Rush and Shellac

Today after a much frenzied facebook discussion of Rush, spurred only by the fact that I knew they were Canadian, I treated myself to a bit of the Gods of Prog on my way home from school. I totally understand why people don't like them, but I also believe that most of these people have not truly "listened" to Rush. You know, the way you can argue with your significant other without "hearing" them. I cannot imagine a world where someone who likes rock music can put on headphones, turn up the volume as loud as is comfortable, and listen to "Cygnus X-1" with their eyes closed, lying on the floor, and does not walk away having their mind blown down the black hole.

As I drove down Sunset past the dinosaurs of rock n roll days past, windows down and screaming along with Geddy, I felt pumped and turned to the only other band that I could think of that would foster the same feeling, Shellac. I made a playlist and only got through two songs before getting home, but they were:

1. My Black Ass (At Action Park)
This song is simply incredible and probably the best example of who Shellac is. Every single whamp of the drums is a living entity, which explains to me why I can listen to Todd Trainer play a monotonous drum beat for 11 minutes and feel completely inspired and engaged by it.

2. Prayer to God (1000 Hurts)
Not only is this song angry as can be (probably why it is one of their most popular), but it speaks to me for two distinct reasons beyond this. First, it is the most personally engaging song Shellac has ever written, lyrically. Coming from a band who seems to write most of their music as a way to say "Hey, see what we can do? And see how we do it better than anyone else?", this track about infidelity and the anger caused by it is unabashedly frank. Second, for such a harsh, angular and powerful song, it's one of the more vocally diverse of Shellac recordings, with quite a nice melodic quality to the vocals. Of course, really, the idea behind a song praying to God to kill someone is also just kind of fantastic.

To the one true God above:
here is my prayer -
not the first you've heard, but the first I wrote.
(not the first, but the others were a long time ago).
There are two people here, and I want you to kill them.
Her - she can go quietly, by disease or a blow
to the base of her neck,
where her necklaces close,
where her garments come together,
where I used to lay my face...
That's where you oughta kill her,
in that particular place.
Him - just fucking kill him, I don't care if it hurts.
Yes I do, I want it to,
fucking kill him but first
make him cry like a woman,
(no particular woman),
let him hold out hope that someone or other might come
then fucking kill him
Fucking kill him.
Kill him already, kill him.
Fucking kill him, fucking kill him,
Kill him already, kill him.
Fucking kill him, fucking kill him,
Kill him already, kill him.
Just fucking kill him! Fucking kill him,
Fucking kill him already, kill him.
Ah Fucking kill him, fucking kill him,
Kill him already, kill him.
Kill him already, kill him already
Kill him, fucking kill him.
Just fucking kill him, fuckin kill him,
Kill him already, kill him.
Fuckin kill him, kill him,
Fucking kill him already, kill him.

Kill him, fucking kill him,
Kill him, just fucking kill him.
Kill them already, kill them already,
Kill him.
Amen.

Beef Dip Win

Sometimes I get confused when I look in the fridge and I can't understand what sort of a whole I can make of the parts inside. Tonight, no confusion.

Trader Joes Nitrate Free Roast Beef
Leftover Hamburger Buns
1/4 cup of chicken stock
Block of Cheddar
(look in the freezer)
French Fries

GO!

I put oil in the cast iron, got the fries going. The buns got buttered and thrown into the non-stick, and the stainless steel received the slices of beef. I heated up the beef slice by slice, and set it in a bowl. I deglazed the beef bits in the bottom of the pan with some bourbon, chicken stock and whisked briskly. To the Au Jus I added some freshly ground black pepper and a little bit of Worcestershire Sauce and then poured that over the beef in the bowl, and stuck it in the oven.

I fished the fries out of the oil, grabbed the toasted buns and sliced some of the cheddar.

The assembled product was delicious, if not dangerously unhealthy when washed down with a bottle of Mexican Coke.

How do we achieve balance?

Today I got an email from the AFA (American Family Association, which I have no idea how I wound up on their mailing list) that was about the "Silencing" of Christians in America, politically and socially. It's odd how this comes at a time when Christians seem to have an overwhelming amount of political and social power in America, with it being reported this week that only 4 out of every 10 Americans accept the Theory of Evolution, and with the creation and flourishing business done by the Creationism Museum in Kentucky. But let's assume that this phenomenon is as they say it is, that Christians are being silenced, and their interests are not being represented. My intial response is GREAT! I think that it is ridiculous that Christians would be crying foul after having this country cater to their political and religious whims for over 200 years, but still this is going to be latched onto for what it mist certainly is, a politicized martyrdom. It's an extension of the Conservatives crying out about the "liberal" media (I dare you to find a corporate mainstream news channel that has a liberal bias), now it is going to be the Christians, who are still dictating through legal means who can and cannot get married, what women can do as far as access to health care in regards to their reproductive systems, which drugs that have been cleared by the FDA can be sold through pharmacies, etc etc etc, these are the people who are now crying that they aren't beng heard. It's absolute bullshit, but it's going to work. Christians are more organized than Atheist Americans, and they are fully versed in the tactics and practices of making a large stink. Now we are going to see this trickle down to every church in America beginning to work in the message of thier silencing into sermons. Public Consciousness is going have this notion that Christians have no power, are being discriminated against, when in reality Christians have all the power, and are using it to discriminate against others. So where does the notion of balance come in? It comes in like this, if I had a magic wand, or maybe a prayer that really worked, I would use it to just wish away the power that Christians hold in America, but the only ways in which this can actually be achieved, through legal processes based on common sense, are going to be met with harsher and harsher cries of martyrdom, just making the Christians power stronger. So much for balance, cause the Christians are going to win as long as they play up the idea of the American Dream, where no one has to be self-aware, and as long as you buy into it, you fuel the problem. Way to go for being ignorant America.

I watched two movies about dogs today

The first was when I snuck off after school via bike to the theater down the street. It was about 3pm, and I was able to catch a showing of Bolt. I knew very little about it, other than it was Disney and it was about a dog. I had the entire theater to myself, and a small coke and popcorn put me a better mood than I have seen in a while. I was quite enjoying myself until the theme turned being abandoned and the only song in the movie sings of having lost the only home you have ever known. All of a sudden, the little animated dog world and the real world of therapy smash together and I am bawling in a dark movie theater. I came away thinking that the movie was great, and that my wounds are still so fresh that cartoons can make themes bubble to the surface.

I rode home and had waiting for me, this movie. "Wendy and Lucy" was going to be a tough one for me. About a young girl, who might as well have been several people I have known and loved in my life, was on her way to Alaska to get a summertime job, along with her dog Lucy. The entire film essentially is about this young woman getting one streak of bad luck after another, and if Bolt had made me weepy, Wendy and Lucy crushed me. I knew it would, and therefore I just let it. This is the first time that I have seen art imitate life that speaks to the life experiences of, if not me, than through me via the collective consciousness of so many people I have known.

For much of my life, these are the people I have known, and I wonder now is this film trying to capture that by looking at it from the outside? Certainly the film-makers must be near my age, and have lived this experience as well. Are these kinds of people going to survive in the new age of text abbreviations and rock band? Sure, the quirky, arty girl who wears boys clothes is a cliche, but it's also where some people go when they have nowhere else to go, and I can definetely identify with that.

You through a dog in the mix, and themes of loss and sacrifice, and I'm pretty much going to cry my eyes out. Sure, I may be touchy right now, but I don't think that takes away from how much this movie has meant to me.

The last day of winter break

I spent the majority of my winter break from school being miserably sick with a head/chest cold. I did not get to execute the slurry of bad decisions that I had anticipated, yet somehow being forced to sleep as much as humanly possible for three weeks probably did me some good that I cannot even begin to imagine.

Last night came to a close this afternoon with a marathon 14 hour sleeping session that began at 10 pm on a Saturday night. Yeehaw. No time to mourn that now, as this is my last full day of freedom, so I set about to do the one thing I had been promising myself I would do all break; go for a bike ride.

I set out at about 4 pm, as the sun was beginning to pack it in for the day. My bike is in every way an example of function. It's a road bike, and it's a single speed (NOT a fixed gear), as I fancy things that have as few moving parts as possible. I had the traditional sloped down handlebars replaced with a shaved down straight bar, mostly because it is much more comfortable to ride, but also because the bike gets stored alongside my truck in a ridiculously small garage. The two inches that I gain from having these handlebars actually makes the situation much more manageable. So setting out down the street, I am instantly transported back to 12 years old where every waking moment was spent on a bike, the wind caressing every part of your exposed skin. It's a fantastic feeling, and this is the first bike that I have owned as an adult that I feel belongs to me for the sheer enjoyment of riding it (as opposed to the mountain bike, and the bmx bike that were admittedly for show).

Before I know it I am at the harbor. The sun is 20 minutes from setting, and I notice a ship with several tall masted sails directly to my right. As I look, I first see a young woman, a hippy, hanging from the bow of the ship in some sort of harness, and she appears to be banging on an iron chain with a small pick-like hammer. I am completely intrigued. I sat down and as I watched her my eyes soon wandered up and down the breadth of the ship. Everywhere I looked I found some young, hippy looking kid working on the ship. They were high up in the sails, sanding down the deck railings, working on the ropes, countless small jobs that were interlaced with rotating smoke breaks down on the docks. Who were these people? Did this happen every Sunday at the harbor?

I stood back and noticed a sandwich board sign that stated that this was the Hawaiian Chieftan, a replica of a 18th century ship that was built in the 1980's. Then I saw that the ship had just come into port from Aberdeen Washington, which explained why everyone was a hippy. I sat back down and tried to imagine my life were I to undergo such an adventure. Alan Sparhawk sings into my ear "Well I could'a been a sailor, but I lost my brother to the sea". I smile and try to think of all the fucking that must go on with this mixed crew late at sea.

I begin to head back, eager to come back the following day with my Holga and take some pictures. The ship sets sail again the day after tomorrow. I wonder, can I engage the crew and go out for drinks with them in such a short amount of time?

There were several reasons that I spent so much in my apartment over the break, and I have let go of feeling guilty about any of them. What I do know is that things like this, being involved in things outside of my own experience, like volunteering on a sailing ship is what has been missing from my life since the move to the new place, and it's time that I got back on track with expanding myself beyond myself.

It's been almost a year

Since Dan Fogelberg died. Today at work, while the sky gets blotted out by the ashes of wildfires, I stumble upon web pages about Dan Fogelberg. I am reading posts from his website, announcing that he has cancer, thanking fans for their support, up to the posting from his wife that he has died. In February of 2008, Jean Fogelberg arranged to have the last song that he recorded, a love song from him to her as a Valentine's Day gift that arrived at her door via FedEx while Dan was out of state, to be available via itunes. I don't necessarily enjoy anything after the very early 80's that he recorded, but I certainly enjoyed the story behind this one. The transparency that existed in his life toward the end, and after his death, is a stark contrast to what a private person he had been. I can only assume that when dealing with an imminent death, having a large outpouring of support from fans must be a wonderful thing. Unfortunately most of us will never know, as the majority of people slip into death without so much as a murmur. Don't know what I'm going for here exactly, other than it's still hard for me to hear his music without getting teary, which is very odd because I have never thought that celebrity was worth anything, and it's not like I especially idolize Dan Fogelberg. I guess his music was just really important to me growing up, and that includes going through my 20's, and well it makes me sad. To see that the words spoken in his songs, at least as far as an outsider could tell, appear to reflect the man that he was. For whatever reason, this stands out as being very special to me.

Since we made History on Tuesday

I suppose I should talk about it.

Having had little or no opinion of Barrack Obama until very late in his campaign, I cannot be accused of one of his "supporters", but I quickly came to appreciate his public person. He appears witty, warm, and gracious. This is a huge step up from the Bush Presidency, and is even miles away from the McCain campaign. During debates, Obama and Biden would look their competitors in the eyes, while in return they were largely ignored.

Policy issues aside, (for I cannot imagine being represented by a US President that was in line with policy I would like to see), this man who was elected on Tuesday, appears to be a man of character. Not the bulllshit kind of bought and paid for by daddy character, humility and politeness are vanishing values, that were once considered to be fundamental to America, but have been lost along the way.

In short, I neglected my homework Tuesday night as I compulsively hit the refresh button on my internet browser to see the latest updates. A day that began with me feeling small hope for change in our country, ended with me at the Mexican Restaurant across the street, drinking a beer and watching the first black President of the United States give an acceptance speech. I don't claim that Obama will fix everything, in fact the country has been so effectively run into the ground over the past few administrations that most likely no one could fix things, but at least we have something different.

And after eight years of constant anger, frustration, sadness and disappointment, I will gladly take something different.

It doesn't take much these days

to bring me to tears. I'm not talking about the sad, "woe is me" kind of tears, but rather the sort that burst forth from an appreciation for life and the human experience. Be it watching Joe Cocker videos from Woodstock, or walking away from a conversation with the nerdiest kid in school who simultaneously has a wonderful grasp on the world he lives in, but still the naivete to think he's got it more figured out than he really does.

I know I have written this sort of thing before. But lately I have felt compelled to reiterate things like this, which has led me to wondering who exactly I believe my audience is. Frankly, I think I write to a few specific people, whom I know will never read this. But it's not the being heard that drives the writing, it's just the speaking. So if I have anything to speak about lately, it's that life is absolutely beautiful, even when it appears to be absolutely ugly.

My kitchen is calling to me

After three weeks of living in my new apartment, I finally bought a refrigerator. No more eating out for me for a while. This morning I felt inside the fridge which I plugged in last night. Cool. Cold. Inside the kitchen the brand new gas stove is against the entryway wall, and then next to this is where I put the fridge. As I walked by I noticed that the heat created by the pilot light of the stove gets trapped between the wall and the fridge and hovers over the stove. It was as though the stove was telling me "I'm ready. Are you ready? I think you are. Let's make hamburgers"

My reaction was almost one of fear, as I have felt with each new thing that I have done in this apartment. "No, no, I don't take showers in you, I take showers in my OLD shower". "Not anymore you don't, get the fuck in here and wash yourself off". So it is with the idea of cooking in this new space. Even though this was one thing I was excited about when moving in, I am weary of it. However, my need to eat will over-ride this.

So what am I going to make first? Bake a chicken? Grill some pork chops? Cheeseburgers? Mom's Tacos? I'll let you know.

Finding the beauty in the small moments

My life has been considerably hectic over the last two or three months. A lot of portions of my life have seen an end, opening up a whole new world of experience. The task of moving out of one apartment and into another was overwhelmingly exhausting. I have had to reflect on its affect on me at several points, because, it's just moving. Everyone has to do it. I can't explain exactly why but for some reason, for me, this one was tough. But it's done. I live in a small room, with hardwood floors, and a loft bed that the kitten bounds up the ladder and into at least 6 times each night. Sometimes she comes up to say hello, sometimes she stays and awkwardly sleeps on some portion of my body. The kitten, and her emotional state have become an outlet for my emotional state. If she cries, I get to comfort her, instead of listening to myself cry with no one around to comfort me. It's a fair trade off.

Even in this transitionary time, there have been moments of absolute, pure joy in my life. If I can say something positive about myself and who I am, it is that I can recognize and appreciate these moments no matter what else might be going on in my life. This was not always the case with me. There are moments where I witness some small part of human experience that seems so real, so honest, that I instantly grasp that moment and savor it. It can be something as simple as a witty political quip from "Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me" to a touchy and heartfelt story from "This American Life" that makes me tear up as I drive down the freeway.

Last night I had one of these moments, and it lasted for ninety minutes. My old instructor from Fullerton College, Charles Leavell, was giving a presentation to the Sea and Sage Audobon Society in Irvine about his trips to Australia. Sitting in the auditorium I am faced with fellow students from that class, and other instructors from the Life Sciences Department with whom I shared many weekends out in the Southern California Deserts. As the director opened the meeting with a joke about birding field guides, a smile so wide forced itself onto my face and I distinctly felt a sensation of place and purpose that has been missing from my life. Hearing Leavell tell of his adventures, often utilizing jokes and puns for the next hour or so left me feeling better than I have in months, since being in Italy really. The ease and grace with which this man educates people, with no front or pretense, is absolutely inspiring to me, and it has been since I first took his classes, and followed him around the desert and the mountains.

I remember the first day of our first field session inside Joshua Tree National Park. We stodd on a hill overlooking a small gully as he told us of plants, birds, reptiles. It was all so serious, and so exciting. The next thing that came out of his mouth endeared me to him instantly. It was about kit foxes, who, as he said "are threatened with extinction. Which is a good thing, (several students look puzzled at each other) because their face is so cute, that if you saw one your brain would melt and run out of your head." I am sold on this over 6 foot Scandanavian man with a paunch.

Last night I revisited this moment over and over as he describes the mating habits of Australian birds, and always ends with "and the ladies really love this dance he does" or "he collects blue things to put around the nest cause he knows that is her favorite color". Always anthropomorphizing, frowned upon by much of the scientific community, but also a clear and beautiful reflection of this man. And you can find these things in almost anyone if you take the time to look. Even the people who annoy you. Even people who are into Rockabilly. Maybe.

The point is that I left last night invigorated on my studies. Still unsure of what it is I want to do, other than knowing that I want to teach history, and I want to teach Natural History, and I want to do it in the field. I have spent so much time being concerned with trying to get out of Southern California, but there are parts of this place that resonate with me so strongly I don't know that I ever want to leave. Maybe I just need to get to where I can be surrounded by those parts more often. I digress. Last night was one of those moments, and it stretched out over time. It was beautiful, and it was yet just another reminder that life is beautiful, and the end of it is always around the corner. So instead of sitting inside the office today, I am going to go sit outside and listen to the birds sing, and see if I can sing back.

Another Year...

and a load of the same bullshit.

I started school this week and within an hour of being on campus I witnessed the following exchange:

Woman with clipboard - "Sir are you registered to vote?"

College Schlumpf - "Vote for what?"

Unfortunately, this is nowhere near as frustrating as the crap that one goes through trying to attend Long Beach City College, at the hands of the school administration.

This is my 4th semester. I found out within 24 hours that I:

- would not be elligible for EOPS ( a form of state financial aid that gives me a book grant and priority registration) next semester
- should have received my book grant this term, but for some reason didn't. Sorry, we'll try and fix that this week.
- needed to stand in line to get an add number, even though all of our registration is done online. Which led to
- standing in another line, to fill out a second piece of paper, with the same info from the first form from the first line, and take both forms to a desk where I was enrolled in the class, but told I
- did not pay my fees. Yes I did, on campus, last week. Go upstairs and wait in a line at the cashier to find out I
- did pay my fees. yes, I know.
- finally got my book grant, for some reason this semester it was two hundred dollars, my books cost close to four hundred dollars.

Best of all, I thought I had done my best to research my instructors for these classes, to ensure that I wouldn't be stuck with any basket cases. For some reason, in spite of my research (which I have since gone back and double checked to make sure I hadn't switched up instructors on accident) I still wound up with two basket cases.
-

You know, just another Saturday night...

after a ten hour day of helping my brother clean out the parents garage in near one hundred degree heat, I left to head home as the sun sunk just below the horizon.

Exhausted, near delirious, I sought the only thing I could think of to pump life back into my veins...

Electric Light Orchestra.

Starting with the Xanadu soundtrack and ending up as I pulled into my garage in Long Beach with "Don't Bring Me Down", I transversed the road with my windows down, fist pumping out the window and the volume as high as I can get with me singing along as loud as I can. I think about what a spectacle I must be, and am only saved the sensation of embarrassment by the thought of myself walking down the street in my city and seeing some dude with a beard screaming along to ELO as he drives down 4th Street, pumping his fist in the air.

I walk through the door, feeling nearly human again and I shuck off my clothes, run a beer, pour a bath, and throw on what is without a doubt my favorite album of all time: "Souvenirs" by Dan Fogelberg. Quite a departure from the glossy showmanship of Jeff Lynne, this album provides the exact complimentary mood for taking a bath by candlelight. I sang along to the whole album while the kitten took turns sniffing the candle on the side of tub and pawing the path water up to her kitten elbow.

I thought that I had lost some of who I was capable of being while separated from my life in Europe, but apparently I am still entirely capable of being awesome.

Welcome Back, Asshole

After two continuous days of travel, I am greeted by United States Customs Officials with a less than gracious tone. It started as I left Alessandria, took a train to Milano, then a bus to the airport, (but not before I had eaten a fantastic Taglitele alla Bolognese) then a plane to London where I hopped another bus to the center of London. Here I had about two hours to down two pints of Kronenbourg in a fantastically authentic looking British Pub (run by French folks) and eat a plate of fish and chips at the Italian restaurant around the corner. For some reason, after 10 PM, the only eating establishments I could find were Italian. Then it is off to another train to the Gatwick Airport where I arrive at 1 AM, 10 hours before my flight, and proceed to "sleep" on the floor until 7am, when I get up and begin the gruelling 14 hour process of going home.

The real fun begins as I land in Charlotte, NC, and get to get off the plane, go through customs where they take our bags off the plane, make us go through security to a thing that puts our bags back on the plane. THE SAME PLANE. From there (security checkpoint), I get to walk directly to the main security checkpoint, to be flagged for a more in depth security checkpoint. Let Freedom Ring!

Even being back in the states, I feel all of the parts of my real life creeping back in. The petty things, like what kind of music people like, or how they dress begins to influence me. Maybe since my level of communication was so low overseas these things never occur to me, but here, they hang on me like a cloud that I cannot shake. I don't really give a shit about this stuff anymore, but it's as though an infection creeps up from American soil and permeates my brain.

Over the last week since being home, this fog has not lifted, but the memory of who I was when all of these unimportant concerns was not a part of my personality has been quickly dying. I could feel it slipping away as I waited to board the plane in London. Amongst friends in Italy, or strangers in Spain, I was happy. Here, I have to go to fucking therapy to try and figure out how to be happy. It's a sad, disgusting and powerful realization that I have known for years by the name of all of it's obscure manifestations, that are only made clear with the sharp contrast of a different life so clear in my memory. I really hate it here.

Dramatic I know, but it's true, and it has been for a long time.

Lower the Heavens

My last night in Italy is spent amidst a tempest the likes of which I have yet to witness. The friends that are in town; Max, his brother, Lucca, Fabio (the Kyuss) and his lady all meet at the Gnocci Palace (this is not it's real name, but the name given to it by Craig from Inside, nine years ago) for a last meal of pizza and an appetizer of proscuitto with a large ball of Buffalo Mozzarella. Everyone is run down after last night, where there was much drinking and pizza eating. I lost count of my beers after the two glasses of Knob Creek bourbon that could be found at the pizza place. All I know of last night is that "The Captain", a friend of Max's who is in fact a Captain in the Italian Army, drove me home at two or so, and I proceeded to feel aweful all night long. I awoke to find Max outside, eager to drive his brother and I to Chinese food, which was fantastic but my body was in no mood. I had them bring me back to Paolo's house where I laid around the rest of the day.

Which brings me to the end of dinner, as we all stand outside, the rain pouring down as movie magic thunder and lightning illuminate the sky and rip open the air. I always thought that the storms shown in horror movies from Europe were exaggerating, but no, one flash after another of lightning made me feel as though I was at risk of being knocked out of my shoes and left half braindead due to the metal keys in my pocket. To supress the fretting, I smoke my new pipe, bought in Alessandria yesterday. I think it suits me more than my previous pipe.

Then it's time to make the mad dash to the car, where everyone piles in to take me home and say goodbye. After another two weeks spent in this country, and this town, the goodbyes are more solem, more heartfelt, and more intent on not showing how much we all wish it could go on, and how much we feel for each other.

And upstairs, from Paolo's apartment balcony, I watch as the heavens are indeed lowered.

A Quick One While He's Away

Before I forget the events that comprised the night, I should record them.

It was said that Kyuss (real name Fabio, cousin of Lucca and local awesome dude) had a fix on a restaurant that would serve the local delicacy, donkey ravioli, if given advanced notice. Two days ago, in Brescia, we gave said notice and I thought little else of it.

I spent my last hours in Brescia walking the streets, eating a fantastic home-made meal of pasta noodles with peccarino cheese and home made olive oil from Sicily. Then it was off to the train station, for a three and a half hour ride back to Alessandria, where I will spend my last few days in Italy.

Upon arriving, we are picked up by Max and his apparent life partner (or rather, assigned drinking buddy) and Tommaso, Max, Drinking Buddy and I meet Kyuss, his girlfriend and Lucca in the city square of Alessandria. I am thinking we are going to a place in Alessandria, but it turns out, we take an hour long drive out into the country, amidst vineyards, sunflower groves and stop next to a castle at a quaint little place owned by an elderly couple. Kyuss's girlfriend has arranged all of this, so we sit back and relax (with her hound dog) while the restaurant, which we have to ourselves, prepares the table. I knew that the old woman cooked all the food, and I knew that they bought and prepared donkey especially for us, but i had no idea what was in store. Let me list off the courses:

- Pork Sausage that was unbelievably good.
- Omlette with some kind of greens, served cold, also fantastic.
- Carpachio (raw beef, sliced paper thin) with olive oil and parmessian reggiano cheese.
- Pulpo (Octopus) salad. Fantastic.
- Grilled red and yellow peppers topped with olive oil.
- Sardines with vinegar.
- Some kind of fish in Manyonaise (which the Italians make with lemon, giving it a wholly different flavor than in the states.)
- Home Made ravioli stuffed with stewed donkey meat, and tossed with a ragu of donkey. The meat is lean and tender and rich, I can't believe we don't eat this in the states. The ravioli pasta was every bit as good as the filling.
- Local cheese served with local honey.
- Donkey loin stuffed with parma ham. Also fantastic but by this time I thought I was going to explode.
- A plate full of grilled shrimp and fried calamari.
- Grilled zuchinni.
- Followed with a cake that was similar to pound cake, one plain, one with apples.

This was all accompanied by local wine from the vineyards outside, both red and white, of which I had both, two different liquors and a cup of cafe at the end. By the end of the night, I was drunk on food and wine, and teary eyed at the hospitality I was shown while in Italy. I met these folks ten years ago, and here we are, with a special evening arranged for me. It was humbling, beautiful and filled with laughter and love.

As we drove home, I spent the little time i had left with Tommaso before he leaves for a wedding tomorrow engrossed in conversation, while Max drove wildly through the woods listening to George Michael, Abba and Lil' John. What a day, what a life.

A Meal Out

Since in Italy, I have passed streets named Galileo Galilei, Amerigo Vespuci, and last night I ate at a restaurant named Vasco De Gama. I had spotted this place the first day that I walked through Brescia, and it caught my eye because the inside was old exposed brick, heavy wooden exposed beams in the ceilings, and simple wooden chairs and tables. Tommaso had not been here, so we went to eat there.

Tommaso had a first pasta course, that consisted of a meat and local cheese filled tortelini that was mind blowing delicious. I passed up the horse steak and had hand made pasta tossed with a ragu of ground pork. While this was cooked fantastically, and tasted every bit as good as it was crafted, my main course of pork loin medallions that were covered in a locally crafted cheese crust made almost die in extacy. I have NEVER had pork as good as the stuff I have eaten in Spain and Italy. Simply phenomenal food, and good company marked my one fancy dining out experience in Brescia.

Tonight I will cook Steak and Tommaso will make Risoto. While I am looking forward to this last meal in Brescia, I must admit that I am very excited about tomorrow night, where the clan from Alessandria has been hard at work securing a local eatery that makes the donkey ravioli. Apparently, they had to make a reservation so that the old woman who cooks the food here has enough time to purchase and prepare the donkey. I'm half excited to eat, and half heart-broken at the lengths these people will go to please me, when all it takes is a glass of beer and a simple pasta al pesto.

I have to go explore the rest of the castle now and talk to my old friend, the bird.

Venezia

The city of Venezia is absolutely indescribable. While I have been reluctant to visit tourist laden cities (with good reason, you get the worst food, pay the most for it and are often treated poorly to boot), Tommaso had a point when he says there is nothing like this city in all the world. And he's right.

You step off of the train and walk outside and immediately you stand before the canals of Venezia. From here the stream of tourists wisks you down the street, over countless bridges that cross the ever narrowing canals, all the while the three story buildings seem to close in above you as the streets become as narrow as the canals. The effect on the senses is stunning. If you can get past the crowds and the merchants eager to cheat you out of whatever may lie in your pockets, the city itself is a time portal. The irony is that the crowds have facilitated this upkeep, while deminishing the charm of the city at the same time.

Still, I must say, that Venezia is a place worth visiting, as it is indeed, one of a kind.

Slip Slidin' Away - Paul Simon

I know a man
He came from my home town
He wore his passion for his woman
Like a thorny crown
He said Delores
I live in fear
My love for you's so overpowering
I'm afraid that I will disappear

I know a woman
Became a wife
These are the very words she uses
To describe her life
She said a good day
Ain't got no rain
She said a bad day's when I lie in bed
And think of things that might have been

And I know a father
Who had a son
He longed to tell him all the reasons
For the things he'd done
He came a long way
Just to explain
He kissed his boy as he lay sleeping
Then he turned around and headed home again

God only knows
God makes his plan
The information's unavailable
To the mortal man
We work our jobs
Collect our pay
Believe we're gliding down the highway
When in fact we're slip slidin' away

Slip slidin' away
Slip slidin' away
You know the nearer your destination
The more you're slip slidin' away

Why Don't You Stay Home Where You're Loved - Nina Nastasia

It's high time to make a move
Things might not get better
There, I said it
The last time you were feeling like this
You left with a light coat and near froze to death

Why don't you stay home where you're loved
Where you'll never be hungry or lost - no stranger, we

Not much I can think of
We cut down the oak last year
I know you can't stay very long
But why do you run and run
The children you won't recognize
They're growing so fast
I can't keep up, keep up

Why don't you stay home where you're loved
No danger here left to feel

Why don't you stay home where you're loved
Where you'll never be hungry or lost - no stranger, me

Verona

Today I ventured a little trip by bus and train* to Verona, the city with Roman ruins where Romeo and Juliette takes place. It was a nice train ride, merely an hour from Brescia, and a short walk into the center of town that is surrounded by a Roman wall, and the city center itself is build around the ruins of a Roman Arena that still functions as an Opera and concert hall. I spent only a few hours in the city before heading back, but not before drinking a beer and having a bit of pizza.

I had time on the train back to reflect on music that I have been moved by during my trip, and I began to formulate my mix that will be put up once I am back in the states. Paul Simon and Nina Nastasia still make me weep, but now they do so as I sit on a stone, centuries old that is the remenant of a wall that surrounds Verona. I realized that the question has never been am I running, the question has been am I running to, or am I running from?

* I have found over and again that the simplest tasks in a country where you do not speak the language are incredibly difficult, and ones that are taken for granted everyday. When I first arrived in Madrid, I would set small goals for myself, such as "today I must buy soap" and so on. In this way I was able to keep myself from being completely overwhelmed. Mastering the Metro system in Madrid was a breeze, but even that was done in small increments. The Italian train system is COMPLETELY different, and quite confusing to me. So the fact that I negotiated both train and bus in one day on my own, is something that I will hold close to me as I fall asleep tonight. Simple yes, but important.