Tessa plays nature sounds on her noise machine. She especially likes the storms, which is fitting, since she’s a salty one.
One of the stops on my St. Louis journey was a charming college burg in nearby Illinois to visit Pete and Sarah, who decamped to the midwest a couple years back for family and real estate, and who’ve doubled their breeding production since the move. It’s fertile soil in these parts. I knew their son Charlie in the Bay Area, but his little sister was a fresh treat.
Her brother Charlie came up with the best name for her. “Tessa’s a Nightbear,” he told told their dad one night. “A Nightbear?,” Pete asked, then realized that Charlie had heard him say—after another sudden squall in the key of toddler—that Tessa was a nightmare. She’s not really bad, of course, she’s just built for No! and Go!
She’s at that lurching forward stage, running at everything in a rush, no fear yet. She insisted on walking on her own for much of the stroll we took through the ridiculously picturesque campus into town. Stroller-free is how the newly-twos roll, I’m told. Charlie is more considered; he’s seen some things at nearly four. He knows the world can hurt him, so he makes his moves with more deliberation.
Mostly, he is in love with his toy combine. Now, for those of you without access to the rural America (you know, the Palin parts), there are a couple ways you can go with that word. It can be an act: to combine, with the emphasis on the bine. Or it can be a heavy implement: I drive my combine through the alfalfa pasture, with a heavy boot on the com. Charlie’s at the vehicular age; anything with wheels, gears, and levers does all right by him.
Saw this on The Hill in St. Louis, as Kirsten and I herded 3 lipsticked little girls to the cafe for cocoa and bickering. It was an epic walk: matching velour tracksuits! Sisterly freeze-outs! Unexpected diarrhea! Thank god for the neighborhood watering hole, which offered a safe space for 6-year old intestinal upset—no questions asked, no purchase necessary.
Seen on The Hill in St. Louis. I think they call this process “Fizzbo,” which is a cute name for a rat terrier, but a sadly hopeful grind in real life. Makes me tired just thinking about it.
Meanwhile, back in Nebraska, I am headless-chickening my way through a bunch of urgent projects, while longing for a nap. And a magically clean house. Anyone with strong hands and a touch of OCD wanna come over for a shoulder rub and cleaning sesh?
I took a quick roadtrip between christmas and New Year’s last week, driving to St. Louis to catch up with old friends who’ve either escaped the Bay Area poverty trap, or who were visiting family members who’d made a similar getaway. It’s a common phenomenon: San Francisco is a rich experience in every sense, and sometimes it makes sense to live closer to the middle, nearer to family.
I was here once before, on some epic cross-country camping adventure with my family. I believe I was a sour thirteen at the time, and wore my orange David Bowie shirt every day of the journey. (After two weeks, the tee took on a tang of chicken soup and puberty that the Slim White Duke himself would have found as repellant as my family did). And if I’d had that tee this time around, I would have done exactly the same thing, since I packed with a hangover and had to stop at Target in Kansas City for a few items I left out of my overful suitcase. Basically, I had too many clothes, and none that pleased me.
St. Louis got good branding bang with the Arch—it’s a real stunner; one of my favorite pieces of public art. Lincoln’s got its state capitol, which we call the Penis of the Plains, but the Arch is the Nike swoosh of city landmarks. Nothing else has that confidence, that swoop and ease.
Apparently, it’s music video day here at The Subtle Rudder. But then, New Year’s is often like that: you get stuck on something because it’s a lazy PJ day, often complicated by a hangover (and best medicated by daytime drinking and plenty of naps). Since I already had a banging hangover of the fumbly, enfeebling variety this week, and had to pack (badly) for a roadtrip and also pilot my sister to Kansas City along icy highways in that condition, I opted for a clear head last night and this morning.
I still don’t feel particularly sharp, of course, but so far, 2009 feels like the muzzy part of the morning, when you’re just waking up, and you stretch and yawn and feel delicious with possibilities. 2008 was a weighted, freighted year, so many lows and blows, with the occasional joy jag. But 2009 will be different, in ways we can’t begin to guess; change is the only sure thing ahead. And I’m becoming comfortable with change; transition feels like slippers and flannel at this point.
And—dig this artful segue—another thing that feels like an old shoe? Watching The Jayhawks sing Blue on a 1995-era Jon Stewart show. This song makes me think of my old friend Scout, and I know he’ll laugh when he sees this. And my god, don’t they all look fetal? Watch close: is there anything in Jon Stewart’s manner (or haircut!) that suggests what he’ll become? It feels like watching an 80’s Obama doing a little community organizing. On a Tuesday. In a sweatshirt. And assflattening denim.
John Cale goes all Nick Cave on our asses, covering a little Jonathan Richman. (Whew, that sentence made me sleepy!)
While I’m writing this from 2009 (happy new year, BTW!), this video’s from 1984. And doesn’t JC look elegantly edible in that East Village Anthony Bourdain-meets-Tom Verlaine junkie kind of way?* Of course, Mr. Cale, along with Mr. Reed and Mr. Morrison, really pioneered the look: dangerous beat-glams rocking the shades.
*A quiver of clues, for those of you hoping to map the contours of my fantasies.
And lots of ‘em, if this squirrel is any guide. He looks about how most of us feel, and there’s still one more celebratory day of overconsumption to drink our way through before the fasting begins. To everything there is a season, and thems what binges must eventually purge.
I, for one, cannot wait, especially after driving with a full bladder and an empty stomach for many hours yesterday, hoping to see signage from someplace vaguely healthy along I-70 (my kingdom for a Chipotle!). I ended up scarfing drive-thru Taco Bell at 3:45 pm, and then felt as dirty and overladen as my poor car. So let a thousand resolutions rain down, and let me ankle my ass to the gym a goodly number of times each week in ‘09. Which is right where I’m headed now.
After that, I’ll be doing some year-end cleaning around here, blazing through the detritus (psychic and otherwise) of this past December. Back with you tomorrow or Friday, depending on how much rest I get during tonight’s 11-hour showing of Benjamin Buttons.
