I'm almost finished reading Keith Richards' autobiography Life. It confirms almost everything that I knew about him--that he's talented, funny, pugnacious, curious, generous, chock full of joie de vivre, and intelligent. This last trait cuts both ways. As he writes, "Like all geniuses, [the producer Rob Fraboni] can be a pain in the arse, but it goes with badge."
Right back atcha, Keith.
I love this man enough to hang in even when he gives what I expect will be a geeky Keef guitar clinic early in the book. I was tempted to skip it altogether and get to the juicy bits about Anita and Brian and Mick and the drugs. But I'll be damned if I didn't keep reading because he explained it in a way I could understood, that I cared about, and that gave me insight into his skill as a maker of music. The guy hears sounds in his head--it might be harpsichord or taiko drums--and translates those sounds onto the strings of his guitars.
When he wrote that feminists hate the Stones, adding "Where would they be without us?" I got defensive. I consider myself a feminist who is also a big fan of the Stones, and Keith in particular. What's wrong with supporting equal rights for women? I sat with his question for a little while. Of course he's sort of pulling our leg--sort of. But he's also right. Where would the women's movement be without fighting against the sentiments expressed in "Under My Thumb"? While I'm not gonna thank the Stones for that, I'm also not going to pretend that the Stones invented it. Or that we'd all be in Paradise if sexism never existed.
In almost all cases, Keith is characteristically direct about his memories and his feelings. Though the journalist James Fox co-wrote Life, it is Keith's voice that blazes forth. Except in one instance, when he recalls his infant son Tara's death. It felt to me that Keith hid behind a curtain (for one of the few times in his life) and let Fox or someone else write it. Check it out for yourself. It's on page 386.
I didn't buy his rationalization about driving under the influence, about the time he crashed his Bentley with eight people inside, including his seven-year-old son. It was along the lines of what the Rain Man said, "I'm an excellent driver." And "Nobody got hurt." Except that his son recalls a bloody handprint he'd left on the dashboard that remained there for decades after. The best you can say about Keith's recollection of the crash, or his recounting of the obsession for arranging fixes, is that he didn't try to hide anything. Keith's addictions were clearly in control.
That's really no surprise. When you're as gifted a person as Keith Richards is, it's easy to believe you're in control. Maybe even that you're a god, or a damned good rival for God Himself. After all, Keith makes sounds people haven't heard before. He can go into a studio and make recordings that millions of people will pay good money to listen to
I'm one fan who's glad he kicked the most lethal addiction and has lived to pursue the real fascination of his life.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Definitely NOT a Witchhunt
Just when I thought I'd heard the last from perennial candidate Christine O'Donnell after her defeat last month, the Justice Department is looking into how she spent the $7 million her Senate campaign raised.
I don't admire her. But for God's sake, the biggest part of me would rather let her abscond with money people were foolish enough to give her campaign than to hear her screechy voice complaining about how the world, and Joe Biden, are against her. She's going to use this investigation as fodder for her false sense of importance, while adding to the Delaware-sized chip on her shoulder.
O'Donnell has never explained how she earns a living. So I'll take a guess--she's a professional candidate. As long as she keeps running for office, she'll be able to pay the bills. She may well be running the biggest scam ever in the country's second smallest state.
I don't admire her. But for God's sake, the biggest part of me would rather let her abscond with money people were foolish enough to give her campaign than to hear her screechy voice complaining about how the world, and Joe Biden, are against her. She's going to use this investigation as fodder for her false sense of importance, while adding to the Delaware-sized chip on her shoulder.
O'Donnell has never explained how she earns a living. So I'll take a guess--she's a professional candidate. As long as she keeps running for office, she'll be able to pay the bills. She may well be running the biggest scam ever in the country's second smallest state.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Legs, not Wings
I've written about my grandmother in other posts. She was a salty gal, as at home wearing hip waders in a flooded basement and using choice profanities as she was powdering her nose before going to 7 a.m Mass. What a woman. Think Annie Oakley with painted toenails. I wouldn't mind being remembered this way.
In other ways, Grandma was surprisingly conventional. The woman was wild for chicken wings. Now bear with me. Loving chicken wings seems like a non-sequitur, but I'm making a Point. No one could understand her wingomania. Why not go for a breast with its large expanse of crispy skin, leaving the dry, tacky stuff for the dog, or a juicy leg? Who in their right mind would choose a wing? There's virtually no meat on them, and they're a pain in the ass to eat.
My mother's theory was that Grandma, who grew up in a big family, got whatever was left over. And learned to love it.
When I lived with her, she did most of the cooking, because her kitchen was her palace. She claimed I was too busy with my studies to muss my hands with cooking. But about once a month, she'd beg me to make these Asian-spiced chicken wings I got from an old Craig-Claiborne-does-Chinese-cooking. They're made with star anise and stick cinnamon, and they are pretty damned good, for chicken wings. I haven't made this recipe in years, as my husband and kids think anise tastes terrible. Maybe instead of those wretched deep fried wings with bleu cheese dressing people serve at Super Bowl parties, I'll invite over some people who would appreciate wings stewed with star anise and stick cinnamon.
As for that Point I promised to make--sometimes eating what's left over is good discipline. Like so much in her life, Grandma made the best of her circumstances. She knew how to put aside her desires and share, and that's a good thing.
What she wasn't so great at was communicating what she wanted. A lot of us, especially females, lack this skill. Sometimes it's somebody else's turn to share, especially in the daily give-and-take of family life.
So go ahead--tell your familiars you're taking the pick of the litter tonight, whether it's from a platter of chicken or the thickest steak. Eat slowly and enjoy every bite. Don't worry, you're not going to forget how to share. It's like riding a bicycle. Where you need practice most is in putting yourself first.
In other ways, Grandma was surprisingly conventional. The woman was wild for chicken wings. Now bear with me. Loving chicken wings seems like a non-sequitur, but I'm making a Point. No one could understand her wingomania. Why not go for a breast with its large expanse of crispy skin, leaving the dry, tacky stuff for the dog, or a juicy leg? Who in their right mind would choose a wing? There's virtually no meat on them, and they're a pain in the ass to eat.
My mother's theory was that Grandma, who grew up in a big family, got whatever was left over. And learned to love it.
When I lived with her, she did most of the cooking, because her kitchen was her palace. She claimed I was too busy with my studies to muss my hands with cooking. But about once a month, she'd beg me to make these Asian-spiced chicken wings I got from an old Craig-Claiborne-does-Chinese-cooking. They're made with star anise and stick cinnamon, and they are pretty damned good, for chicken wings. I haven't made this recipe in years, as my husband and kids think anise tastes terrible. Maybe instead of those wretched deep fried wings with bleu cheese dressing people serve at Super Bowl parties, I'll invite over some people who would appreciate wings stewed with star anise and stick cinnamon.
As for that Point I promised to make--sometimes eating what's left over is good discipline. Like so much in her life, Grandma made the best of her circumstances. She knew how to put aside her desires and share, and that's a good thing.
What she wasn't so great at was communicating what she wanted. A lot of us, especially females, lack this skill. Sometimes it's somebody else's turn to share, especially in the daily give-and-take of family life.
So go ahead--tell your familiars you're taking the pick of the litter tonight, whether it's from a platter of chicken or the thickest steak. Eat slowly and enjoy every bite. Don't worry, you're not going to forget how to share. It's like riding a bicycle. Where you need practice most is in putting yourself first.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Of Sound Mind and Body
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| In the University of Colorado fieldhouse before my race, with Patrick and Phil, Don's co-worker. |
Sure enough, running was as uncomfortable as I remembered it, if not exactly painful. My right knee was particularly rebellious. It squeaked and groaned like an old house wondering if it could stay on its foundations. But beyond a slight twinge and some strange creaking sounds, my knee didn't hurt. I was still running a month or two later when I noticed that it was no longer protesting. I can't say I loved the experience, especially during it, but there was no quitting now, especially since nothing really hurt. Besides, I felt great afterward, endorphins soaring, and the weight already slowly dropping off.
This was good enough to keep at, I decided. I started entering local 5- and 10K races and delighted in their carnival atmosphere. I wasn't in it to win it. I just didn't want to embarrass myself. I researched training programs and starting running hills and intervals to increase my stamina and speed. These strategies worked. I became a faster, if not award-winning runner. That was, and still is, good enough for me.
The trouble is, I still live in American society, where progress is a foregone conclusion. The next logical step would be for me to run a half-marathon, or even start training for a marathon. Don't get me wrong--I revere anyone who trains for and competes in a marathon. Just ask my family--I'm one of those dorks who sits around on a Saturday afternoon watching NBC Universal repeats of the running portions of triathlons. I love to watch how people run. Each person's style is as unique as their face. A running fingerprint of sorts.
But why in the hell would a big gal like me, 5'10" and who weighs, well, a lot more than I'm ever going to confess publicly, ever run a marathon? Marathon runners are thin and wiry, not strong and bulky like me. And besides, I'm perfectly content running 10K. It's a great distance for me. I've lost twenty pounds running consistently, if not breaking any records for speed and distance. A couple of running buddies have pointed out that the weight would come off if I stepped up my training. But I'm not in this to lose any more weight. I like to think of myself as kind of a throwback to actresses of the 1950s, like Jane Russell or Ava Gardner or Marilyn Monroe. I actually don't mind having breasts and hips. Running off my belly fat and thunder thighs was one thing. Why would I want to run off the good jiggly parts?
So what AM i in it for? Given my disposition, which alternates between biliousness and anxiety with occasional, very occasional bonhomie, I might well be a lifetime candidate for Prozac. But I'm also into yoga and alternative medicine. Running is my alternative to Prozac. In the process of pursuing a sounder body, I've also stumbled onto my key to a sounder mind. Certainly the yoga asana and meditation play a huge part in cultivating peace of mind, besides being excellent physical and emotional exercise. For one thing, I've stopped giving the people around me so many pieces of my mind since I added running to my routine. Yes, I still write letters to the editor in response to some blowhard who really needs another blowhard to put him in his place. But I'm kinder and gentler about it.
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| At the two-mile mark at Saturday's race |
This is what works for me. I'll just keep plodding along. If the weight starts creeping up again, or Don starts telling me my Bitchiness Quotient has increased to intolerable levels, then I'll consider my next steps. By that time I'll be over 50. Call me a fuddy-duddy, but I just don't think it's a good for me to start running marathons after 50. I'm more likely to bungee jump.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
My Kind of Veteran's Aid
Don, the boys and I were walking on Main Street in Bozeman, Montana on a snowy June evening. Yes, folks, it snows in Montana in June. And every other month, too. But that's another story. We were taking in a little after-dinner window shopping, when a man walking in front of us careened around and fell backwards smack on his head. Our first thought was that he was having a seizure. But almost immediately, he bounced back up.
One whiff of his breath made it clear his fall was alcohol-induced. He didn't seem to know where he was or what had just happened, but he was walking and talking. We offered to call the paramedics, but he waved us off. We kept walking with him, because we were pretty sure he wasn't in any condition to cross streets safely. He was coherent enough to mention he'd been in Iraq. But the conversation quickly devolved into him insulting us for judging him for his drunkenness and not appreciating his service. He was clearly looking for a fight.
I didn't think our boys needed to witness any more of this, so Don and I quickly agreed I'd take them back to the hotel and he'd deliver him to the VFW, which was another block and a half up the street. We were hoping the other vets would know better how to handle him than we did.
It probably wasn't the first time this young soldier had picked a fight with someone. And he may have landed in jail for it more than once.
In a small way, Judge Ronald Croder has begun to address the issue of veterans with post traumatic stress disorder who run into trouble with the law, often for alcohol-related offenses. The retired two-star general has started a Veteran Trauma Court that is more interested in helping traumatized vets deal with life than in punishing them.
Bravo, Judge Crowder, for using your expertise and life experience to help other people. The judge, a prosecutor and a public defender are actually working together instead of being adversarial. Let's hope their good work becomes a model for other courts in Colorado and across the country to emulate.
One whiff of his breath made it clear his fall was alcohol-induced. He didn't seem to know where he was or what had just happened, but he was walking and talking. We offered to call the paramedics, but he waved us off. We kept walking with him, because we were pretty sure he wasn't in any condition to cross streets safely. He was coherent enough to mention he'd been in Iraq. But the conversation quickly devolved into him insulting us for judging him for his drunkenness and not appreciating his service. He was clearly looking for a fight.
I didn't think our boys needed to witness any more of this, so Don and I quickly agreed I'd take them back to the hotel and he'd deliver him to the VFW, which was another block and a half up the street. We were hoping the other vets would know better how to handle him than we did.
It probably wasn't the first time this young soldier had picked a fight with someone. And he may have landed in jail for it more than once.
In a small way, Judge Ronald Croder has begun to address the issue of veterans with post traumatic stress disorder who run into trouble with the law, often for alcohol-related offenses. The retired two-star general has started a Veteran Trauma Court that is more interested in helping traumatized vets deal with life than in punishing them.
Bravo, Judge Crowder, for using your expertise and life experience to help other people. The judge, a prosecutor and a public defender are actually working together instead of being adversarial. Let's hope their good work becomes a model for other courts in Colorado and across the country to emulate.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Elbow Grease
My Grandma Finnegan swore that her wringer washer got clothes cleaner than agitator washing machines. In 1986 the one she'd bought in the sixties died, and she went to the trouble of special ordering one from Sears. I'd have liked to have been a fly on the wall when that transaction took place. The sales clerk likely showed her the latest models, and I'm sure she politely looked. But in the end the wringer washer was the only machine for her.
Grandma was a great believer in the power of elbow grease. The wringer washer experience epitomizes this ethic. When my parents used to take my sisters and me to Montana every July, I spent many happy hours helping Grandma send all our clothing from the washing tub through the wringer into the rinse tub, and through the wringer again. Did the clothes really get cleaner this way? Maybe it was one of Grandma's illusions. At least every article of clothing was touched four times in the process.
Anyone who uses a wringer washer is going to forgo the dryer and use a clothesline. That's fine in July, when the daytime temperature is in the eighties. Fast forward to when I lived with Grandma in the 1980s. She wasn't going to let a little thing like minus 20 degree January temperatures stop her from hanging out our clothes to dry. Freeze dry. The wind could be blowing like crazy, and our clothes would not flap. They waved. And they took three or more days to fully dry. After that first experience hanging clothes in bone-numbing cold, I was a lot more careful to wear my clothing as many times as I could get away with. I was just learning to drive in the snow, for Pete's sake. My thin Californian's blood was no match. Grandma would be out there before dawn shoveling snow, wearing nothing more than a windbreaker over her pajamas.
I'm not suggesting that we go back to the days of using wringer washing machines. I am thinking we could all stand to use a little more elbow grease in our daily living. A little inconvenience is good for a person. If it doesn't build character, it might just build some patience, a virtue all Americans are going to need in abundance in the coming years.
Grandma was a great believer in the power of elbow grease. The wringer washer experience epitomizes this ethic. When my parents used to take my sisters and me to Montana every July, I spent many happy hours helping Grandma send all our clothing from the washing tub through the wringer into the rinse tub, and through the wringer again. Did the clothes really get cleaner this way? Maybe it was one of Grandma's illusions. At least every article of clothing was touched four times in the process.
Anyone who uses a wringer washer is going to forgo the dryer and use a clothesline. That's fine in July, when the daytime temperature is in the eighties. Fast forward to when I lived with Grandma in the 1980s. She wasn't going to let a little thing like minus 20 degree January temperatures stop her from hanging out our clothes to dry. Freeze dry. The wind could be blowing like crazy, and our clothes would not flap. They waved. And they took three or more days to fully dry. After that first experience hanging clothes in bone-numbing cold, I was a lot more careful to wear my clothing as many times as I could get away with. I was just learning to drive in the snow, for Pete's sake. My thin Californian's blood was no match. Grandma would be out there before dawn shoveling snow, wearing nothing more than a windbreaker over her pajamas.
I'm not suggesting that we go back to the days of using wringer washing machines. I am thinking we could all stand to use a little more elbow grease in our daily living. A little inconvenience is good for a person. If it doesn't build character, it might just build some patience, a virtue all Americans are going to need in abundance in the coming years.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Pat THIS Down
Tuesday night I went to the salon, and we were talking about Thanksgiving plans. What we were all most thankful for was that none of us were flying anywhere for the holiday.
"What do you think of the body scanners?" my stylist Teryl asked me.
"TSA can kiss my ass," I said over the drone of the hair dryer. "If I thought body scanners were making us safe from terrorists, then it would be different."
"Then you'll have to go for a pat down," she pointed out.
True enough. But after a lifetime of conditioning about not allowing any stranger to touch my privates, any pat down is going to be on MY terms. Especially state-sanctioned fondling that offers only a vague promise of safety from terrorism. Like I said in the salon, TSA can kiss my ass. My dimpled ass, that is. Though I'm a reasonably fit 49-year-old woman, my weight has fluctuated over the years, not just due to two pregnancies, but mainly because I like to eat and drink. It'll be just like my high school job at Winchell's Donuts in Hermosa Beach--I used to wear my bathing suit underneath my uniform so I could to the beach after work. Now I'll wear it underneath my street clothes. I'm all about making life easier for the people around me.
I've been thinking about something Mr. Walter Douthwright frequently talked about in government class my senior year. He spoke of how the politics in this country are driven by crisis. As in no decisions are made until the big one strikes.
And strike it did, several times in this decade, beginning with 9/11. Our government's response--two wars that still don't have a clear outcome. Many Americans are more patient with the lack of well-defined outcomes on two wars that have spanned the decade than they are with a recession that has lasted three years. Doesn't taking your shoes off at the airport make you feel safer already?
The same people who have linked shoe removal and color alerts with national security have now brought us virtual strip searches and patdowns, as if everyone boarding a plane is a potential underwear bomber.
My friends tell me I have a knack for stating the obvious, so here I go again. What's next? Everybody has at least one body cavity. The next terrorist wannabe is going to tuck explosives where the sun don't shine. Where the hell is that going to leave airline travelers? Are we going to be treated to strip searches? I pay Lynn Walker, M.D. good money to examine me once a year. No amateurs allowed.
When my mom was out to lunch with her singing group last week, body scanners were a main topic of conversation. A middle-aged guy sitting at the table next to them interrupted.
"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," he said. "I'm here to tell you, if I'm going through a scanner, I plan on being at full attention." Lucky for him this is a salty bunch of septugenarians.
My neighbor's father is Israeli. I asked her what the Israelis do int heir airports.
"Profiling. And it works. Oh, yeah, Israel's a smaller country with fewer airports. But it works well enough. The problem is, it will never happen in this country."
It's enough to make a girl go all Forrest Gump. Hello, running shoes. The next time I go to California to visit my parents, I'm seriously considering running there.
"What do you think of the body scanners?" my stylist Teryl asked me.
"TSA can kiss my ass," I said over the drone of the hair dryer. "If I thought body scanners were making us safe from terrorists, then it would be different."
"Then you'll have to go for a pat down," she pointed out.
True enough. But after a lifetime of conditioning about not allowing any stranger to touch my privates, any pat down is going to be on MY terms. Especially state-sanctioned fondling that offers only a vague promise of safety from terrorism. Like I said in the salon, TSA can kiss my ass. My dimpled ass, that is. Though I'm a reasonably fit 49-year-old woman, my weight has fluctuated over the years, not just due to two pregnancies, but mainly because I like to eat and drink. It'll be just like my high school job at Winchell's Donuts in Hermosa Beach--I used to wear my bathing suit underneath my uniform so I could to the beach after work. Now I'll wear it underneath my street clothes. I'm all about making life easier for the people around me.
I've been thinking about something Mr. Walter Douthwright frequently talked about in government class my senior year. He spoke of how the politics in this country are driven by crisis. As in no decisions are made until the big one strikes.
And strike it did, several times in this decade, beginning with 9/11. Our government's response--two wars that still don't have a clear outcome. Many Americans are more patient with the lack of well-defined outcomes on two wars that have spanned the decade than they are with a recession that has lasted three years. Doesn't taking your shoes off at the airport make you feel safer already?
The same people who have linked shoe removal and color alerts with national security have now brought us virtual strip searches and patdowns, as if everyone boarding a plane is a potential underwear bomber.
My friends tell me I have a knack for stating the obvious, so here I go again. What's next? Everybody has at least one body cavity. The next terrorist wannabe is going to tuck explosives where the sun don't shine. Where the hell is that going to leave airline travelers? Are we going to be treated to strip searches? I pay Lynn Walker, M.D. good money to examine me once a year. No amateurs allowed.
When my mom was out to lunch with her singing group last week, body scanners were a main topic of conversation. A middle-aged guy sitting at the table next to them interrupted.
"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," he said. "I'm here to tell you, if I'm going through a scanner, I plan on being at full attention." Lucky for him this is a salty bunch of septugenarians.
My neighbor's father is Israeli. I asked her what the Israelis do int heir airports.
"Profiling. And it works. Oh, yeah, Israel's a smaller country with fewer airports. But it works well enough. The problem is, it will never happen in this country."
It's enough to make a girl go all Forrest Gump. Hello, running shoes. The next time I go to California to visit my parents, I'm seriously considering running there.
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