May 2006 Archives

One of those ways is to take the Chinatown bus. Another is to have close relations living in New York. And yet another is to ride the free ferry to Staten Island and back on a gorgeous Manhattan day.

New York was hot, hot, hot. Fan-freaking-tastic. Perhaps the best time I've had there. Good company, conversation, cuisine - the three c's that, when done well, make anything worthwhile. Ben attempted escargots and discovered that snails leave much meat to be desired after they're boiled. The homemade chips and salsa and the pastries from Jean and Pierro's Italian bakery and the Eastern European beer from New York's last biergarten more than made up for that disappointment. And to top it off, Max gave me a free copy of On Writing Well by William Zinsser. I told him I was forever indebted, and he replied by saying, "Laura, all I ask is that you pay it back to the literary world." The compound's back patio laid the scene for most of these events - perfectly warm, lantern-lit, floral, and inhabited by the sounds of bouncing basketballs, courtesy of the swarm of compound kids.

Howe Gelb also was amazing, though the preliminary drinks make the details a bit hazy. However, they did encore with "Oh, Happy Day" while Anna, Lauri and I danced wildly and sang along, and someone behind me shouted, "Praise the Lord!" I wish I could walk with as much coordination and syncopation as the gospel choir could dance. Their patterns escaped me.

Lovely spring evening here in Boston. The Indian curtains spring up periodically from their perch on the windowsill, vibrating in the breeze. Would be a nice night for a baseball game or a frisbee toss, but instead I'm packing for New York.

Yes, New York for Memorial Day weekend. Mom and Dad and Anna and Lauri and cousins Max and Emily will all be there, too. We're going to a Howe Gelb show Saturday night. He's made an album I've only recently become familiar with: " 'Sno Angel like You." Gospel-infused folk music, although I'm not sure that's how he would describe it.

Ah, but Radiohead awaits - June 5! Just like the Beck show I went to, right on the harbor at the Bank of America pavilion. My heart leaps every time I think of it. Like walking in a dream. I'm irritated they don't allow cameras at the Pavilion, but perhaps I will be able to capture the experience with my words. (If that's not cliche, I don't know what is).

Linnea, I miss you, but I'm glad you're still on bostonblogs! They don't have northdakotablogs, I guess.

Outside my window, the maple has transformed its buds into leaves. Such a friendly maple. In the fall it belonged in Lothlorien; in the winter it offered a framed view of next door houses and busy Mt. Auburn Street; and now it's matured into a lovely stretched-out hand of hospitality, the slow rain enhancing its rich green hue. On our street out front, the wind kidnapped the pink blossoms off the tree across the way, abandoning them to an exotic swirly mess strewn out over the road.

Sometimes I wish my life was so simple, that it grew in cycles and always knew what was coming at the next juncture. Every season it would take on its predicted form. But I'm glad it's not like that, not exclusively anyway. There's a rhythmic monotony to life that can be wonderful, and it is wonderful sometimes, but life's variances and unpredictability make us more than one-dimensional human beings and give us a desire for order. My monotony involves boiling the water for coffee, making lunch, answering phones, talking to my house-and-neighbor-friends (heh heh, sorry, not so monotonous, guys), checking my email, going to sleep. Anything new I find in that monotony, and any time I completely drop it and do something else for a while, or any time somethings strange happens to me, I become more complex, and I treasure the monotony more.

He was walking towards the law office where CarTalk is broadcast. Bald, short, middleaged, thick accent, glasses, Red Sox hat. People made jokes to him as he passed. Different, unrelated people. Two older men flanked him. I whisked right by, then whipped around to get a good look as he turned and exclaimed, "At least I don't look like Howie Bulgah!"

I, having no clue what that means, could easily be wrong about this. I usually am wrong. A google image search was inconclusive, and so my confidence is shot.

Am flying home tomorrow for Covcol graduation and my mom's 60th birthday. Should be relaxing yet eventful, and hopefully warm. Right now the Boston rain has got me down. I don't mind a cold rain in the fall, but for some reason it makes me irritated in the spring. Spring is meant for warm rain, thunderstorms, and flowers.