An'glow' Saxon

Yesterday Raphael and I went to the beach. It was a beautiful, breezy, blue experience. The water was clear and vibrant aqua. The sand reflected the brightness of the shining, expansive sky. Palm trees swayed elegantly as muscled bodies jogged to and fro in front of us along the waterline. It was the perfect day to lay on a towel and tap your foot as the latest GaGa streamed into your earbuds.

When we arrived it was quite windy. I had a hell of a time trying to get the umbrella pole stationed into the sand. People all around smiled politely as they internally laughed at my clumsy attempts. I looked like a frazzled Roald Amundsen in flip flops trying to lay claim to this part of the beach. Finally, Raphael did some kind of 'drilling' technique with the collapsed umbrella pole. He tamped around the base and pushed open the flowery canopy. Voila! I was in the shade. Neighboring beachies returned to their books and lost interest.

I positioned my chair as Raphael spread out his towel. We settled in with our Ipods, magazines, cooler of Coke Zeros and veggie chips. Stripping down to our swimsuits, we again gained notice. One of us was olive and not working as a solar power alternative. The other was, well, working as a solar power alternative.

Digging into bags, out came the sunblocks. Raphael had a very sophisticated system of 'numbers' for various parts of his body: The SPFs ranged from a 15 for his face, 4 for his legs and arms, 30 for his shoulders and any other assortment concerning various appendages. It was like watching an Australian Gold sponsored skin cancer symposium. He replied stoic-like without looking at me; "Don't knock it....it works." I had no doubt. When I met him last fall, he looked like he had just driven to my place from Ipanema. Over the fall and winter his tan had faded because of weather obstacles and work related time constraints. His spray-on technique would have him looking luminous by dinnertime. I could envision him all carmelly as he tossed the salad while I still looked like a saltine setting the table.

As he rubbed in his sun potions I broke out my Sunblock with an SPF of 70. White paste was spread onto my arms, neck, face, legs and all over. I felt like I was applying window caulk to my skin. Every inch of exposed body had to be covered. If not, a literal hot pink results. I burn like a Southern California brush fire and have to take extreme precaution. My redheaded Welsh/English mother is responsible. I didn't get the freckles and ginger locks but pretty much everything else that comes with my inherited epidermis. In short, I don't tan. Absorbing UV rays and frying is my specialty. My back could be utilized on the 4th of July for various meat and poultry dishes.

A smiling Raphael spread out on his towel and contented himself in a shower of sun. Positioning my chair just so, I huddled under my umbrella. I was clear of direct beams except for the first three toes on my left foot. Reaching forward, I slathered them in cream and lay back in exhaustion. My whole outer layer had been sealed. I should have just put on a hazmat suit. The plan was to stay in the shade for at least a half hour and then do a quick little splash in the ocean for less than 10 minutes. If I kept my exposure to a total of less than a half hour, a crimson skin should be kept at bay. I opened up my Vanity Fair and read about Tiger and the waitress from the Orlando Perkins. Speaking of exhaustion...how did he have the energy to keep all these women in order? But, I digress.

30 minutes went by and it was time to test the welcoming ocean. Raphael was bopping to Mary J Blige and smiling as I mouthed "I am going for a dip." Jumping up, I trekked down to the water. It was surprisingly cool. I stood and tried to get used to the temperature. The fahrenheit was in the 80s but the water had not warmed. I took little steps in the sand and moved farther toward the waves. There was a gorgeous clarity below me as I pushed against the foamy tide. I turned and waved at Raphael who was applying #8 to his neck.

He doesn't know I can't swim. I haven't gotten around to telling him. It is enough of a chore to get me to the beach let alone it's watery depths beyond. The few times we have gone he has never asked why I don't plunge and float like he does. I guess he'll find out when he wants to go snorkeling in the Keys. The truth will eventually come out. In the meantime, wading around in the shallow areas and bobbing a bit will possibly give the impression that I have no aquatic fears. It is tough living in Fort Lauderdale and having to admit you can't swim. People's mouths drop open and can't believe it. They tell me how 'easy' it is to learn. They don't know what they are talking about. I can't stand to stand underneath a shower head. I hyperventilate. Water in and around my ears makes me panic. It is a hard thing to explain to a swimmer. It's like trying to defend not sleeping to a cat. They don't get it and I am fatigued with giving the reasons for my phobia. I tried dating a marine biologist once. It was an impossibility.

After some safe and light bathing, I trudged back to my beach chair. All eyes are on me as they privately converse as to whether I'm an albino or Canadian. Many reapply their sunglasses to prevent the harsh glare. I could never walk on this beach at night during the sea turtle nesting season. The balance of nature would be seriously screwed. (people in Florida will understand this reference.)

Plopping down into my shade, I settle back in its coolness. Raphael offers me a chip. He has already darkened two shades and re-established his Brazilian roots. We peruse the scene and silently shake our heads at old men in thongs, young studs running in unison, giggly girls in bikinis and young children fearlessly charging the water with aghast parents in hot pursuit.
The day is exquisite. It is a beach day extraordinaire. My discomfort with feeling out of place is lessening. The warm skin tones and hazy brightness feel less threatening. A salmon square on the side of my left foot has appeared. Somehow I missed that spot. I pull it out of the sun. The lapping sea lures me into sleepiness and I don't care. I let go.

Just as I slip into a nap I hear Raphael in a lowered voice: "Look! Someone whiter than you!" I smile, shut my eyes and drift away to a land where pale people rule the pool.

Art and goodbyes

Yesterday I dug into some old portfolios and boxes full of my art. It is quite amazing how much I have saved over the years. It appears nothing was thrown away. The record of my creations include everything from early pencil sketches resembling paleolithic scrawls to slick, computerized renderings from the last decade. My creative hand evidently has a link to my artist hoarding brain. Some of what I found is just ridiculous: Half finished pencil renderings of some Victorian building in Key West....... ruined cartoons with ink splots....... bad paintings I did in high school that would embarrass the best of any white trash flea market sale. You can trace my artistic evolution from about 1959 on.

Over the years I have found it increasingly easy to get rid of more and more things. Simplifying my existence has become more of a priority. Letting go of my art has been much harder. I don't know what it is. It's like giving away one of my organs. I become fiercely possessive. These were expressions of my brain. Releasing them causes a certain pain. However, having your tonsils taken out hurts and we don't really need them either. I guess I need to have an appendicitis attack purging of some old art filled revelations.

When I used to have a lot of shows there was a part of me that kind of hoped certain pieces wouldn't sell. It was as if I was hawking off the best of my children. Of course, after a framed whatever was gone, I was usually fine with it. It is just the process of releasing a piece into the unknown that is unsettling. If I do allow the throwing away of certain pieces; I just want to know that its demise is a comfortable and painless experience. It would also be nice if the garbage man gets a glimpse and admires my efforts one last time.

Of course, this all comes down to ego. An artist always hopes that he or she will become famous. Saving even the most trivial creation could be worth something for the collector. Posterity calls for a complete collection of the artist's every, scattered thought funneled into a pencil's mark or a paintbrush. It is a silly notion, for sure, but I am not alone. Most artists are just like me. We think we are more significant than reality suggests. We want that 1966 charcoal drawing of a horse with poorly proportioned legs to be available for exhibition when the lifetime perspective is unveiled on our 85th birthday. The rendering somehow showed an altered and inspired perspective of the brilliance to come. Wait. No it didn't. It was just a bad drawing of a horse with short, oddly muscled legs. No matter. It goes into the box and there may be a distant great nephew who may desire it at a later time.

The truth is, I AM going to toss some stuff this time around. As I go through and make good and bad piles, there will be tiny, private exhibitions for Raphael. This will help in legitimizing my keeping so much for so long and one last look can occur. It won't be just me in my single, pathetic observations of my artistic contributions. He and I already had one last night right before bed. He seemed to enjoy the show. He fell asleep immediately when I finished. Either my creations relaxed him or worked as an anesthetic. The cheap red wine in plastic glasses and finger sandwiches might have been too much.

My best find so far is a satiric treatment involving a few pages of International Male catalogue. I almost got the drawings published in a national magazine. About the time it was to happen, my art editor contact got fired. The story of my life. Maybe I should resend it along with my sketched out conception of a ski resort/ discotheque/ condo complex from 1971? There may be that one person who really gets the genius of my inspired vision. However, only a photocopy can be sent. I MUST keep the original.

Memory trip: Some roads closed...

Currently I am going through lots of boxes and trying to condense my life. The amount of saved statements, receipts, Post-it Note phone numbers (and well, notes), business and holiday cards, random photos and other detritus is daunting. Yesterday I filled a giant garbage bag and readied for shredding an amount of paper that could build a good sized vacation cabin. I could have supplied the confetti for a ticker tape parade. I thought I would never finish sifting.

One thing I found odd was how certain names and phone numbers either immediately rang a distinct bell or were extremely vague. Specific individuals were conjured up in an almost holygraphic image while others appeared foggy and gray. Why certain people left more of an indelible impression is curious. I am still trying to figure out who in the hell some of these people were. It is unsettling. Did I sleep with them? Do they owe me money? Did I share sushi? It makes me feel a bit amnesiac. Has my middle aged memory gone so soft that people I interacted with 5 to 10 years ago can no longer be recalled? I used to pride myself with remembering details about people. It's like I had a life that compares to an ongoing convention of lost name tags I collected. Luckily most of them came back to me . Some are lost forever other than the fact that I have evidence he or she spoke to me and took the time to give me some contact info. And those are just the bar, business cards and random scribblings I came across. The receipts were even more strange....

Why did I buy a jumping robot picture holder? I don't own a jumping robot picture holder. Did I buy it for the mysterious Lance who is listed on a pink sticky note of whom I have no recollection? If so, did I give it to him and did he thank me? Was I present when he opened the box and did I see the delight or embarrassment on his face. I guess I could call the number he wrote down for me except that it is blurred by a water mark. I can't tell if the '4's are '9's and vice versa.

My bank and savings statements were depressing. I used to have a lot more money. I don't want to remember that!

At least with the photos there is evidence that something took place. So far I recognize everyone and it looks like me if I appear in a picture. The one of me peeking around Pikachu in a Tokyo arcade is especially fetching. Luckily I do remember being in Tokyo and playfully hiding behind his (her?) large, yellow head. I think my ex took the picture but it could have been Lance. He might have snapped the shot right before I handed over the robot to him. It is hard to say at this point.

I certainly had a lot of massuer business cards. I found this quite interesting since I have only had two massages in 10 years. The car detailing and upholsterer cards were frequent too but I used these services often. Some things fell into place.

The thing that is really scary is that this is only the beginning. I haven't even gotten the bulk of my stuff out of storage. That happens tomorrow. There are boxes of items I have not looked into for several years. Maybe this will be proof that I really am the Audrey Rose of Broward County. Perhaps the preponderance of multiple personality evidence will be too staggering. Fine I say, as long as something leaves a trail to a forgotten trust fund or long lost Park Avenue, flatted parents. I am up for anything. Bring on the memories both vibrant and non existent!

Relocation

Moving is a hard business.

Not only does your body and material wealth change location; your spirit and soul gets uprooted and replanted. It takes a stressful, agonizing toll.

R and I rented a U-Haul for phase one. As we pulled away from the rental location we noticed a whistling sound coming from the passenger window. The faster we drove, the louder it got. It was like that eerie noise you hear in the rafters during an intense wind storm. The driver's side door also didn't close properly and I could see daylight through it. Later we found a leak inside the cargo area. I must say that the radio worked splendidly.

When we arrived in Miami the first drops of rain began. We looked at each other as if to say "Don't say it." R's loads were to be taken down an elevator, through a parking garage and to the truck on an adjoining street. It was a bit of a trek from his 20th floor apartment. By the second load, the rain was pummeling us. A comforter was thrown over everything and sopping wet. As we finished loading, the rain stopped. Again we looked at one another: "Don't say it."

As we drove back to Fort Lauderdale to drop his things and prepare for my move, the rain increased. The skies opened up and a monsoon exploded. The street was flooding in low spots.
We waited for a break so we could rush to my place and load items. Friends were on standby. Finally the skies were only misting. There was a mad dash to the truck. We jumped in. The truck wouldn't start. The "Don't say it" look washed over our faces except this time it was a bit more pronounced. The beginnings of werewolf characteristics formed. The rental company people were of little aid. Our landlord jumped the truck with some very old and somewhat precarious cables. A half hour was lost but we were off. As we pulled out, the rain returned to Victoria Falls water levels. The only thing to do was to proceed in silence and numbly focus on what lay ahead. We didn't even try to look at each other.

Let's say that the experience of getting possessions from my old apartment to the new was similar to an episode of 'Sea Hunt.' My friends Mookie, Don, Angel, R and I were drenched to the marrow by the time we got everything in the truck. Somehow we managed to keep most of my stuff dry during the transfer. Conditions could not have been worse, short of a hurricane. Our helpers left and swam to their cars. R and I shared a cup of hot tea as we dripped and shivered on our shiny, tile floor. After a tasty pizza and a hastily prepared bed, we slept comatose until the following morning. A challenging day had been conquered. (I was especially proud of myself for not flying into a fit of rage and drowning.)

But that was just the 'literal' move. As I said, one's whole being takes abuse during relocation. There is a sort of malaise that intrudes. Being overwhelmed with details, timing, costs, trying not to fight plus the persistence of endless boxing. Your body aches in places you didn't think it would. Hating yourself for a life of collecting pushes you to realize you wish you only owned a toothbrush, bed and maybe your IPhone. The life you inhabit transforms into this insidious monster that consumes you for a week or so. My psyche felt like it had an ulcer. My inner being was both paralyzed and running a marathon. In short, sanity was dangling precipitously close to the edge of a very tall cliff. It was taking all my strength not to back up the dump truck and shuck it all into some very dark and deep canyon.

It's amazing what a good night's sleep will do after a satiating pizza and a hot shower. The reprieve was temporary. There is still a daunting amount of work to be done (I haven't even gotten my stuff out of storage. That comes this weekend but I have movers....) However, the unearthing and reestablishing of K & R has been accomplished. All that rain we got a few days ago just needs to go into the watering can. Sprinkle it on and let the new life sprout.

Also, try not to think about moving again for a very long time and definitely "Don't say it."

The Panic of the Pedic

For the last few years I have been sleeping on a futon. It was only going to be a temporary fix. When I last moved I didn't take the mattress/box springs. The futon had been the guest bed and I thought it would suffice as my sofa/bed in my studio apartment. For a while this was true. It was well made and had not been used all that much. However, after about three years of use there were signs of a diminishing support system. The mattress was flattening. A slat broke unexpectedly and I had to duct tape it back into place. Still, if I lay on one side, it was acceptable.

Then I met Raphael.....

It was becoming increasingly clear that the bed was showing stress with two people on it. The duct taped slat was on his side of the bed. It needed more support. Books, magazines and anything else short of a flying buttress were installed from the floor up. It worked OK but stacked items shift. One good roll over in the night and a crash of Entertainment Weeklies, self help books and former Geico bills would go sliding like a Malibu mudslide.

One night, a second slat suddenly snapped and Raphael found himself in a sort of hammock position. I got up and made him lemonade and brought him a bowl of mixed nuts. I thought "We'll just make it a summer afternoon type affair." I will turn on the fan to simulate a breeze. My sleep machine had forest bird songs and it was warm enough to pretend we were on the veranda of a plantation. It didn't work so well. He turned the other direction with his feet in my face and said "You have to get a new bed. I will pay half."

The next day we went to the futon store and found that I could still get replacement slats. It would take a few weeks. In the meantime, we stayed at Raphael's place as much as possible and I looked for loose items I could stack under the bed. It was beginning to look like the nest of a periodical reading squirrel.

It turned out the slats were no longer made and the futon store owner had to cut some for me. I picked them up and they looked just like the originals. He said they would snap into place. His assessment was incorrect. They would snap into place if you were Mike Tyson pushing down on them. Neither Raphael or I could get them in. One side would fit and the other end would be like an unbendable cricket bat as hard as an interstate highway. We finally decided to 'rest' one end on the frame and slip the other side into the agreeable slat. Again the duct tape came out and new books were placed underneath (this time I did a series of Life/Time books on animals and their worldwide habitats.) For a time this rickety excuse for a fix seemed to work. The bed was solid. We got a foam pad and placed it over the mattress and the comfort level went up about 50%. Then one night we were having an intimate experience and the duct tape worked its way off the slats and book # 6 (The Animals of Southeast Asia) slipped and it sounded like World Trade Center 4 imploding. There was no speaking. He just gently pushed me over to the edge and then lay pressed against me the opposite way. Again, his feet were in my face.

We made the decision to move in together. First rule of order: Get a NEW bed and make payments on a really, really, nice one. We chose a Tempur-Pedic. It seemed like the logical choice. Raphael's roommate had one and loved his. The 'Pedic' bed just seemed like the gold standard. We ordered one and it would be shipped and assembled on the very first day of our move-in. We also had a great payment plan. The futon would somehow be jerry-rigged and used as a guest bed. The treasured sleep experience would at last be just days away.

A few nights ago I received an email from a very dear friend. I had mentioned to her in a former email that I was soon to be the proud owner of a Tempur-Pedic. About half way through the letter she casually says "I don't know if you have signed on the dotted line for the new bed but......." She then went on to list the 'cons' of said bed: Release of toxins from the chemicals in the foam, the structure of the foam density doesn't breathe and the sleep experience can be hot. Other consumers said their beds turned to a mushy softness after about four years and on and on. She piqued my interest and I Googled 'Tempur-Pedic Complaints.' To my amazement were horrific, anecdotal statements from consumers who got rashes, hives, breathing problems, severe headaches and even some documented heart attacks from exposure to fumes! One woman was so ill after only a few days on her new bed that she moved it to the garage and wouldn't go near it. Our Nirvana sleep experience had suddenly turned into a nightmare. The more I researched, the more reports and articles I found. I felt panicked and heartsick at the same time. Was I overreacting? It was hard to say.

Never mind the fact that my very good friend has OCD..............

Obviously, I had to take this into consideration. I love her as much as it is possible to love another human but she has gotten freaked out at cemeteries, wondering if the diseases of the dead people could somehow work their way to the surface and infect us while we visit our deceased relatives. I calmly told her "No." I think she trusted me as we continued our walk through historic grave sites. Certain medications have also calmed her significantly over the years and she is considerably better. Trust me, OCD is no laughing matter. I mean her no disrespect. The poor woman has suffered and conquered many of her fears. I have learned to tolerate her anxieties about various phobias. However, this time she was making sense and had sufficient backup. Her alarmist bell was ringing true. It didn't seem like a paranoid reaction.

I canceled the Tempur-Pedic order the next day.

This has caused some tension between Raphael and me. I think he thinks I'm crazy although he assures me he does not. It's true, my behavior did shift 'a bit' in 48 hours. I went from Tempur-pedic friendly to a sort of delusional, fear mongering tea-baggeresque harbinger of foam death beds. He pats my head and tells me any decision I make will be just fine. In time he will come around when all of our Tempur-Pedic, sleeping friends are in comas, on disability or dead. I must show patience and believe that God has spoken to me (even though I don't really believe in him..unless he is the editor of Consumer Reports.)

We are now getting a Sleep Number bed. I feel much relief and Raphael is happy to see me pleased. Thank goodness the alternative was easily solved and it didn't take too much effort.
The only drawback is that we have to wait longer for its arrival. They are custom made and not readily available. The Time Life series plus my set of Collier's Encyclopedias will now have to be bungee strapped together for at least another week of futon base. We have made it this far so I guess another 10 days of somewhat lumpy sleep will have to be tolerated. The wait will be worth it. No long term toxicity and warm foam night sweats. It pays to have a friend with OCD once in a while.

I just got an email from her telling me Sleep Numbers have electro-magnetic fields. She wouldn't sleep on one but it is up to me.......

Concert

Last night Raphael and I attended the David Gray concert at the Fillmore in Miami Beach. It was a great show. The venue is fantastic and has good acoustics, a cool interior space and small enough that there is an intimacy of sorts. It was one of those rare shows where the audience felt connected and truly shared a love for the performer. It was like he had come home to his family. The connection between concert goers was palpable. It felt like a party while showing respect for the guy on stage. There was strong enthusiasm but never an obnoxious rowdiness that too often happens at live, rock or pop events. Gray can touch your soul when he sings one of his beautiful, cathartic ballads. I admit it; I am a crybaby. He got me during 'Meet me on the other side.'

I don't go to concerts all that much anymore but I am really glad I made it to this one. I was proud that Miami gave Gray such a rousing welcome. He had never been here before and I was thrilled we showed the enthusiasm he so richly deserves. His voice and songs have truly dug into my psyche over the years. To experience him in real time was an honor and an elixir for the troubled times in which we live. I bow and remove my hat to this Welsh troubadour. He will always find a place in my beating, blood pumper.

Imbecilic Imbecile imbibing on Imbecilianisms

A couple of days ago I must have been in an extremely opiated mood because I actually allowed Sarah Palin's increasingly caricatured face and 'Nails digging into your Retinas' voice to permeate my TV screen. I mean I actually sat at my computer and "LISTENED" and "WATCHED" this modern day She devil as she spewed sarcastic vitriol and homespun detritus at me. At first I was calm and just glumly stared back at her lip gloss and dancing eyes. Stonefaced, I absorbed her blabbering cries of Obamacare! Socialism! Freedom lovers vs America Haters! Drill Baby Drill and 'Targeting' of traitors!

My eyes glazed over as I centered in on the rich vermillion of her suit. It was a form of delicious color Hell and I was privately water boarding my brain while simultaneously numbing out. Suddenly a crack of dawn light seared into my consciousness and I abrubtly woke up. She had tricked me and caught me off guard. Blood rushed back into my cranium. ALL of my auditorium's lights popped on and the psyche was bathed in white. In short, I woke up. Without a hint of warning, I screamed a phrase so vile, so base, so incredibly obscene, that I actually gave myself a shiver. If my words had been gun fire, the television set would have looked like Bonnie and Clyde's car after their massacre.

Not missing a beat, I composed myself and sank back into my desk chair. I inhaled a deep breath and quietly echoed the insane cursing once more under my breath. It was a comforting, reassuring purr of pure disgust. I was like a man who knows he has seen 'real crazy' and he must keep it at bay. You just learn to stay away from it and not open those doors. Unwittingly, I had let them swing free and the darkness sucked me in. Never again. If the Palin comes a knockin,' I go a walkin......' The one second rule applies from this point on: Image seen, Remote button clicked, Said image immediately blocked, land on Comedy Central, Weather Channel, anything!

Let me distill this further. I would rather watch an irritable mother opossom eat her placenta after a messy birth. You get the idea.

Karaoke, fried chicken and unbridled power

Tonight I attended a karaoke party at a friend's house. There were 5 of us who rotated songs. We had to do 1. A love song. 2. An Elton John song. 3. A country song. 4. A Broadway tune. 5. Our choice. All went well for me until I attempted 'Losing my Religion' by R.E.M. I didn't know it as well as I thought. No matter. All was forgiven because I brought the delicious fried chicken. I now know it will be my covered dish, knock em' dead offering whenever there is pot luck. I think it is something in the skin and tender white meat. The succulent taste on the buds distracts and regular thinking patterns get a bit mushy....a bit overly focused on a comfort food high. I could have sung 'North to Alaska' while wetting myself and all would have been copacetic........

My best song was 'What'll I do?" It was the Linda Ronstadt version. The guys were moved. The chicken of course, made them all more zeroed in on me. In this case, it was the sunflower oil after taste that sharpened their listening skills and over all perception. You see, the deliciousness of most things fried (in this case mostly breasts and thighs) can lead you either way: Complete numbed out, full of tummy blank mindedness or juicy, laser pointed attentiveness. I am telling you, it is magic. Good fried chicken is the new heroin/crack for the social scene. You bring it. You control the width, breadth, height and depth of any social gathering. Suddenly you are king and all are serfs eating out of your hand. Next time I am doubling my assorted pieces and look forward to the doped up slaves with mouths watering and complete non-judgments. Fried chicken is the future. Fried chicken is a sacred gift. Take it to the next party. Watch your power blossom as your sweet, party thuggery condemns all others to nothingness while you rule with the divine scepter of Drumstick.

Unsettled out of Zzzzzz...

This morning I was awakened at approximately 4:30 A.M. by 'something' skittering, brushing or featherly flapping against my neck. The sensation was just vague enough that it gave me a shiver and got me up. I didn't even look for the culprit and suspect it was a small spider or maybe a moth. Either way, my imagination immediately went to something larger and much more frightening. What if it was a lizard? A Palmetto Bug? The Crypt Keeper's fingertips? A Teabagger tickling me with a flag? That last one just makes my blood run cold......

So, I got up, swigged from a bottle of water and sat down at my drawing board. There was no use trying to sleep anymore. Besides, I could get a head start on my weekly cartoon. Switching on my lamp, I blearily stared at my pencil sketch I had begun hours earlier. It was an image of a man holding his head in his hands while sitting on some steps. He looked depressed. My idea was the unfinished idea for a parody of an anti-depressant called 'Catholica' (pronounced Kath-all-eh-kah) The pill's purpose is to help Catholics who have had it with their church; may have priest abuse memories or troubled faith. The drawing was mostly complete and it needed inking.

I threw myself into it. As I drew, I wondered what it was like to grow up going to catechism, attending all those masses, maybe having a priest who didn't know boundaries and being able to choose from all those saints. My childhood was loosely based in a mixture of Methodism and the Congregational Church. There were no strict rules or steadfast doctrine my family followed. Sure, we went to church but it was an arbitrary event. We didn't say grace before meals. I certainly didn't have to eat fish on Fridays. Besides, I was allergic to it. Tuna was the only fish that didn't make my throat close shut. I guess I could have counted on a can of Starkist every Friday. just in case my parents switched to Catholicism.

We didn't have a Catholic school in my hometown so all my non-protestant friends went to public institutions with me. They didn't seem all that different except that they had to kneel at services and had weddings that were much longer and elaborate. No one I knew was abused by the local priest but who knows?

My paternal grandparents were very protestant and conservative Methodists. Neither of them had ever been in a Catholic church until my cousin Patty was married in the mid 60s. She married a Catholic guy and it horrified them at the time. It took all their courage to go to the ceremony. My cousin still laughs when she remembers my grandmother looking simultaneously freaked and amazed at the rows of Saints displayed. Grandmother Miller thought Catholics were idol worshipers who weren't really Christian. She was a really nice woman but really bigoted when it came to Catholics. Such stuff just amazes me. It was her southern upbringing, I guess.

My other grandparents were Mormon so they couldn't really say anything about anyone. How do you criticize a guy in a skyscraper hat and Prada Shoes when your original leader had multiple wives and an angel named Moroni who flew over New York state?

Either way, my background did not lead me to dislike Catholics. That is not the thrust of this latest cartoon. What I can't stand is the church's dogma and ridiculous dug in policies concerning birth control, marriage, gays, women and a whole lot of other things. There is plenty to criticize. The Catholic leadership pretty much deserves the fan of excrement that is currently being flung its way. My cartoon is but a reflection.

But getting back to whatever woke me up this morning...perhaps it was the spirit of satire forcing me up so I could get this cartoon done early and to the presses? I may never know but I am looking for spider webs before bedtime.

A room with a view

As I sip my morning coffee I am sitting 20 stories up in Raphael's apartment in Miami. The view is spectacular as I look north toward Broward County. If I get out the binoculars I can almost see lost Canadians searching for Aventura Mall. Sadly, the view won't be a pleasure much longer. Raphael and I are moving in together in a few weeks and we will be at ground level. Not that that is a bad thing. We'll be able to open the blinds and see lawns with neatly painted, late 70s tri-plexes amidst South Florida foliage (one of several, bland, urban Broward looks I have come to appreciate.)

The visuals won't be as uptown fancy as my weekends have been in this place but the rewards of our own place with hassle free parking will be worth it. The new place is very nice inside and I can actually get my stuff out of storage for the first time in almost 4 years. (When I visited recently there were forgotten surprises: a 1940s chair, an old 50s Hi-Fi and a box of German Shepard puppies....luckily someone had been feeding them. They looked chipper and alert as I opened my unit!)

I will say goodbye to my beloved studio and the zen experience. Raphael will lose his view of Biscayne Bay. Together we will gain the creative experience of setting up our own world and have the added advantage of TWO, mind you, TWO Publix within 5 minutes, north or south of us (not to mention, as the real estate ads mention: "Only steps from Georgie's Alibi, Rosie's and the nightlife of Wilton Drive!") In other words......the nerve center of gay social life on the eastern seaboard. I have always wondered what it would be like to be able to walk or ride my bike to Nirvana........now I will know!

Kashi Morning

Today is a Kashi morning. Sometimes it's a peanut butter/jam/toast kind of wake up....sometimes it's left over Moo Goo Gai Pan. Basically, I will eat anything when I get out of bed. It doesn't need to be breakfast hour appropriate. Cold Jambalaya and Diet Dr. Pepper is just fine. I can treat the nighttime reverse the same way. Eggs Florentine and Sanka could be welcome an hour before bed. But that's just me......I basically have the eating discretion of a Blue Heeler.

But let's get beyond dietary choices. It appears to be a lovely day in South Florida. I can see sunshine drenching the homeless man as he sleeps in my backyard. I must remember to go and rub some spf 75 on him after I quit writing. He usually doesn't wake up until way past noon.

Today will be a writing day with my two writing buddies, Mookie and Ben. We are set to begin on the second episode of our TV show (yet untitled) that we have been working on for the last several months. Back in February we had a reading with actors as they performed the 2 hour pilot. It was an exciting and scary process. All was laid bare that night. We got good feedback but had to go back and do surgery. Now it is onto episodes two and three and a timeline of events up to a complete 8 to 10 episodes. After we complete 3 or 4 shows we will shop our creation around via an agent and see what happens. Over time I will tell you more about this process and how we are progressing. I would tell you more now but it is difficult to type while munching on a mid-morning hoagie. Plus, I have to plan the menu for the writing session. Hmmmm.......Beef Wellington or sushi? Polenta or chimichanga wraps? The choices are endless as are the plot lines. I've got it! Tang with Space Bars and spinach dip!

So.....that should be about it for now. Contessa Brewer is starting to give me a headache on MSNBC and I must shift gears. I'm not sure if it's her voice, perfect hair or her straining to make us believe she is a real journalist. Think I will switch over to Stephanie Miller on my computer radio. She makes me laugh and I need some levity. Perhaps the homeless man can share in the fun as I turn the speakers toward him just outside. He has moved to the patio and is starting to turn a bit pink. Time to find that sunscreen and bring him his morning coffee. Maybe he can test the spinach dip as well......Hmmm....Have a good day.

The first drops of thought...

Hi everyone. Tonight I decided to create a blog because my boyfriend created one today. I didn't want to be one upped so it was a necessary decision. I am like that. If he had joined a cocaine cartel or purchased a 1967 Pontiac Bonneville, it would be the same. Thank Gawd he didn't because I hate hiding in remote mountain villages where I have to be heavily armed. And, finding a 67 Bonneville and driving to such a place is even more challenging. (Although I LOVE a good road trip while on the lamb!)

Anyway, not much to impart this first time around. I didn't even know I was going to be doing this an hour ago.....drinking a Coke Zero while watching 'The Daily Show' was the only thing on my agenda. It's amazing how the unexpected can take over and lead one to typing at the end of the day. Who knows where it will lead? (hopefully into your noggin to get your attention OR possibly to a Costco near you!) Let's talk soon and you buy the coffee while I find decent seating.