If I'm Being Honest

Whenever I see someone post a nonspecific "morning activity" on Strava, I just assume they left their smart watch on while having sex.

Truth in Advertising

If the contents of my car and purse indicate that I have been surviving off of Monster, Red Bull, and chewing gum, it's because I have been surviving off of Monster, Red Bull, and chewing gum.

I would like this for my birthday, please and thank you.

#SimonRebelde

Thanato-Musicology: Part 3

The best recipes begin with “fry one pound of bacon; reserve grease.” The best songs end with meaningful characters dying.

****

Gram Parsons didn't leave a huge body of work before dying young and leaving a beautiful corpse. Of his limited recordings, my favorite has to be $1000 Wedding. Emmylou Harris's vocals give the effect of a church choir backing Parson's jumbled and conflated narrative of a jilted groom and a young, dead bride-to-be.

Parson's arrangement is sparse in comparison to Willie Nelson's lush rendering, produced by Ryan Adams and backed by The Cardinals on Nelson's album, Songbird. Evan Dando and Juliana Hatfield's iteration falls somewhere in the middle.

I imagine that $1,000 bought a lot more throwing rice back in 1974; regardless, a delightful vein of seediness runs throughout the lyrics. I've had a five-figure wedding and a three-figure one. The joy, in my experience, was inversely correlated to the number on the price tag.

$1000 Wedding by Gram Parsons

Was one thousand dollars wedding, supposed to be held the other day
And with all the invitations sent
The young bride went away
When the groom saw people passing notes
Not unusual, he might say
But where are the flowers for my baby
I'd even like to see her mean old mama
And why ain't there a funeral, if you're gonna act that way
I hate to tell you how he acted when the news arrived
He took some friends out drinking and it's lucky they survived
'Cause he told them everything there was to tell there along the way
And he felt so bad when he saw the traces of old lies still on their faces
So why don't someone here just spike his drink
Why don't you do him in some old way
Supposed to be a funeral
It's been a bad, bad day
The Reverend Dr. William Grace
Was talking to the crowd
All about the sweet child's holy face and
The saints who sung out loud
And he swore the fiercest beasts
Could all be put to sleep the same silly way
And where are the flowers for the girl
She only knew she loved the world
And why ain't there one lonely horn and one sad note to play
Supposed to be a funeral
It's been a bad, bad day
Supposed to be a funeral
It's been a bad, bad day

Gratitude

I used mobile ordering for my Dunkin' Donuts free reward coffee this morning on a large, hot,  extra shot, almond milk latte. The girl made it iced by mistake, made me a hot one, but told me just to keep the iced one on her. It's like the coffee gods knew I drove 40 minutes in the rain to get the kids to Take Kwon Do on time after settling my family of 5 into a single bedroom a family of 7 has graciously provided for us until we are re-homed AND I AM SO GRATEFUL I COULD CRY.

Atahualpa. Ataturk. At-a-glance.

Not quite phoning it in...

...but almost. Anyway, the kids will eat 'em. Happy birthday, Dr. Seuss!

Garfield Chooses the Wrong Mango

The [pre-literate] 3 y.o.'s litany of all the Garfield books he has read: "This one is called Garfield Opens His Mouth and this one is called Garfield Touches a Dog Gently...and this one is called Garfield Chooses the Wrong Mango and this one is called Garfield Eats a Sausage...and this one is called Garfield Poops in the Potty and this one is called Garfield Goes into a Cave ...and this is one is called Garfield Eats a Nana."

Darkle?

I've been using this lamp daily since December because winter makes me so SAD, SAD, SAD. And, yes, it helps me be more happy, happy, happy. But, my morning coffee, stretching, and light therapy ritual always leaves me with the question: What is the dark side of light?

Thanato-Musicology: Part 2

The best recipes begin with “fry one pound of bacon; reserve grease.” The best songs end with
meaningful characters dying

Carolina Rain vs. Carolina Drama

I’m a huge fan of Southern Gothic in all its iterations. This is not surprising, considering Dorothy
Allison’s Bastard Out of Carolina is almost required reading in any social work program worth its salt.

I won’t get into the reported beef Ryan Adams had, or has, or whatever, with Jack White. It’s been
covered before. I’m more interested in the these two, independently created songs, separated by time
and space. Adams’ Carolina Rain appeared in his 2005 solo album, 29, while Carolina Drama shows
up on the tail end of The Raconteurs’ 2008 album Consolers of the Lonely. Both feature drunkenness,
infidelity, and references to clergy or sacramentals. And yes, of course, people die. To be blunt: shit be
goin’ down in Carolina

Carolina Rain

Rose lived on the south side of town

Until her landlord showed up with two hundred dollar bills

A notice of eviction on the other hand

Now she don't live there no more

And everyone thinks he drowned

I pulled into Mecklenburg on them trains

Into a station that got flooded when they opened up the dam

And broke their connections to the railway lines

So they could blast into the quarry

And for every load of granite

We got a ton of worry

One night at the diner over eggs

Over easy she showed me the length of her legs

But that gold plated cross on her neck, it was real

And you don't get that kind of money from pushing meal

I should've told him that you were the one for me

But I lied, but I lied

To most any drifter who’s looking for work is too weird

I met your sister and I married her in July

But if only to be closer to you, Caroline

Percy and I moved down the street

Until we lost two pretty girls

One was seven and one was three

Alderman and Caroline owned the house right up the hill

Where we laid those babies down

So they could still see our house

Suspicion got the best of old Alderman Haint

He owned an auto parts store off the interstate

But the lord took him home in July

And then Rose spilled the beans on the day that he died

We was in trouble

I should've told him that you were the one for me

But I lied, but I lied

Tied up to concrete at the bottom of the quarry

With a tattoo on his heart that spelled out "Caroline"

He was silent but his rosary

Well, it drifted into the custody

Of a sheriff that was just deputized

And I was down at the banquet hall

When two guys came up, pretty angry and drunk

And I'm still here at the banquet hall

At the banquet hall

Where the gun went off in the Carolina rain

In the Carolina rain

In the Carolina rain

Oh, Caroline

Carolina Drama

I'm not sure if there's a point to this story

But I'm going to tell it again

So many other people try to tell the tale

Not one of them knows the end

It was a junk-house in South Carolina

Held a boy the age of ten

Along with his older brother Billy

And a mother and her boyfriend

Who was a triple loser with some blue tattoos

That were given to him when he was young

And a drunk temper that was easy to lose

And thank god he didn't own a gun

Well, Billy woke up in the back of his truck

Took a minute to open his eyes

He took a peep into the back of the house

And found himself a big surprise

He didn't see his brother but there was his mother

With her red-headed head in her hands

While the boyfriend had his gloves wrapped around an old priest

Trying to choke the man

Ah Ah Ah

Billy looked up from the window to the truck

Threw up, and had to struggle to stand

He saw that red-necked bastard with a hammer

Turn the priest into a shell of a man

That priest was putting up the fight of his life

But he was old and he was bound to lose

The boyfriend hit as hard as he could

And knocked the priest right down to his shoes

Well, now Billy knew but never actually met

The preacher lying there in the room

He heard himself say, "That must be my daddy"

Then he knew what he was gonna do

Billy got up enough courage, took it up

And grabbed the first blunt thing he could find

It was a cold, glass bottle of milk

That got delivered every morning at nine

Ah Ah Ah

Billy broke in and saw the blood on the floor, and

He turned around and put the lock on the door

He looked dead into the boyfriend's eye

His mother was a ghost, too upset to cry, then

He took a step toward the man on the ground

From his mouth trickled out a little audible sound

He heard the boyfriend shout, "Get out!"

And Billy said, "Not till I know what this is all about"

"Well, this preacher here was attacking your mama"

But Billy knew just who was starting the drama

So Billy took dead aim at his face

And smashed the bottle on the man who left his dad in disgrace, and

The white milk dripped down with the blood, and the

Boyfriend fell down dead for good

Right next to the preacher who was gasping for air

And Billy shouted, "Daddy, why'd you have to come back here?"

His mama reached behind the sugar and honey, and

Pulled out an envelope filled with money

"Your daddy gave us this, " she collapsed in tears

"He's been paying all the bills for years"

"Mama, let's put this body underneath the trees

And put Daddy in the truck and head to Tennessee"

Just then, his little brother came in

Holding the milk man's hat and a bottle of gin singing

La la la la, la la la la, yeah

La la la la, la la la la, yeah

La la la la, la la la la, yeah

La la la, la la la

La la la la, la la la la, yeah

La la la la, la la la la, yeah

La la la la, la la la la, yeah

La la la, la la la

La la la la, la la la la, yeah

La la la la, la la la la, yeah

La la la la, la la la la, yeah

La la la la, la la la la, yeah

Well now you heard another side to the story

But you wanna know how it ends?

If you must know, the truth about the tale

Go and ask the milkman

Dust People

As a bilingual social worker, one of the chronic complaints I heard from educators was the plague of managing the extended absences of latino students from school, specifically during the weeks leading up to and after the winter holidays. I have witnessed countless eye rolls and groans from teachers and administrators around conference tables, bemoaning the impact of 4-, 5-, or 6-week absences from the country, and the effort involved in catching the kids up when they returned.

I dutifully defended my client families’ motivations. I repeatedly pointed out the value of seeing extended family they would otherwise never get to know; participating in family, cultural, and religious celebrations that would otherwise remain foreign; and often completing bureaucratic tasks crucial to the naturalization process. I experienced this first hand as an immigrant myself and I wouldn’t trade the experiences of those trips for all the college acceptance letters in the world.

We took one such trip about 25 years ago. We planned a side trip from Lima, Peru to the southern desert town of Nazca. The trip required an overnight trip on a pothole-riddled segment of the Pan-American Highway, seeing sunrise from the bus with stiff necks and aching gums. I don’t know if Nazca has benefited from the recent Peruvian economic growth, but in those days of Fujimori and Sendero Luminoso, I remember little about the town except for its few squalid buildings, layers of dust, roving packs of stray dogs, and a hostel that had been fashioned from a former horse stable.

En aquellos tiempos, as my father has reminded me, very few native Peruvians had the economic wherewithal to visit their country’s archaeological gems. Those tourists who could afford to visit the Unesco World Heritage site often viewed the geoglyphs from a chartered propeller plane. We did not, opting instead to view a few of the geoglyphs from observation towers. The experience was ethereal, striking, dissociative, and indelible.

While searching for a picture of one such observation tower, I was struck by the bubbling activity in this more-recent image. Our time there was so much more lonely and quiet.

One strong memory of that trip that has lingered was that of a man we encountered, sheltered by an observation tower. He had no conveyance with him anywhere in sight. Spread before him was a small blanket, dotted with his wares. Along with clay ocarinas adorned with the Nazca lines, he carved and sold polished stones bearing some of the more popular geoglyphs: the hummingbird, the spider, the condor, the monkey. His face bore deep grooves and stony features, as if he himself had been carved from the windless, unchanging desert. He didn’t say much and my parents bought a few items from him, I think mainly out of duty or obligation or a sense of pity.

He had a few belongings with him, blankets and bags bundled and stacked towards the back of the shelter. It occurred to me then that he must live there and make his living from selling trinkets to tourists, and this troubled me. Growing up in the Northern Virginia suburbs, I couldn’t fathom a society where people lived, unchecked, under observation towers. My parents gently exposed us to lots of this again and again during our various trips throughout Latin America: the children selling cigarettes and sticks of gum in Lima; the Venezuelan children scampering up coconut trees, machetes clenched in their teeth, quickly returning and popping a straw in for us to buy as cheap refreshment; the children camped out next to our hotel in Rio de Janeiro, samba dancing for spare change; the young boy who raced our charter bus up the the winding switchbacks leading up to Machu Picchu, outpacing it and coming onboard at the end, to collect applause and tips.  

We work so hard to protect and provide for our children today, but my mind has started to turn to how we, as parents, can give the boys these kinds of experiences. We venture into D.C. on occasion, and I point out soup kitchen lines in neighborhoods very different from our own, and prompt them to consider how differently children in the same country can live. I look for these opportunities in rural Virginia and tell them about my time providing family services throughout the Shenandoah Valley. It’s not enough, though.

Thanato-Musicology: Part 1

The best recipes begin with “fry one pound of bacon; reserve grease.” The best songs end with meaningful characters dying.

Clyde Water

I won't go into a deep historical, literary, or musical analysis of this 19th century English ballad. A perfectly good one has already been written. There are several recordings of this song out there, under various titles, but the one that strikes my fancy is the one Nic Jones recorded for his 2006 album Game Set Match. He had recorded the song decades earlier as The Drowned Lovers on his album Penguin Eggs, the tragic lyrics juxtaposed with an upbeat tempo and jaunty melodeon. The more recent iteration is richer, fuller, and accompanied by guitar.

These are not star-crossed lovers. These are young people with cold-ass parents dealing with the inconvenient placement of a dangerous river near their homes.

*****

Willie sits in his stable door
And he's combing his coal-black steed,
Doubting on fair Margaret's love
And his heart began to bleed,
"Give corn unto my horse, mother,
And meat to my man John,
And I'll away to fair Margaret's bower
Before the night comes on."

"Stay at home with me, dear Willie,
Oh stay at home with me,
In the deepest part of the Clyde water
Then you shall drowned be."
"Oh the good steed I ride upon
Cost me thrice thirty pounds,
I'll put trust in his swift feet
To take me safe and sound."

He's ridden o'er high, high hill
And he's down yon dowie den,
And the rushing the Clyde water
Would have feared five hundred men,
"O roaring Clyde, you roar so loud
Your streams are wondrous strong,
Make me a wreck as I come back
And spare me as I'm going."

Oh and when he's got to Margaret's bower,
He's turled low on the pin.
Saying "Rise up, me good Margaret,
Rise up and let me in."
"Oh who is this at my bower door,
Calling May Margaret's name?"
"It's only your first love, little William,
This night come to her home."

"Open up your castle gates,
Open and let me in,
For me boots they are full of the Clyde water
And I'm frozen to the skin."
"Oh me barns are full of corn, Willie,
The stable's full of hay.
And me bower's full of gentlemen,
They'll not remove till day."

"Fare you well to you, May Margaret,
It's fare thee well and adieu,
For I have won my mother's own curse
In coming this night to you."
So he's ridden o'er high, high hill
And down yon dowie den,
And the rushing in the Clyde water
Took Willie's cane from him.

And he's leaned him over his saddle-bow
To catch his cane again,
And the rushing in the Clyde water
Took Willie's hat from him.
He's leaned him over his saddle-bow
To catch his hat by force,
And the rushing in the Clyde water
Took Willie from his horse.

And the very hour that young man sank
Into the parts so deep,
Then up and awoke this May Margaret
Out from her drowsy sleep.
"Come here come here, my mother dear,
And you read my dreary dream.
Oh I dreamed my lover was at our gates
And nobody let him in."

"Oh Lie down, lie down, you May Margaret,
Lie down and take your rest.
And since your lover was at our gates
It's but two quarters passed."
Then nimbly, nimbly rose she up,
Went down to the river's brim,
And the louder that this lady cried
The louder grew the wind.

And the very first step that she went in,
She waded to her feet,
And it's "oh" and "alas," this lady says,
"The water's wondrous deep."
And the very next step that she went in,
She's waded to her knee.
Says she, "I would wade farther in
If I my true lover could see."

And the very last step that she went in,
She's waded to her chin.
And the deepest part of Clyde water
She found sweet William in.
"Oh you have had a cruel mother, Willie,
And I have had another.
And now we'll sleep in Clyde water
Like sister and brother."