed to soak up the hearty breads. The aroma of the oil first captures attention, grassy and redolent of young green onions. Then the paella, deeply yellow from the saffron, is moist and unctuous. The tiny calamari are tender and infused with a seafood broth as is the rice. Matter of fact, all the fish has reached a similar state - the tiny cockles, juicy shrimps, with heads still intact, tender bits of filleted fish.

The host and his son Luca (named after Suzanne Vega's famous song) entertain the house full of women. Ignacio is a casual metrosexual wearing great jeans and the demeanor of a man at peace with life. Luca has the face of an angel and the manners of a diplomat. He charms us with scenes from his favorite movies in impeccable English. Mr. Bean Goes on Vacation features prominently. No mere Cars or Ice Age creatures for this sophisticated child. Moreover he configures oil freighters (complete with cranes, captains and motors) out of Lego's. We sense a facility for engineering with that little man...He invites us to view a movie. As Mr. Bean is unavailable we tuck into a Night at the Museum in the upstairs viewing room, replete with sound-reducing sueded walls and light-reflecting navy decor.

While the menfolk finish the film Maren charms us in the great room. A steady fire has been burning from the same log in the walk-in fireplace to warm our chilly shoulders. I can't decide what kind of wood it is as nothing in the USA has such a long burn time. I assume it's one of those magical logs that litter the Andalucian countryside as I've seen tree stumps curing on the roadside. Maren has gentle blue eyes at odds with her lean energetic frame. She speaks several languages beautifully and manages to make each of us the center of attention. No small feat in a roomful of 5 women. She's a successful entrepreneur and I'm guessing it doesn't hurt her business at all to look like a celebrity.

A fellow guest, a resident of Malaga has graciously brought me a present of an Egyptian Tarot Deck. Bae is a water nymph masquerading as a woman - willowy, mischievous, lush with emotion. I read a spread called the Celtic Cross in the magnificent gold papered Egyptian deck. I've never seen it before but know instinctively how to interpret the nubile characters. We talk, a room full of women each from a different destination on the globe. And yet we understand each other intuitively, sisters from a previous life, forever bonded by spirit. There's an Indian proverb that says: When two or more women gather together, the stars come out in daylight. The stars shone that afternoon.

We talk about careers, men, art. And yes, in that order. I find out why my attempts to dance at the local discotheques have been met with such a negative reception. I am chagrined to learn only prostitutes (many of whom are Russian) patronize the venues. Never having been mistaken for either Russian nor a lady of the evening I accept the inevitable conclusion that I will not be dancing while in Marbella.

A couple from Madrid arrives. They tell me of a street in Madrid populated with Indian restaurants and their fondness for the cuisine. I invite them to New York so I can properly prepare a meal on my own turf. They are either very polite or would love to take me up on the invitation. The sun prepares to descend, showing off colors that a painter would greedily hoard. Time appears to stand still as the sun suspends itself between two mountains for seemingly an hour.

It's night time before we finally drag ourselves away. We are replete, exhausted, enamored of this home and it's inhabitants. Tomorrow I fly home but today I must drag my head out of the magical clouds of Ronda.

So this is Marbella

On retrospect, I will view my time in Spain as Godsend. Exhaustion sets in from crazy work hours assisting in the divestiture of businesses for a company I will not name (for fear of being attacked). Top that off with the death of my grandfather at the ripe age of 102, I was beat! So a week in the Costa Del Sol was a welcome diversion.

Marbella, south of Spain. Oddly fascinating juxtaposition of cultures, languages and personalities. My hostess for the trip is Cecilia, a statuesque Swede with white blond hair and a glorious pink-gold tan. She's magnificent and adorable by turns. She lives in the highest building perched on the highest point in Marbella. She finds space in her minuscule but sophisticated apartment to accommodate not one but two finicky females. There's three of us, the Tres Amigas; the athletic Swede Cecilia, Julie an exotic Asian/Swede and me - Indian but taken for everything from Brazilian to Moroccan.

Situated on the east coast of Spain, Marbellan weather is reminiscent of the Bay Area. Smokey, sultry, chilly mornings that the stinging sun burns away by noon. Though watery at times the sun doesn't forget it's atomic origins and singes skin, hair and unprotected toes in its path. Days are spent sunning at the beach, on the terrace, at the Puento Romano resort that's hosting the Andalucia Women's Tennis Invitational. Red clay courts (my favorite!), talented girls slugging it out amidst polite applause. The one day we miss Serena Williams gets eliminated in the first round.

Day trips are a must and we visit Gibraltar, hugely amused by the Apes, the size of small dogs, hair bleached blond by the sun. Sweet, sorrowful faces as wrinkled as a 90 year-old's. They eat fruits and vegetables and invite themselves into cars, on your shoulders and head. They find Cecilia's hair fascinating. The feeling is not reciprocated. While fascinating from a historical perspective Gibraltar today has a dingy overcrowded vibe, packed with Brits, North Africans and Spaniards. While the view of Morocco over the strait is stunning, the coastline has declined into an industrial glut of tankers and cranes. Apparently The Rock is not adequate to house all the eager inhabitants therefore land is being manufactured on the ocean, a la Dubai. It's a shame really, for such an ancient harbor to be overwhelmed by industry, not it's historical significance.

While Gibraltar is the bottom-most tip of Europe, Mijas is further north easterly. The drive offers unparallelled views of the Mediterranean, reminding me of the Amalfi Coast, my favorite place on earth. Perhaps due to the promixity to Good Friday that we see not one but 6 aerial crosses in the sky. Ethereal trails lefts by planes that transform heaven into a cathedral.

The roundabouts - rondels - instead of traffic lights in Fuengirola. Each a spectacular display of gardening delight. Red, orange, lavender Bougainvillea. Symphonies of geraniums, Banzai trees, and eerily lifelike sculptures of elephants at the Holiday Inn mage resort.

Each restaurant or cafe is cuter than the next. We're starving but when we stop for a bite we're informed it's siesta time till 7:00. Three ravenous girls can NOT wait till 7:00 so we pacify our hunger with cheese, olives, bread and wine. A friendly little dog we dub Mr. Happy trots by and politely asks for a snack. Indeed he gets one. The shopping can't be beat. Jewelry, tchachkis, souvenirs, clothing. Oh my!

In the midst of the charming towns we come across a Tibetan temple. Even more fascinating is the Good Friday montage playing out the crucifixion of Christ on the hillside next to the temple. The bone white temple is modern yet pure with spirituality. I am moved to tears, sensing the dieties that blessed this temple. We purchase momentos from an outgoing clerk with piercing blue eyes that somehow manages to steal a kiss from each of us. The sound of Tibetan chanting is our soundtrack as we traverse from town to town.

Each day we return home exhausted, dusty and happy. We sip wine, have a Nat Sherman as we dress for dinner. Birds sing till nightfall, which is 9:00 pm in this part of the world. Once the birds fall silent, the dogs take up the symphony, yapping and chattering from dusk till the wee hours. And as we get closer to sleep a few dogs relent to the night and howl their sorrows as only a dog can.

Requiem for a Grandfather

The thing I will always remember about my grandfather's funeral will not be the thousands of people who showed up from all corners of the earth. It will not be his seven children or 18 grandchildren or 11 great grandchildren exhausted after keeping vigil by his side after 4 months in the hospital. It won't be the century-old buddies or the former employees, students or colleagues that paid tribute.

It will be the way his culture bid him farewell. Aged men gazing on their crony with deep sadness and a surge of disbelief. For here lay the man who cheated old age for more than a century. The way the women cradled his stone cold head in their hands, blessing his forehead with the love only a woman can bestow. The way my cousins Polly and Patty's voices broke when they sang a medley of Amazing Grace. So much so that the audience picked up the melody so the girls' voices, thickened by grief could rest. The way my cousin Yvonne sobbed at the closing of his casket and told the congregation, I cry not for him but myself for he is no longer here to guide me. I have to find someway to find the answers inside me now. The music performed by my cousins Rekha and Tommy which gave eerie beauty to such a somber ceremony.

Most of all I will remember the rain pouring down during the funeral service but the clouds blowing away as we drove to the cemetery. The sunlight as it bathed us and the casket as we tossed roses upon it.

Most of all, the sense of closure as the most important familial chapter of my life ended with the casket was lowering into the earth.

Veeraiah B. Chedalavada. January 13, 1907 – March 29, 2009

Luposlipaphobia

Imagine a psychic poet writing about an ironic comedian. That's what Rob Breszny did when he mentioned Gary Larson in last week's FreeWill newsletter. He wrote:

Cartoonist Gary Larson defines luposlipaphobia as the fear of being pursued by timber wolves around a kitchen table while wearing socks on a newly-waxed floor.

If being chased by timber wolves isn't funny enough, throw in the kitchen table and a newly waxed floor and I'm in stitches. The fact the Urban Dictionary lists this phobia along with an excerpt from the original cartoon thrills me to no end.

But then that's what it takes to move me, or even amuse me these days.