hmm

Actually, this was a very good site. I should probably come back to it at some point when I'm a trifle saner.

fyi

I probably won't be maintaining this site for a while. i haven't much to fuss about except building, and that's appearing on the other site. Later.

the weather

Why I can't stop: There's nothing you can do about it.

weddings

bird flu hits trailer park

Or maybe they're alcohol intolerant?

when will i see you again

the nice town department

PITTSBURGH (April 26) - Police found a dead dog dressed in blue jeans, a T-shirt, socks, tennis shoes and a baseball cap on the rear porch of a home on Monday in the Stanton Heights neighborhood. Police Lt. Kevin Kraus said the dog, apparently a boxer-pit bull mixed breed that neighbors said was named Pimpin', was dressed after it had been killed.
Police on Tuesday were trying to interview a woman who lived at the house where the dog was found. The dog's killer could face animal cruelty and drug charges.
Kraus found the dog, which he first thought was a person, while investigating an argument between two motorists nearby.
The Allegheny County Medical Examiner's office X-rayed the dog's body and determined that it had been bludgeoned and stabbed to death days earlier.

Why I can't stop: I have friends in that town.

ice

Why I can't stop drinking: The tinkling of the chandelier reminds me of ice cubes in a glass.

stormy weather

well under the yardarm

Why I can't stop drinking: Oops, it's beer thirty

where the money goes

Why I can't stop: Well, at least college is paid for. Cheers!

ship of fools

This is the boat that carries the workmen who need the supplies to build the house that's planned for this site if the stuff gets loaded onto the boat that carries supplies not to mention the cranes and the trucks and the brains, the mail and the money that goes in the bank, the gas at $80 the tank to carry the stuff from the boat to the site. . .
Why I can't stop drinking: my house of cards is built on ferry schedules.

memento mori

Why I can't stop: This is all that's left of Tristam Dodge's house, built about where mine is going.

cookouts

Why I can't stop drinking: Put another steak on the barbie, Babe.

egret egret

Why I can't stop drinking: I like seeing double.

cocktail hour

more guests

"Why are there two bottles of vodka?" The houseguest's daughter asked when she saw this picture. "Wait, she said, "Don't tll me. Mom bought the $5 bottle and Claudia had the Stoli in the freezer."
Bingo.
Why I can't stop drinking: I would be such a bad hostess.

a change of reasons

So this blog has been getting a little drab lately, and I have considered just dropping it altogether. Firstly, I haven't been feeling that cranky and secondly I did quit smoking like six months or so ago. The heart had gone out of it.
I have addictions and to spare, however, so I thought maybe I'd try revisiting a different one. Especially since my brother(and all these other workmen) are showing up, and I can't set a bad example for them. I am so not paying them to get crocked and fuzzy and cut off their fingers accidentally.
Anyway, my brother quit drinking like a decade ago.
Why I can't stop drinking: Soon I will have to knock off the brewskie.

sweet into salt

This body of water, since I saw it last fall, has cut through the bluff and spilled into the sea.
Why I can't stop: My pond spillith over

sundown at the last seder

guys and dogs

the new me

This is the secret blog, right? The one where I can vent? Do not be forwarding this to your friends and relations, as I still have hopes of erecting a building next month. But the fact is, I don't play nicely with authority figures. I am down to my last one, one who will pretty much control my life for the next six months.
"Just reassure him that you know he's the boss," my sister said.
"I'm not real good at subservience," I said.
"None of us are," she said, "but you must."
And so I wait, to see if my most recent attempt at obsequiousness was enough.
Why I can't stop: You are so big and strong, so smart and knowledgeable, so. . .manly

feels like fall

Why I can't stop: I have to turn in my book report

yet another guest dog

google this

Hello? Can you read the amount on this check? This is the amount I received from Google for the ads on both of my blogs for more a year. I'm trying to figure out how many microentavos that is a word or how many pixels per dollar, but I give up. Clearly I'm not in it for the money.
So the question on the floor is:
Has this blog run its course? Shall I bag the blog?

my little cabbage

Why I can't stop: Polish pride

another guest dog

Why i can't stop: And this one's wet and sandy.

more guys

Why I can't stop: The kid says his friend bought his first surfboard from me. At age 12.

the guys

My life is very full of guys. This is one of the good ones, above. As you can see by his stance, he's a guy's guy. He's got a guy driving the backhoe, another guy who owns the backhoe, a guy fixing the pump in my backyard. More guys are imminant: Two carpenters, who will be living with me, and two masons, who may be living with me as well. We gonna scratch and fart and burp. We gonna eat meat and potatoes. We gonna get up at 5:00 and drink three pots of coffee and fall into bed and start snoring at 9:00.
Why I can't stop: I am paying all of these guys for their waking hours.

everything

Today my last permit application was thrown in my face, my septic tank alarm started going off at 3 am, and the mason and CRMC enforcers were nowhere to be found. Ah well.
Why I can't stop: Bureaucracy

winter light

Why I can't stop: I swear, this is for real.

details

Guess it's time for more complaining. the photonovella thing didn't seem to go over.
Why I can't stop waking up with my heart racing: Don't start with me. Not today.

a small disagreement

Who has the better aim?
Why I can't stop: Packing again.

at the feria

danger

And upon that deserted shore, a strange sigil was writ upon the sand.
Why I can't stop worrying: What's it all about?

kiss me

Taking a little break from the photo novella that no one will help me out with, I received the following seasonal e-mail. Maybe you did too. Sounds a few years old (Giuliani?) I thought it was quite funny, incrementally. OK, some of you might find it sad. Sucks for you.
Here's "Green Day" by Denis Leary:

First things first: There are many Irish-Americans in this country who celebrate St. Patrick's Day in a quiet and sober manner, perhaps heading off to work with a muted-olive tie or a small emerald pin as their nod to the day's events. There are also those who go to the 7 a.m. mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral and consider the day a prayerful tribute to the patron saint of all things green. There are still others who awaken the morning of March 17 and carry on as if it were just another 24 hours— no drinking, no fighting, no puking.

I don't know any of these people.

Therefore, this piece will be about the red-blooded, hard-boiled, hammerheaded souls who patrol the St. Patrick's Day arena as if it were life's last call.

If you consider the image of a working-class Mick named Fitzy caterwauling down Fifth Avenue wearing a kelly-green plastic derby, well oiled on whiskey and slurring his words, an offensive and demeaning stereotype, then call the Irish Anti-Defamation League (IDLE) right now. I think the number is 1-800-NO-FITZY.

I've spent several hundred official and unofficial St. Patrick's Day celebrations in New York City over the years, and the calm, bespectacled intellectual Irishman clutching his copy of Finnegan's Wake is a rare sight indeed. Unless he's passed out around 3:15 a.m. in the back booth at McQuigan's Pub.

No, March 17 is not for the squeamish. It's for the thirsty masses. Those young rebels willing to shout and scream about their Irish blood, the chosen few who will toss raw eggs into open cab windows, the banshees who only want (as House of Pain so eloquently put it) to "get off their feet and jump around." That's what St. Patrick's Day is all about. Doing incredibly stupid things while under the influence of alcohol and wearing neon-green clothing.

Herewith, a guide to spending the day in the Big Apple. This is what I'll probably be doing this year.

9:00 a.m.
Meet best friend Sully at Greek diner for traditional Irish-American breakfast of wet toast, runny eggs, cold home fries, bitter black coffee, three cigarettes, and the sports page. Curse the Knicks. Marvel at Pat Riley's hair.

9:30 a.m.
Corner of Ninth and 39th. Ring Fitzy's buzzer 23 times. On the twenty-fourth try, he buzzes us up. Find him naked on the living-room floor surrounded by empty Bud Tall Boys and an open can of paint. His entire body, including his hair, is green.

10:00 a.m.
Arrive at the corner of 51st and Fifth and take our places for the parade. Sully steals three cans of Molson out of some Italian guy's cooler. Fitzy tosses a half-eaten green hot dog into the middle of the Staten Island Marching Men's Choir.

10:14 a.m.
Fitzy gives Mayor Giuliani the finger. Mayor waves back. "****in' typical," Sully says. Fitzy steals three more beers from the Italian guy.

11:05 a.m.
The Francis Mulcahy School of Irish Step Dancing pauses right in front of us and runs through a rigamarole of jigs and reels. Fitzy bops out into the street and joins them by doing a variation on the twist. Two cops promptly escort him back to the curb. Ends up one of them (Blaney) is Sully's second cousin. All charges dropped. I steal a few more beers out of the cooler. We toast the NYPD.

12:02 p.m.
The Italian guy accuses us of raiding his stash. Waves his fists in the air. Sully punches him on the neck. Fitzy pulls out a lighter and starts to melt the cooler. Two more cops show up. So happens, one of them (O'Keefe) is Fitzy's dad's old neighbor from Brooklyn. Tells the Italian guy to "Move it along, pal, this ain't Columbus Day." Brawl breaks out between Irish and Italian bystanders. We throw several punches, grab the cooler, and split.

12:06 p.m.
Drop into St. Patrick's Cathedral for a quick gander at the Lord. Crack
open a couple of beers. Sully and I debate the merits of a short confession. Sully's argument -- "In a half hour, at the bar at Paddy Reilly's it's gonna be standin'-room only" -- wins out over mine, which involves Eternal Damnation. We opt for a fast Our Father, five bucks in the poor box, and a brief round of candle-lighting. Fitzy, meanwhile, steals a sip of Holy Water.

12:17 p.m.
In the cab downtown, our driver, one Adjid Sakeel, expresses his opinion that the Irish Lesbian and Gay Organization should be allowed to march in the parade. Fitzy -- his large green mug plugged right into the pay slot -- begs to differ: "They awready got their own parade downtown inna Village. We don't go down there, so why should they come uptown ta ours?" Adjid says, "Because this is America."

"No it ain't," counters Fitzy. "This is New York City. It's a whole different ball game." The argument ends with Fitzy barking like a dog and Adjid veering all over Second Avenue. We get out at 29th Street. I give Adjid a $3 tip and the cooler.

12:22 p.m.
Stop in at Paddy Reilly's for a few pops. Several rounds of green beer and whiskey. Rogues March -- a local band made up of guys who used to know members of the Pogues -- bash through a loud, boisterous show. The lead singer -- Joe Hurley -- stretches his voice to the point of aneurysm. We toast the IRA. We toast the cease-fire. We toast the pope. Fitzy pukes.

4:27 p.m.
Stop in at Molly Malone's Pub for a few more pops. Eat several slices of green pizza made by Sweeney the bartender's wife. She's Italian. We drink green champagne and vodka. Sweeney calls JFK the greatest man who ever lived. Fitzy calls Mario Cuomo a fag. Mrs. Sweeney kicks Fitzy. Sully pukes.

About a Quarter Past Eight
Over at the Emerald Inn, we drink green Guinness and recite dialogue from The Quiet Man verbatim. The Stogues -- a local band made up of guys who used to know the mother of one of the guys in the Pogues -- play "Danny Boy," and Fitzy starts to cry, green tears streaming down his puffy green cheeks. As Sully and I pat Fitzy on the back, the lead singer passes out.

Sometime After Ten
Head over to a Blarney Stone, where we order a drink called the Shane
MacGowan -- three ounces of vodka, four ounces of gin, six ounces of Irish whiskey, a teaspoon of something that smells like turpentine, and half a beer. You gotta down it in two slugs. Makes you spout poetic musings with a tongue so thick only Shane could understand. The problem is -- he ain't here. Fitzy stuffs an entire green bagel in his mouth, swallows it almost whole, downs his MacGowan, and says, "Now this is the life!"

That Same Night
Stop in at Siné. Place holds only 75 people, 72 of whom look like they just stepped off the boat. People without green cards drinking green beer. We're in time to see another local band (really local, since they live in the cellar) take the stage. Call themselves the Fogues. Made up of guys who used to be friends with guys who once bought a round for the guys who used to roadie for the Stogues. During "Thousands Are Sailing," the guitar player leaps up into the air and stays there. For what seems like a long time. His head is stuck in the ceiling; he gets a standing ovation. The lead singer asks if there's a carpenter in the house. There is. Thirty-three of them, to be exact.

Later
The fact that we're in the Dublin House is news to all three of us. But it's printed right there on the matches. And the wall. And the back of the bouncer's T-shirt. As my old man used to say: "Wherever the hell you go, there you ****in' are."

Later Still
The thing about painting yourself green is this: It's a great symbolic way to show your support of the Old Country and your family tree, but it's a terrible way to go out drinking. Mostly because your friends can't tell when you're about to puke. The point is, we didn't see it coming when Fitzy leaned over an Englishman named Trevor -- who was explaining his support of the peace process in Ireland -- and let blow. The hot dog, the pizza, the bagel -- they made a comeback even Travolta woulda been proud of. And set off a brawl the likes of which we may never see again. Seventeen Englishmen, 27 Micks, and a side order of Hispanic, African-American, and Polish guys. When the cops show up (Carelli, Tiveiros, Jackson, etc.) none of them is related to Fitzy or Sully, so they just pack the whole melting pot in the back of a couple of paddy wagons (just for the sake of historical irony, I guess) and drop us off downtown. I share a cell with Fitzy and a Puerto Rican plumber named Bob
. He says the cell gives him "déjà-vu" because he had the same one after the Puerto Rican Day Parade last year.

The Next Morning
I wake up to the sound of Mickey Mantle repeatedly pounding a Louisville Slugger across the side of my face. I make a count of my few remaining brain cells -- eight and holding. Bob's droning on about pipe wrenches and putty knives when they come to take us to court. Ends up the judge (McSwiggin) is not only a fifth cousin of Fitzy's mom but also happened to be in Dublin House last night when the hot dog hit the fan. He thinks the Englishman, the queen, and the United Kingdom had it coming. All charges dropped. (That should be the motto above the entrance to the Irish Embassy.) We tell the judge about Sully, and fifteen minutes later, me, Sully, Fitzy, and Bob are sitting in P.J. Clarke's chugging Bloody Marys and discussing the merits of indoor plumbing -- copper pipe vs. plastic. Fitzy says he likes plastic: "It's more modern. And it don't look shiny." Sully and I make up our minds. Bob -- turning a light shade of burnt sienna -- pukes.


Why I can't stop drinking: I'm just a piker

desert isle

Why I can't stop: Why are they bring taken here, to a place with nothing but rocks and coral and a small white strand?

gulled

lemon tree, very pretty

Why I can't stop: Well, are you guys going to pick up the story line or what?

into the ruins

prove yourselves

"Hello, kids! I will be your guide for the next portion of this adventure," said the Burning Man. "But first, you must identify three objects."
The heroine picked up the first, a heavy piece of twisted stone.
"I have no idea," she said.
"It is a whale's ear bone," said the hero.
"That is correct," said Burning Man. "Next?"
The hero hefted a glossy black rock, scalloped with channels. "This is a piece of obsidian used to make knives."
"Correct,' said the Flaming Man. "And?"
"A pot," said the heroine.
"A fake," said the hero.
"The hero is right again," said Burning Man.
"Well," said the heroine. "He DID grow up on an archeological dig in Alaska."

gone with the hula-hula girl

North, past the hidden beach where sea turtles breed and condo owners likewise, past the disused bull ring and the sorgum fields, the roadside attractions. peering through the viewfinder, trying to find—what? Another signpost.
Why I can't stop: F-stops

follow your star

Their landlord had died, impaled on a tree when his Harley left the road unexpectedly. They sought clues at his wake. But none of the mourners seemed to have any notion of the why and wherefore of his death, of the meaning of life, of the stacked rocks, of anything. Some suggested going in one direction, some another.
But the number of the stones—seven—suggested a constellation in the North, the Pleiades.
Why I can't stop: The Seven Sisters, for chrissake.

rock pile

This is a sign? Of what? Balance, a rock band, too much time on somebody's hands, an international message of solidity if not solidarity? What?
Our hero and heroine, despite their backgrounds in anthropology and archeology, are stumped.
What do you think this symbol means?
Why I can't stop: I feel as thick as a brick.

enter, mysterious stranger

Just as our heros were about to give up the search for the night, a Mysterious Minerva appeared. "Follow the signs," she intoned. "Follow the signs."
Why I can't stop: Like, road signs, or what?

interlude

A fruitless day of driving from nowhere to nowhere led nowhere but to Playa des Tortugas. Sunburned, discouraged and frustrated, the Adventurer and Adventuress took a break for some mariscos.
Why I can't stop: Were the oysters okay?

forward ho

They were determined to follow the signs wherever they led. With the hula girl leading the way, they set forth through the jungle, looking for the next glimmerings of the way. Fortunately, it didn't require too much thinking, for tropic rot begins in the brain.

message from above

Friends, it has now been almost precisely a year since I began this blog. In honor of which I'm going to change the title slightly. I have, after all, stopped smoking. Although I haven't stopped many of my other addictions, including blogging.
More importantly, however, we are off on another grand adventure.
It began when we saw this sigil in the sky.
Was is an L? A delta? What?
Tell me, for it will direct the course of our explorations for some time to come. It was a sign, we knew that much. Did it portend the visitation of a stranger from another land? The Fiesta of Drunken Cowboys? The Case of the Scorpion? The Dawn of a Real Estate Empire? The Rave of Raves?
Stay tuned and add your two cents.

bathroom window

Why I can't stop: The men are outside this window too.

pests

twilight at the oasis

All was quiet on the desert front as I left the Coral Sands, sadly and slyly, at 4:45 ayem. As I slank through the gate, all the suspicious characters were sleeping soundly rather than lurking. And all the Christmas decorations were safe.

busted

"What in the world are you doing?" I asked incredulously.
We had just pulled away from the pink resort, en route for a quick cup of coffee before the next group of checkins. The place was deserted, but for the Christmas tree proudly standing sentinel on the white trash patio.
As we drove towards Palm Canyon, a white male slunk out from between the hedges surrounding an empty lot.
"What's that guy doing?" asked the motelier. "I don't like his looks. I think I'll drive around the block and come back by the place."
He looked okay to me. Khaki shorts, plaid shirt, shaved head. About like every other young white male in this 47 percent gay male town.
But when we pulled up outside the white trash patio, the previously locked gate was ajar and the perp was inside the gate, holding a can of pop and a bottle of water.
"I was just getting some water," he said. "Do you want me to put it back?"
"Yes," said the motelier. "I sure do."
On instinct, I aimed the camera at him.
The speed with which he covered his face indicated to me that he was not unbknown to the police.
Why I can't stop: The goddam lag in both my reflexes and my camera.

safe home

Thank heavens, the tree is safe again, taking pride of place on the white trash patio. The feral cats are on alert. But since they have a tendency to vamoose at the least sign of trouble. . .
How many cats can you see in this picture?
Why I can't stop: A mysterious stranger has been seen lurking around the hood.

rear view

It's easy to say in retrospect that she shouldn't have done it, but not only the tree, but all of the Christmas decorations were at stake. And for a motelier, decor is everything. Thank the Goddess they hadn't taken the Valentine's Day devil ducks.
"Meet me at the storage facility outside of town," the Voice said. "Come alone. Bring cash. We're almost out of time. Wait by the gate for further instructions."
Dusk was falling, when the motelier nervously pulled up at American Storage. The place seemed deserted but for a light in the office and the sound of a dog barking.
The cellphone rang. "Drop the cash into the slot. Do not hang up."
She dropped the cash into the slot. And then, as if by magic, the electric gate swung wide.
"Procede to storage unit 38," the voice said over the phone.
She shifted the car into drive.
Why I can't stop: Hindsight is so notoriously 20-20.

the plot fattens

"Meet me at the deserted house in the north of town." The instructions came by phone.
"What else," the motelier asked herself, "could go wrong today?" Already there had been the suspicious guests calling themselves a mother and daughter from Texas. They kept themselves to themselves, except for the brief attack on Lola. No harm done, as it proved, but terrifying while it lasted. Then there had been a series of financial setbacks requiring fast legal attention, the car/wallet/identity theft of the real estate broker, the threat of the kidnapping of the artificial Christmas tree from the white trash patio, the case of the broken stove spring, the missing cell phone and any number of other sinister occurances.
And now this. What could the man possibly want? And was it safe to find out?
Why I can't stop: The suspense is killing me.

a motelier's life

Rosita is on strike again, and so she must clean all the rooms herself. That's eight bathrooms, four kitchens and countless kitch salt 'n'peppa shakers to polish up. The girls are coming over to watch the Grammys, so there's dinner to prepare, too. Today's the day the trainer decides to step things up a notch. Jerry's sending a location scout over to photograph the place now, and, wouldn't you know it, the only guest in the place has messed up the best room. Not to mention hasn't paid a dime. The room next to that one still smells like the perfume of one recent guest, a transsexual supermodel (to see her click short movie, MAC, on DAVID LACHAPELLE'S SITE).
And then the nearby radio station calls to ask if you've been robbed and the neighborhood's hushed quiet is split by sirens.
Why I can't stop: What will happen next?

even in paradise

Why I can't stop: No scorpions, yet, but a killer cold.

this great land

I took a lot of pictures out the window of the plane. Especially when we passed over Monument Valley and the national park you may recognize above.
Why I can't stop: On this day of days I do not wish to think about national parks.

spanish speaking countries

Eating Cubano sandwiches in the Bronx with the Havanese dog owners I'm about to meet in Mexico and my Puerto Ricena friend.
Why I can't stop: I theen my daughter took my Berlitz phrase book.