February 1st, 2010

On my last blog I promised to tell you all about Berlin’s grocery stores and bathrooms.  However, after thinking about it, I realize that I could never fit both subjects into one blog.  So I think I will start with the bathrooms first and cover grocery stores in the next one.  Besides, those two subjects hardly go well together.

Here, in the States, a public bathroom usually consists of several stalls.  You might, or might not, have toilet paper.  But if you do, it will be one-ply and thin enough to read the newspaper through.  The toilet might, or might not, automatically flush.  There will always be a crying baby, the smell of diapers, and someone talking on their cell  phone.  You can pretty well guarantee trash on the floor – usually shreds of the nearly transparent toilet paper.  And it is free.  All of it.

In Berlin, you have to pay to go to the bathroom.  That is because there is a bathroom attendant sitting in the corner.  At the time I went, it cost me a Mark each time I needed to go.  If you didn’t have the correct change – bathroom attendants aren’t expected to make change, or, indeed, cooperate in any way - you had to recycle your urine until you got home . . . unless you did like my grandmother and used convenient potholes.

Bathroom attendants were there to make sure there was toilet paper and that the toilet was flushed for their next customer.  They kept the bathrooms clean and disinfected.  They kept lost items left behind until you showed up to pay them a ransom.

Bathroom attendants came in all shapes and sizes.  The bathroom attendant for the woman’s bathroom at the East Berlin Opera House was a middle-aged man in a lab coat.  He looked like medical personnel.  He was efficient in that way that Germans are known for.  Once a stall became free, he was in there with his brush, rag, and spray bottle before the toilet could gurgle into silence.  Then, in a nano-second, he was back out and selecting the next patron.  I found it somewhat disconcerting to be in the woman’s bathroom and have Dr. TidyBowl yank me out of line and roughly shove me into the stall of his choosing.  I was afraid he was going to come in after me and help.

Toilets in Germany are different as well.  America has laid-back toilets. . .  toilets with plenty of water and bowl. . . toilets with an easy-going flush.  German toilet bowls are nothing but dry platforms, rather like altars, that hold your offerings in readiness until you flush.  Then a spray hits you like some hygienic pressure washer and darn near lifts you clean off the porcelain.  The first time I used one, I thought I had sat on a hand grenade.

Once my mother and I were on an outing with Uschi, my mother’s first cousin.  We all had to go to the bathroom very badly, but the only bathroom we could find had coin slots on the stall doors.  Put in a coin (1 Mark), turn the handle, and you’re in. 

Unfortunately, we only had 1 coin between us.  I had 5 Marks in paper money, but the bathroom attendant was nowhere to be seen.  So my mother’s cousin inserted the coin and went first.  Then she held the unlocked stall door open for my mother to go after her. 

Still no bathroom attendant. 

Then my turn came.  Uschi let me in on her coin - 3 time’s a charm – and the elderly bathroom attendant suddenly showed up.  She took the situation in at a glance, and while I was relieving myself, decided to attack my mother and cousin.  It was so disconcerting to hear the screaming outburst and the sounds of slapping flesh, I nearly sucked it all back in.

But, alas, I do not have any pictures of a Berlin bathroom.  I would probably have had to pay the bathroom attendant to take one.  But I have pictures of other things, so I will leave you with a few photos.

West Berlin - "Luther's House" - a bombed out relic left over from WWII - closed and boarded up after the war when my mother and her brother found a body in one of the rooms

West Berlin - "Luther's House" - a famous bombed out relic left over from WWII

My first view of East Berlin (the Opera House is the building on the left)

My first view of East Berlin (the Opera House is the building on the left)

 The views from a double decker bus:

So, until next time, when I tell you how to offend people by going to the grocery store. . .

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Tags: | Posted in Miscellaneous |
January 29th, 2010

On my last blog I promised to write about our trip to the opera.

Berlin’s Opera House was in the East Zone, so when the Wall went down, opera-starved people rushed to the Opera House to reserve their seats for the next performance.  This is an understatement.  By March of the following Spring, every seat for every opera was reserved . . . every opera for the next five years.  Except for 12 seats in the nosebleed section for one night’s performance of Wagner.  

If anyone has been to one of Wagner’s operas, they will know that Wagner is sung in German, is usually 5 hours long, and involves huge contrivances that drop down from the ceiling, monstrous women in blonde braids, and high notes that make your teeth ring like tuning forks.  Unable to resist such an experience, we bought two tickets, waited for performance night, and dressed up when the time came.

But to get to the Opera House, we had to take a couple of buses to the train, then the train into the East Zone where we were to get our passports stamped before taking a taxi to our final destination.  We began our trek by starting out late.  Starting out late was not good.  This is another understatement. 

By the time we arrived in the East, I was sweaty from running in wool and high heels, and Mom was starting to show a little white around her eyes like a spooked horse. 

To get into East Berlin from West Berlin, one had to stop at a certain train station and file into a tiled room with 10 doors.  Each door led to a tiny cubicle containing another door out of the train station onto East soil, a computer, an East German official sitting in the dark, and bulletproof glass with just enough of a slit to slide one’s passport through.  Of those 10 doors, 9 were reserved for Germans and 1 – the last one on the far side of the room – was reserved for everyone else. 

I was the only non-German there, so it should have been easy for me to get through since there was absolutely no line at that door.  In theory, maybe, but in reality it was nearly impossible.  The first 9 doors were covered in a massive clot of tightly packed Germans.  They took it as a personal insult that we wanted to get to the other side.  So they body blocked us like linebackers and cursed. 

I slipped around as many angry Germans as I could, blazing a trail, then heard a sudden commotion behind me.  I turned in time to see an elderly woman the size of a pygmy grab Mom by the shoulders and sling her backwards.  Mom was not pleased.  One shove led to another, and by the time I worked my way back to Mom, I had just enough time to lunge and yank her out of the way of the woman’s flying fist.

Now, starting a riot at an East German passport counter is probably the fastest way to end up working in a Siberian camp.  At any second I expected to be wrestled to the ground by East German soldiers and have them shove the muzzles of their machine guns in the nearest orifice.  

There was a flurry of movement.  Mom and I froze.  Five burly soldiers converged. . .  and wrestled down a teenage girl right next to us that happened to take a short cut to one of the doors, going under one of the ’cattle fences’ instead of around it.  They hadn’t even seen us.  They were so focused on that hapless girl.  They picked her up bodily and whisked her into an unmarked room, slamming the metal door behind them.  Taking advantage of our narrow escape, we darted into our cubicle and produced our passports before any other angry Germans could annihilate us. 

Now I was REALLY sweaty.  

Darting outside, we tried to snag East Berlin’s only taxi (I exaggerate a little – East Berlin had 7 taxis), and failed.  So we started walking. . . and walking. . . and walking. . .   We eventually made it to the Opera House . . .

By then, we were puffing, sweating, desperate for a bathroom, and had bits of dead leaves hung in our hair.  We arrived sometime in the middle of  the first act.  We were escorted to our seats by a white gloved attendant, sat through the next 30 minutes, then – not being allowed in the East Zone after midnight – crept down the stairs, left the Opera House, and departed for home.

In my next blog, I will tell you about Berlin’s grocery stores and bathrooms.

Until then, I will leave you with a few pictures . . .

The Wall - still coming down, bit by chiselled bit.

The Wall - still coming down - bit by chiseled bit.

Berlin police - usually 6 in 1 van (It's not easy to control Germans :)   )

Berlin police - usually 6 in 1 van (Apparently, it's not easy to control Germans :) )

My mom. . .

My mom. . .

Until next time . . .

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January 27th, 2010

On my last blog, I promised to talk about how far one can push the Eastern German authorities without getting shot.

The answer is, apparently, not far for some, but pretty far for others.  My mother grew up in West Berlin during the occupation.  She, her brother, and her mother – my grandmother – made a sport of outsmarting Communists with guns.  Ahhh . . . the fond memories of childhood. 

This time was no different for my mother.  No force-imposed East German authority was going to make her do anything she didn’t want to.  I did not know this until after we had been through the Eastern Zone three times.  I did wonder, however, when I silently watched her performances from the sidelines.  I say ’sidelines’, but in reality I was in line to get the first bullet.  Or trailing behind her one step as she fled. 

On one such occasion, she ran past a gun-laden Eastern official at the train station turnstile.  We were supposed to wait in line – behind the nice couple getting their luggage searched – for our turn to gain admittance onto the train’s platform.  I didn’t know what Mom was going to do until she broke into a sudden run, wrestled with the turnstile, passing through and somehow jamming it, before disappearing around a corner.  She did this even though I yelled, “Wait!” and the man with the gun yelled, “Halt!!!” several times. 

I looked at the official’s gun strapped over his shoulder, his hands full of someone’s underthings, and the jammed turnstile that I couldn’t pass through, and made a split second decision.  I was much more afraid of ticking off my mother than I was of some duty bound East German told to shoot on sight.  I took off after my mother and jumped the turnstile like Rudolf Nureyev.  I didn’t have much of a choice.  I didn’t speak German well enough to dig my way out of getting lost in the Eastern Zone.  I didn’t even know the address of where we were staying in the West.  I never ran so fast, nor jumped so high.

Mom’s excuse?  We were going to be late for our train.

On another occasion, we were just through the passport counters and one step away from stepping out on Eastern Berlin soil when we were accosted by an armed East German soldier demanding if we were carrying East German currency.  We were, as a matter of fact, since we had exchanged West Marks into East Marks just that morning before heading out.  However, instead of answering the question, Mom suddenly became a half-wit.  I was immediately suspicious.  Why was this man asking us this, and why was my mother suddenly confused by the sunlight?  This went on for a few moments while I prudently stayed silent.

I found out what was going on once we had been dismissed by the irritated, yet resigned, official and shoved out of the train station.  I found out once we were both deep into East Germany.  Apparently it is illegal to bring any money that we had exchanged in the West into the East.  People had been incarcerated for having an unaccounted penny under the floor mats of their cars.  It would have been easy to obey their law.  There was an East German Bank in the train station.

Mom’s excuse, however?  The West gave a better rate of exchange.

So, until next time, when I will talk about our public brawl on the way to the Opera.  In the meantime, I will leave you with some pictures . . .

Looking through a hole in the Berlin Wall at "No-man's land" where the East Germans stood guard, ready to shoot any trying to cross over.

Looking through a hole in the Berlin Wall at "No-man's land" where the East Germans stood guard, ready to shoot any trying to cross over.

A close-up of one of the guard towers in "No-man's land" as seen from a Western train's window as we passed... looking into the Eastern Zone.

A close-up of one of the guard towers in "No-man's land" as seen from a Western train's window as we passed... looking into the Eastern Zone.

Checking passports at Checkpoint Charlie

Checking passports at Checkpoint Charlie

And a picture for ~Ifer -  (See the first three comments at the end of this blog)

Standing at the West side of Checkpoint Charlie, looking into the East at the guards.

Standing at the West side of Checkpoint Charlie, looking into the East at the guards.

Me, standing in front of Checkpoint Charlie

Me, standing in front of Checkpoint Charlie

And last, but not least . . .

...the guards we made faces at to see if we could get them to crack a smile.

...the guards we made faces at to see if we could get them to crack a smile.

So until next time . . .

Posted in Miscellaneous |
January 13th, 2010

This past week, when I wanted to blog, I tried to think of topics to talk about, but drew a blank. . . Until I read Purplume’s blog ( www.jbvadeboncoeur.info ) about her travels in Japan.  One of her informative, but whimsical blogs, was about Japan’s innovative toilet paper holders.  You wouldn’t think that there would be such a cultural gap in bathroom fixtures . . . but there is.  

I was reminded of my trip to Germany with my mother in 1990.  What does that have to do with Japanese toilet paper holders?  You wouldn’t ask that if you’d seen the East German toilet paper.  With a texture like large-grain sandpaper, one only needed 2 square inches to do the job. . . and another 2 square inches to staunch the bleeding.  One would even be able to refinish furniture with a mere handful of  “tissue”.  But to get back to our trip . . . 

My mother was born and raised in what became West Berlin.  West Berlin was the chunk of city that was not part of the Communist Eastern Zone, but still completely surrounded by it on all sides.  At this time, the Berlin Wall had been down for only 5 months.  To get to West Berlin, one had to travel past Communist soldiers brandishing machine guns.  Not good.  My mom likes to taunt the face of danger.  Well . . . to be candid, she likes to moon it . . . It is a wonder that we lived long enough to make it back home.  

Unfortunately, I have the same genetics.  However, I am more fatalistic than my mom, which gives me a modicum of sense.   I had no doubt that if I angered a gun-toting East German, I would get shot dead on their first aim.   Mom just assumed she could outrun the bullets . . . or perhaps just block them with her purse.   As a result, we were like Laurel and Hardy every time we ventured into the East Zone on our 24 hour visas.

Our ’dance with danger’ started with the plane trip over.  At the best of times, I hate flying.  Well, to be more accurate, it’s the thought of crashing that I hate. 

The flight over the Atlantic was smooth, however, since the plane was as large as a mini-mall.  Mom and I sat somewhere in the last section - by the tail -which, incidentally, is the first part of the plane to get ripped off in a crash. 

We landed in Frankfurt the next morning and switched planes for the shuttle flight into Berlin.  That is when I met German culture head-on for the first time.  (This was also the first time I was nearly strip searched in a cubicle.  Frankfurt was in the Eastern Zone and the security personnel tended to panic when the metal detector beeped . . . even if it beeped because of one’s jean zipper. )

To illustrate my first taste of the cultural gap – German flight attendants differ hugely from their American counterparts.  American flight attendants are pretty and they smile.  German flight attendants look like angry Russian weight lifters, chosen for their brute strength.   Everything was done with the iron hand of efficiency.  I had no doubt that if the plane did, indeed, crash, these Brunhilda-like women would emerge from the wreckage unscathed, every braid in place, and carry the injured that they hadn’t already eaten to safety . . . cursing them roundly all the way.

The German-trained pilot of our shuttle plane was no different.  He didn’t rise above the strong head-wind.  He steered straight into it in battle.  We rose and dipped like we were in a storm tossed dinghy.  At no time was the plane seat touching my backside.  The only thing that kept me off of the plane’s ceiling was my seat belt.  Then, just as I thought the plane couldn’t drop me any lower, it hit a sudden, violent updraft and smacked me back up into the stratosphere.

When we landed, I was kissing the tarmac, and Mom’s high blood pressure was off the charts.  We grabbed our luggage and a taxi, and rode to Uschi’s house where my mother promptly collapsed into a healing nap. 

Uschi is the one on the right without the high blood pressure.

Uschi is the one on the right without the high blood pressure.

Uschi, my mother’s cousin, was housing us for the three weeks we were going to be in Berlin.

So, until my next blog, where I will talk about how far one can push the East German authorities without getting shot . . .  

Tags: , | Posted in Miscellaneous |
December 31st, 2009

My grandfather used to be the lionkeeper at the Berlin zoo before WWII.  Here are some pictures that I dug out of the family archives.

According to my mother, the lions at the zoo belonged to Hitler.  My grandfather – who hated Hitler, but loved lions - was his lionkeeper.  Every so often, when Hitler wasn’t out for the day engaging in a spot of genocide, he would visit the zoo to see his animals.  In this picture, the crowd of people in the forefront are waiting for Hitler’s arrival.  Apparently.  It isn’t every day that one goes to the zoo in one’s best high heel shoes and suits.

However, the lionesses were in sexual ‘heat’ and opted to stay hidden in their lairs with the lions.  So my grandfather and one of his workers carried a lioness out so the people could see her.  My grandfather is the one carrying the lioness’ shoulders. 

The lioness was not happy.  As soon as they put her down in front of the crowd . . .

. . . she walked back to where she wanted to be.

So they dug out the cubs and put them on display. . .

Notice everyone heads turned to the left.  Hitler had arrived.  Apparently, no one was there to see the lions.  Except for my grandfather.  He is the one at the right of the picture . . . the one keeping an eye on the lioness . . .  the one walking away.

And thus ends our mini-history lesson . . .

Grandfather is the one on the far right, keeping an eye on the lion.

The End.  :)

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Tags: , , | Posted in Miscellaneous |
December 29th, 2009

A week ago, as I was coming home from Panera Bread Company, I stopped at one of the many red lights that sit between the bakery and my house.  As I waited for the light to turn green, a car passed in front of me.  I glanced at the driver – as one does – and had a strange thought float through my head.

“There goes ‘Jesus’ in a Toyota,’ I thought, surprising myself. 

The man in the car had long, light brown hair and a wispy beard.  Put him in a white robe and sandals and you have a Renaissance depiction of the Christ. . . which is utterly inaccurate as to what the real Jesus Christ looked like.  Unfortunately, that is the only artistic depiction of him floating in the world’s paintings.  Thanks to Michelangelo, Rembrandt, and Rubens, the majority of the Christian world thinks of Jesus as a pale, wispy, frail man with long white hands, sloping shoulders, and melancholy eyes.  Where did this universally accepted depiction come from?

I don’t want to burst anyone’s bubble here, but, first of all, the halo he is embellished with is found nowhere in the Bible.  The halo over Jesus’ head is an artistic embellishment  (according to the reference work, Art Through the Ages) that originated with the pagan sun god of the old Mediterranean and Eastern religions. 

A text to the Roman Senate written in the 13th-century by an obvious non-eyewitness gives a so-called ’description’ of Jesus, claiming that he had hair “the hue of an unripe hazelnut”  - (light brown to the rest of us without hazelnut trees) – “smooth almost down to his ears, but from the ears in curling locks somewhat darker and more shining, waving over his shoulders . . . a full beard the color of his hair . . . the eyes grey . . .”   The New Catholic Encyclopedia says that “each period created the type of Christ it desired.”

So where does this leave the rest of us who desire accuracy?

Well, there are many clues in the Bible as to Jesus’ real appearance while he was on earth.  First of all, by no means was Christ effeminately frail.  This was a man who worked as a carpenter.  The carpenters in Jesus’ day did not have Home Depot and chainsaws.  These men took their muscle-powered, hand-operated saws, found trees, and felled them.  They then carted them, or the hand-sawed pieces, back to their place of work.  Since carpenters were of a generally poor class, they had only beasts of burden and a cart to accomplish this.  A carpenter, then, does not evoke images of a frail, pale man with smooth, limp hands.  At the very least, Jesus would look like 1) he had been out in the Middle-eastern sunshine, and 2) capable of moving trees.

Secondly, Jesus’ hair was not long, like the pictures depict.  Only Nazarites – those who made special vows of service – were to have the long hair.  Jesus was not a Nazarite.  As a Jew of that time, he would keep his hair clipped short.  Not too short, since that was the trademark of the then-detested, conquering Romans.   He would also have a beard, since beardlessness was also a mark of a Roman . . . Besides, the Scriptures speak of his beard. 

Thirdly, he would have the features and complexion common to the Semetic race at that time.  He was by no means pale and light-haired with grey eyes. 

And fourthly, we can forget the aesthetic white robe with the monkish rope belt.  The Jewish garment, by Mosaic Law, had to have a fringe and a blue thread running around the bottom perimeter.  Also, by custom, the outer garment, worn like a long, open vest, would be woven out of colored threads.

It looks like the only thing these ancient artists got right was the sandals.

So the next time you think of the figure Jesus cut while on earth, picture a cheerful, happy, well-built vigorous man with tanned skin, a clipped dark beard, clipped dark hair, and warm brown eyes.

. . . Alot more refreshing and appealing, as far as I’m concerned . . .

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Tags: , | Posted in Miscellaneous |
December 18th, 2009

All of us came from a set of parents.  A man and a woman.  Whether they hung around after we were  conceived, or not, all of us are by-products of two people.  And whether we like it or not, we will share characteristics with a long line of family members.  Some may have inherited Grampa’s flat nose . . . or Great-uncle Elbert’s talent for playing armpits.  Some inherited traits are welcome, but for some reason most are not.  Very few women like to be told that they look just like their dad, and very few men like to be told they have their mother’s legs. 

Especially young people.  They feel fiercely individualistic even though they dress EXACTLY like their peers.  Many are angry when mention is made of the traits they share with their family.  However, when you get older, you start marvelling at how much like your parents you really are.  It doesn’t necessarily make you happy, but now, for the first time, YOU are starting to notice it as well.

Of course, it is never the traits that we would choose.  For example, I did not inherit my mother’s eyes – I inherited my father’s.  By the time I am 50, I will be able to use my own eyebrows to file my fingernails. 

I still marvel that I could look so much like my dad when he was a teenager, which is odd since I am comparing his graduation photo to the one Olan Mills took of me in first grade.  Give me five o’clock shadow and you have my dad right before he joined the Air Force. 

My two brothers also share strong family traits.   For example, one of my brothers is a near replica of my mother’s uncle in Germany.  Great-uncle died when the Russians took over their village in WWII.  However, if you slap my brother under a gray beard, you have Uncle Whatsit right before he was shot.

So, to finally get to the point of this blog, let me introduce you to my parents.  Once you meet them, you will better understand me . . .  unfortunately.

Here is a picture of my father taken in the early 1950’s, well before he met my mother . . .

In the above photo he’s in a Japanese bar . . . where he lived life to the fullest.   

Another photo at the same bar, but at a different time.  My father is the ’sober’ one with the ‘escort’.

Here is a picture of my mother . . . ALSO well before she met my father.

She is the one on the right.  The lady on the left is her dancing partner.

 

And in this photograph, my mother is the silvery one on the far left.  Even though they’re all dressed a bit like Hefner’s Bunnies, they did classical pantomime dance along with modern.  My mother apprenticed under Isadora Duncan’s protege, Mary Weekman, and mixed ballet and contortionism with modern dance . . . which, in hindsight, explains her two knee replacements and present dependence on Oxycontin.

In the next blog, I will tell you how my two parents met – two opposites born on different sides of the Atlantic.

And I will have some great pictures . . . :)

THIS, PLUS . . .

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Tags: , | Posted in Miscellaneous |
December 16th, 2009

I fell in love with Beethoven Tuesday night. 

 Oh, sure, I’ve seen pictures of him before.  Even then, I thought he was cute.  White-haired – with that round, pink belly, and those big soulful eyes.  Who wouldn’t yearn to squeeze him?  Maybe rub noses just a little bit.

. . . Provided you didn’t mind smelling his breath.

But, trust me, he is much more irresistable in real life.

In fact, I wasn’t the only one who fell in love with him.  I personally counted 4 other people who all had to have a little action with Beethoven.

I met Beethoven at Nightbird Books Tuesday night.  I was at the big table, doing an evening book signing for my second book – The Doll In The Wall - and having a lively conversation with Julia.

I met Julia when Lisa Sharp – the owner of Nightbird Books – brought her back to my table.  Julia and I began discussing the writing process. 

 ’Why did you write?  What started you on the journey?’ she asked. 

 ’Insomnia,’ I replied.

 ’Do you have a specific place that inspires you?’ she asked.

‘Chocolate,’ I answered. 

We were deep into the question of computer versus pencil and paper when in walked Samantha  . . .

. . . with Beethoven draped on her arm.  Every eye in the room riveted on him.  Women sighed.  Some squealed.  In fact, I did a bit of both.

I ran out to the car to fetch my camera. 

 Nightbird-Beethoven signing 006

This is Beethoven . . . Samantha’s French Bulldog puppy.  He is named Beethoven because he is deaf. 

Which, oddly enough, didn’t stop me from spouting baby-talk in a room full of adults.  We passed him around like a bag of m&m’s.

Next to hold him was Reynolds Sharp, Lisa’s son. 

Then Meggie . . .

Then lastly of all, Lisa . . .

Even Julia got to hold him somewhere in between.

He didn’t seem to mind all the coo-ing, hugging, and kissing he got from strangers.

 

In fact, he bestowed polite nibbles and puppy yawns on everyone before he left.  Thank you for coming, Sam . . . and for bringing Beethoven.

And thank you, Lisa, for having me at Nightbird Books.  I had a great time!  :D

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December 14th, 2009

Saturday night Randy and I went to an Art Reception at Arsaga’s on Crossover.  The flyer advertising the Art Show went something like this: BREAK MY HEART ART SHOW . . . Come enjoy Paintings, Irish Coffee, Music, and Snacks . . . THIS WILL BE FUN . . . “Four thumbs up,” Dr. Jekyll – “It’s alive,” Dr. Frankenstein – “Burns calories,” Dr. Ruth – “Far out and cool,” Dr. Leary – “Nein,” Dr. Strangelove . . . FOUR OUT OF FIVE DOCTORS AGREE

Who could resist such an invitation?  One of the featured artists was Nathan Beatty . . .

. . . an amazing Colorist – a bit like Vincent Van Gogh, except with both ears – and his own style . . .

I have always been fascinated by Nathan’s trees.  I remember one such surreal experience when my brother hit me upside my head when I was 9 years old.  I ran past him just as he flung his arm out.  It was a bit like having the horse under you head for a low branch.  My feet flipped higher than my head.  For a few moments while I teetered over unconsciousness, I stared up at the huge oak in our yard.  Nathan’s tree pictures give one the same unworldly experience except WITHOUT the spinning and nausea.  Nathan’s art hovers in its own world of brilliance, dreams, and far-side humor.  I could happily get lost in his paintings for hours. 

The other artist featured that night was Debi Grimm.  She illustrates children’s books with a playful, warm,  ’Grandma Moses’ feel to her art . . .

But her other art . . .

Has a wide variety of style.

The evening seemed to be divided into 3 separate highlights.  The first part was just seeing the explosion of color when we walked into Arsaga’s.  Paintings lined the walls and covered the long tables.  A violinist was playing in the corner by the window, Debi was milling and greeting, and Nathan was milling and bartending.  Someone had to allot the tot of whiskey for the Irish coffee . . . 

The second highlight of the evening came after long time friends of ours arrived . . . Jack and Lisa Bauer.  The plan was to sneak an eggnog, wallow in art, then run over to a neighboring restaurant for dinner as soon as Jack’s ‘EAT NOW’ timer popped up.

Then we went back to the art reception for the 3rd highlight – Irish coffee, conversation, and sitting down in comfortable chairs. 

(It had been a long week.) 

We chatted until Arsaga’s scheduled band for that evening came in and set up.  The coffee shop began to fill with teenagers . . . Children with driver’s licenses . . . Deaf children with car stereos . . . All of them the width of nervous pencils.   The band started to make their McNoise.  We couldn’t tell if they were tuning up, or playing their music.  Nathan called them minimalist and added his own beatnik version of Sting’s ‘Roxanne’ everytime they struck a chord and then dwindled into silence.  Then it suddenly sobered us to realize that none of the band’s fans were old enough to get the joke.

 But then the band started playing in earnest.  They HAD just been tuning up.  They were surprisingly good for 3 LOUD stage frightened boys with instruments.  

But Randy and I decided that it was time to go home when the blood started trickling from our middle-aged ears. 

Thank you Nathan and Debi, Jack and Lisa, for such a good wind-down to a hectic few weeks.  Until the next art show. . .

1
December 12th, 2009

Friday I had a book signing at Fayetteville’s Panera Bread Company. 

You never know what you will get at your own book signing.  You might see zombies pass right by your table, their eyes glassy and their hair still shaped to the pillow.  You might get readers who stop by and ask questions.  You might get fellow writers.  You might get people who don’t read, but who like to buy gifts for people who do.  Some days you get a cross section of all of the above. 

Friday, I got friends, family, readers, gifters, browsers, and one irritated lady who had to move because we were so loud.  I thought we had chased her home until I went to the bathroom and spotted her relocated on the other side of the building with her earbud hammered so deep into her ear, it would take a blasting cap to get it out.  I applauded her fortitude and long suffering.  She could have hit one of us instead of merely finding another corner to sit. 

One of the first visitors to come to my table was Margaret, Randy’s mom.

Margaret had just returned from attending an International Convention in Hawaii.  She visited the book signing bearing exotic pictures, gifts, and her own sister – Randy’s Aunt Margie. 

Aunt Margie is the one on the left. 

. . . And no matter what one of Randy’s neices later claimed, Margie was not looking through my book hoping to find ’pop-ups’ . . .

My second group of special visitors came in a set of three – Mallory, Lexi, and Maddy.

  

Mallory did not tell Lexi and Maddy that she was picking them up to drive into Fayetteville for my book signing.  She told them that she was going into Fayetteville to stop at a party that the Bank of Arkansas was putting on for all the branches.  They were going to eat, drink, and be merry.  Lexi gave her a look.  It could have been a look of disbelief, or Lexi could have merely been communicating to Mallory that she knew she had lost her marbles.  Mallory, seeing the look Lexi threw her, changed her story in mid-stream.  She told them that they were going to Panera where there were going to be clowns and disco balls.  Everyone would be dancing.  For some reason, Lexi found that to be more believeable than the Bank of Arkansas throwing a party.

However, this worried Lexi and Maddy since they hate clowns.  Would a clown try to dance with them?  Mallory assured them that they wouldn’t get near the clowns since she hated them too.  Which begs the question that no one asked, ‘Why was Mallory making the hour-long trip to see them?’   

I was grateful for Mallory’s highly imaginative and bizarre storyline since that made Lexi and Maddy that much more happy to see me.  Not that they wouldn’t have been happy to visit to begin with, but a sharp sense of relief adds quite a bit to one’s general gaiety. 

Then, just when we thought we couldn’t get any more boisterous, three of Randy’s neices showed up at the party. . . I mean, book signing.

LaKeisha, Tera, and Jodi

LaKeisha, Tera, and Jodi

These young women did not expect a disco ball over the pastry case.  They didn’t even expect clowns.  That is because they didn’t ride into town with Mallory; they rode into town in Tera’s car. 

We had so much fun that the book signing, which was supposed to end at 2, went on well into the afternoon.  Time flew.  

And in between all that, a frozen mocha, gifts, and pictures of Hawaii, I actually sold alot of books.  :)

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