Life of Wry

PV and cloud bank to west.  On way to dinner down by the harbor, but had to stop for this one. Without fail, there are always people gathered along the Esplanade, admiring the sunset and shooting up a storm.  Nightly ritual.

I hear Palos Verdes got .11″ of rain today.  Long Beach may have gotten a 100th of an inch more. Or less.  We joined Aunt Ellie, Uncle Bud and Uncle Bud’s nephew Jeff and his wife Robin for lunch at Eric and Matty’s restaurant in LB.  That’s your player list for the day.

Legends, “The First Modern Sports Bar in America” … not sure how many TV screens (50? 75?), including the largest west of the Mississippi. Do not quote me on that.

Not what you’re thinking…  Burnout’s the name of this surf spot in Redondo Beach.. just down the hill from mom’s house. Nobody’s burned out yet … I just got here.

Flew in first thing, had brunch at a favorite restaurant (the Pancake House, not to be confused with the IHOP), then the beach.

Here’s us:

Looks like we’re bundled up for the artic. There’s a chill in the air (which in the South Bay means it’s in the low 60s, and breezy). Some were in shorts and shirt sleeves. Here is the view to our left down the ramp (and looking north):

A happy birthday present from Jim…

Washed and set it up:

Washed these…. a whole bunch of carrots, some celery, two oranges, a few trees of broccoli and a small bunch of mei qing bok choy:

Dropped all into the chute (low setting for the bok choy and broccoli, high setting for the rest).  Took mere minutes.  Impressive piece of machinery, that.

Produced a pitcher and a half of juice:

Then emptied the pulp into the compost bucket.. it’s very fluffy and powdery dry:

Put the juice into a couple mason jars:

Had not too bad of a first-world mess..

… which cleaned up pretty easily.

Drank almost all of the juice!  Might be best not to be so thirsty when making juices.

Never again will the vegetables in our CSA box — the common ones or the mystery ones — ever go to waste.

RIP Pete Seeger

May 3, 1919 – January 27, 2014

Listening right now to a live stream of a Pete Seeger tribute and memorial concert going on at Berkeley’s Freight and Salvage.

The concert’s organized and emceed by Holly Near and features a whole bunch of musicians and groups who are taking the stage one at a time to do one song each… a steady stream of them. Very sweet.  I was eating dinner for the first hour and missed Ronnie Gilbert (and who knows how many others); hopefully she’ll come back.  Right now Holly’s called back a stage-full of banjo pickers and they’re singing, “Where Have All the Flowers Gone,” which is very moving.

And now.. “We Shall Overcome,”  whew!  Amazing.

And it looks like they’re finishing with “Goodnight Irene” with Ronnie Gilbert.. and the whole bunch.  Holly said Wavy Gravy was just off stage blowing bubbles.

And encored/ended with “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

Goodnight, Pete, goodnight.

Philip Seymour Hoffman

Oh man, no. Not him. I loved that guy.

I was so struck by the news this morning of PSH’s death, and am so, so sorry he’s gone.

I didn’t really know him. Obviously. It’s not like I know anything about him, just what I’ve seen on the screen and read. But, there was something about him.. something about his face, his size, his unkemptness, that made me really like him. He seemed willing to be all in. Willing to be exposed. I may not really know him, but to me he was: Balls out. Smart. Vulnerable. Messy. Willing.

Acting, of course. I liked the way he nailed his characters. People called him a courageous actor. In real life, he seemed generous and gentle. Even in rage, there was a decency. Even in his intense weakness, there was a resolve.

But it looks like that resolve fell short.

He seemed brutally human, not in-your-face human, demanding you to take notice, but unapologetic. Not like people who make a living out of their neuroses, or whose personas are built around their vulnerabilities and insecurities and it’s all about them. He was just human, and flawed.  I felt like he was honest in his struggles, knew his demons, tried to shore himself up against them, especially the one.

But ultimately didn’t.

It just feels like.. damn. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t fight it enough, couldn’t fight them back..demon addictions. He couldn’t be lucid and present enough in that moment to say No, I’m not going to do that, there are people who love me. Maybe he didn’t love himself enough. Maybe he didn’t love his life enough. The good wasn’t good enough and heroin beat him.

He succumbed, he knew he might, he feared he might, or feared he would. He knew he might not be there for his kids.

Feel so bad for the people who must have loved him, especially his mom and kids, who were so trumped by his addictions.

He put himself out there, he was an insightful, nuanced, yes, courageous actor. He was intelligent, even brilliant, maybe even genius. He knew how to reach the darkness of his characters and express it fully.

I thought he was brave in his humanity, brave in his acting.

But he wasn’t brave enough.

It takes a special kind of courage to stay present enough to know the enemy, to recognize it when it comes bidding, to fight it off because there is a greater, sweeter purpose. Maybe the sweetness is a child, maybe the greater purpose is your own damn self. Maybe you’re worth fighting for. Maybe life is.

If there’s sweetness, why isn’t that enough? Holding your child. The feeling of warm sun on your face. The smell of pine in dry mountain air. The sound of a banjo. Slow dancing in the arms of someone you love. Whatever it is, what makes a person forget those things? Because, you know, it’s all there is, this is all we get, this one walk on the planet at this one moment in time.

Whatever makes a person forget those things, i’m so sorry.

People with addictions, I have a question: Is it not a choice? At any given moment, with clarity, can a person say no, if only in that moment, no, I’m not going to do that? And isn’t the challenge to just keep making that choice? Are they not the most courageous among us–those who manage to keep the demons at bay by saying, in that moment, no?

I just don’t know what a person who is addicted does if he wants to live.

I’m sorry because I really liked him.

It’s just achingly sad.

RIP PSH.

You start by layering filo dough into a buttered pan, alternating buttered layers with non-buttered layers. Every now and then, you add a layer of this–a mixture of chopped pecans and cinnamon. Did I say butter? Yep, lots.

After all the filo’s been layered and the nut mixture’s been used up–hopefully those two things happen somewhat simultaneously–you slice through the whole thing with a series of diagonal cuts.

That goes into a 350 degree oven for 45 minutes (I actually went 35 minutes, using convection).

While that’s baking, you heat up some honey, sugar, vanilla, water and butter.  More butter?  Uh huh.

It comes out of the oven looking like this:

Then you pour about half of the hot honey mixture over the top and let it soak in. Then more honey stuff until it feels sufficiently honey-soaked.  Then it sits and cools for a few hours and gets really sticky.  GORG, isn’t it?

Then you take it to that middle-eastern-themed dinner party you’re going to.