Author: Admin

Harold and Maude Follow-up

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I’d forgotten how much I loved this film. And as before, I grinned all the way through.

My favorite lines:

Maude: A lot of people enjoy being dead. But they are not dead, really. They’re just backing away from life. Reach out. Take a chance. Get hurt even. But play as well as you can. Go team, go! Give me an L. Give me an I. Give me a V. Give me an E. L-I-V-E. LIVE! Otherwise, you got nothing to talk about in the locker room.

Harold: Maude.
Maude: Hmm?
Harold: Do you pray?
Maude: Pray? No. I communicate.
Harold: With God?
Maude: With life.

Maude: Vice, Virtue. It’s best not to be too moral. You cheat yourself out of too much life. Aim above morality. If you apply that to life, then you’re bound to live life fully.

Maude: The earth is my body; my head is in the stars.
[pauses]
Maude: Who said that, Harold?
Harold: I don’t know.
Maude: Well, I suppose I did, then.

Did you know that Ruth Gordon Jones was 75 years old when she made Harold and Maude, Bud Cort was 23.

When the movie was released by Paramount in 1971, it was considered by industry insiders and film critics alike to be of curiosity value; a small offbeat black-comedy, with appeal mostly limited to those harbouring an unconventional taste for the tasteless.

Time–and millions of viewers–were to prove this assumption wrong, however, as the film’s popularity spread first among college students across America and then throughout the general movie-going public on both sides of the Atlantic.

Today, after several cinematic re-runs, numerous television screenings and its release on video, Harold and Maude enjoys a very substantial cult status.

My Little Lemon Tree

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It’s Celebrate The Small Things Day. Something I’ve achieved each week, no matter how small. If you’re interested in joining me sign up here at Vicki’s blog.

So today, I want to celebrate the dwarf lemon tree I just bought. My first tree ever. I’m going to plant it in the middle of this 7 X 15 foot garden bed in front of my writing studio, which is attached to the back of the house. Except for a brief magical spurt of Australian violets that poured in from an adjoining flower bed–I wrote about it in my memoir, Loveyoubye–I’ve thrashed about trying to decide what to plant. I wanted the perfect garden, a perennial display of flowers and all kinds of other plants that complement each other, something Sunset Magazine would clamor to photograph.

But nothing settled in my head; I just didn’t  know enough about plants; I wanted something special after the Australian violets which had great meaning. And then a couple of days ago, I awoke with the idea of a dwarf lemon tree right in the middle of the garden bed. So off to the nursery I went. And here it is awaiting planting.  Who knows what’s next.

Lemon tree1

Lobocraspis griseifusa

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This is the tiny moth who lives on tears,
Who drinks like a deer at the gleaming pool
At the edge of the sleeper’s eyes, the touch
Of its mouth as light as a cloud’s reflection.

tedkooser.edublogs.org

In your dreams, a moonlit figure appears
at your bedside and touches your face.
He asks if he might share the poor bread
of your sorrow. You show him the table.

The two of you talk long into the night,
but by morning the words are forgotten.
You awaken serene, in a sunny room,
rubbing the dust of his wings from your eyes.

~From Delights & Shadows, by Ted Kooser, Poet Laureate of the United States (2004-2006), winner of the Pulitzer Prize for this collection of poems.

Poetry was ruined for me back in school. Until I discovered Mr. Kooser.

The Big One

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I awoke this morning with a “feel” for the memoir I’ve been meaning to get to, after my initial attempt twenty years ago turned into a 500-page door-stopper of flashbacks. That in turn became two YA novels, Mine Dances and Monkey’s Wedding (loved but ultimately rejected by Harper-Collins–not high concept enough). Five years later, I wrote Loveyoubye, a memoir, but this was not the one I initially set out to write.

This is the first “feel” I’ve had for that original concept. Nothing big, an inkling, but this time the idea was contained as it were, not some vague sprawling inundation of memories, of game reserves and out of the way bush hotels and attacks by rebels. A possible start on the shores of Lake Nyasa, Malawi, our first stop on a three-month motoring holiday up to Kenya from our home in Nkana, Zambia. This was where I fell in love with a twenty-year old man–I was thirteen–who paid me the slightest attention and where I won a Bingo round.

I lay in bed regretting throwing away that flash-back monstrosity that had been gathering dust in my old studio, chucked when the ex flew the coop and I had to move my writing studio to its present location at the front of the house. My memory was a tad better back then, and as bad as this account was, it had all the dates and events I’d need if I’m to write the Big One. But I do have a truckload of old 3×5 floppy disks with the entire manuscript on them. Now to find a way to extract that information, given that my computer doesn’t accomodate those relics. And are the disks still workable?

Dinner Tonight–Carnitas

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I’m having a couple of old friends over for dinner tonight: 6 o’clock margaritas, along with tortilla chips (the good thick ones) and two kinds of salsa I made myself, along with guacamole, chunky and garlicky. These guys are absolute dog lovers, so The Ferg and Jake the Man, will be joining the party out on my deck, well. Actually, they’ll be taking over the party, Jake with his ball and Fergie with her slutty way of creeping toward my guests with legs splayed for a scratch.

I made carnitas along with Spanish rice and refried beans. There’s enough food to feed the neighborhood. Oh, and for desert, New York cheesecake. Not very Mexican, I know, but it’s what I feel like.

Here’s the crockpot carnitas recipe:

  • 3-4 lb pork butt or shoulder
  • Add a can of tomatillos, ½ cup of white wine and a generous sprinkling of oregano and garlic and place in crockpot

Cook on high for approximately 4-6 hours, until the meat pulls apart easily. Remove the meat from the cooker and set aside to cool. Pour the liquid into a saucepan and add the juice from 1 orange. Cook over medium heat until sauce has reduced and thickened. Break the pork into chunks, put the chunks on a wire rack on top of a cookie sheet and baste with the reduced sauce.

Broil, turning once or twice, until crispy.Serves: 6

Serve with corn warmed corn tortillas, guacamole and salsa

Ole!

 

Harold and Maude

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I don’t watch movies twice. Well, unless I’ve forgotten that I’ve seen the movie before. Hey, it starts happening after you turn 50. But there are three movies that I will watch again: Blade Runner, Where’s Poppa, Harold and Maude, (the latter two star Ruth Gordon–hope I’m turning into her) and Wim Wenders’ Wings of Desire.

I haven’t watched a movie twice yet, that tells you how adverse I am to the practice, but this Thursday, I’m off to see Harold and Maude at Laguna Beach’s dinky little theatre on Coast Highway, across from Main Beach. It’s being put on by the Laguna Beach Film Society, with a reception beforehand: refreshments and wine at the Laguna Beach Museum of Art. I did this once before–can’t remember the film.

This will officially kick off summer celebrations for me. Next is July’s Art Walk, followed by Music in The Park, where I get to dance my ass off, and then perhaps a trip somewhere with the beasties, Fergie and Jake. Hell, I always say that and never do it. But this year, I’m doing it. A B&B in Napa that takes maniacs?

 

For My Dad

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Father’s Day was only officially made a national holiday in the U.S. in 1972, when President Richard Nixon declared it to be the third Sunday of June. But the holiday actually traces its origins to early 20th-century Washington State.

Inspired by a Mother’s Day sermon she heard at church in 1909, Spokane resident Sonora Smart-Dodd—one of six children being raised by a single dad—also wanted to honor her father. She encouraged local churches to institute the first Father’s Day observance the following year, and the idea caught on. (Learn more about the beginnings of Father’s Day.)

When I was a kid and as a young adult in Zambia, we didn’t celebrate Father’s Day, Mother’s Day neither. Was it because the celebration had yet to reach our wild and distant shores in those days of yore? Or was it ignored as a soppy idea created by Americans? Whatever the reason, I never officially wished my dad a happy father’s day. I never shopped for greetings cards that if he hadn’t died in 1976, would’ve become increasingly soppy with each passing year with all those miles between us. Especially after I completed my memoir last year.

So now, I’ve poured myself a beer, not a Castle or a Lion lager like he used to drink at the sundowners at Nkana Mine Club–it’s a Newcastle–and I’m raising my glass to my dearest old dad, whose term of endearment for me, Pearl of Great Price, caused many an embarrassing moment in my life. Especially at those aforementioned sundowners.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad! Cheers!

Whose Shoes Are These?

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Yesterday I stood in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear when I noticed my dark grey flip flops were looking mighty black. The room was dark so I bent down to take a closer look. Black as can be and not my flip flops. These were Havaianas, a little pricier than my $5 Old Navy specials. WTF? How long had I been wearing them? I glanced around the room. What was I was expecting, the Flip Flop Fairy?

Just for a moment I panicked, like that time I realized my purse was no longer hanging from my shoulder (I found it twenty yards back down the sidewalk). I thought back to where I’d been the past couple of days. Past week.

Roxane’s. That had to be it.  Hadn’t we deposited our shoes at the entrance to her house? But that was a week ago. I emailed her, “Are you missing a pair of black Havaianas?” “Nope, not mine.”

It took me an entire two days to finally remember that my Wednesday yoga class had taken place somewhere different, where we had to deposit our shoes at the entrance. I will only know next Wednesday whether this is indeed where I will find the owner of the Havaianas.

Please let it be so.

Celebrate The Small Things

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I joined another Blog Hop. This is a good ‘un.  So every Friday I’m going post something I want to celebrate that I achieved in that particular week. If you’re interested in signing up, check host Vikki’s post  here!

So here’s what I want to celebrate. I finally went to Chiropractor Tim. I love getting “straightened” out, it’s always such a relief, and get this, I get a free massage along with the adjustment! But for all the lamest reasons in the world I always put it off until I can’t turn my head, or until I’m crawling on all fours. What is that about?

Anyway, so not only do I get relief and much soothing (well, unless I get Olga The Terrible as my masseuse and she rips out a couple of back muscles in her enthusiasm to loosen me up, but she does put them back nicely I must add), I have a fabulous conversation about writing and learn more about Tim’s almost completed novel.  Oh, and on the way home I stop at 85°C Bakery Cafe, a Taiwanese chain of bakery/coffee shops. The line was out the door, but I didn’t care, a medium iced Sea Salt Coffee with its inch of cream on top was worth the wait!

 

There’s Goats in Them Hills

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Every year around this time, The Goats come to my area of Laguna Beach. Of course they might actually live in Laguna Beach and never leave. But this is The Season when they bring their delightful little vegetation munching selves to the hills around my house. They’re here to help prevent another fire like the one in ’93 that decimated Canyon Acres, not to mention a great portion of Laguna Beach, a conflagration that barely missed my house.Misc 020It was our house back then, when the ex was captured on Channel 7 trying to save our street, which is right off Canyon Acres. I was at work in Newport Beach watching him on TV, freaking out about my cat, Para. Had he found her? He had. She was safe in his van along with our dogs, Suki and Salem, and a few hastily grabbed items. After parking the van in the lot off Third Avenue, he and a neighbor sneaked back through the police barrier to see what they could do. I never want to go through that again.

So back to the goats. Right now they’re up above the Lesser Hill, so named by me; it’s the one that parallels Laguna Canyon Road, a wonky paved lane that takes me around 30 minutes to hike, (not The Big Hill, which takes over an hour). There’s the three-foot high plastic orange fencing you could blow over with a breath strung between flimsy metal posts and behind it the goats masticating like mad. And making human sounds. There are a couple of YouTube videos devoted to this phenomena.

All in all the goats are a trip. I watched this one goat–not the one whose picture I’ve posted–lift himself onto his hind legs to get to some tasty leaves on the lower limbs of a tree and stand there chewing until he was done. No wobbling around, no struggling to balance like I do in Warrior Three. He just stood there perfectly poised. Munching until he was done.

Fergie and Jake were absolutely fascinated by the goats. I took them all the way up to the barrier and they just stood there staring.  Dogs Who Stare At Goats.