Summertime, and the Living's Easy

Wow. August has just been . . .

Holy Mole!

Mushroom enchiladas with mole by El Mariachi.

Focus by pitcher of Magaritas--and by the wayside, pretty much.

(Excellent company by Nene, skfl and Lavinia, not pictured.)

A Happy Hyphenate

A proud Italian-American family in Troy.

'Tis Better to Give . . .

Things I'm thinking of purchasing for myself on my 40th birthday:

1. iPhone 3G
2. Clark's desert boots
3. a massage
4. a ukulele
5. a new tattoo
6. a GOOD digital camera

Unless, of course, you're feeling generous . . .

Don't Give a Damn if it Cracks My Back Window

OK, do you see what's reflected in the fender of this behemoth, this leviathan?

It's the sky.

My work-related rental was big enough to reflect large sections of the SKY!

I was conflicted: On the one hand, I was slightly embarrassed to be driving through my activist neighborhood in a vehicle that could easily gulp down the resources of a smaller country and still ask to see the dessert menu.

On the other--I mean, Christ, I got a chance to put, like, SIX miles on it. I wish I had 1) thought to pack the Nas disc my little sister burned for me, or, 2) found a radio station in the area that could muster something with a little more bass response than Bob Seger's "Night Moves."

Or stupid "59th Street Bridge Song."

Activism, shmactivism. I coulda held a battle in that thing.

Shhh, Shhh. Bad Man Go Bye-Bye, All Better

(Painting by Ramirez. www.realramirez.com)

Nothing to See Here, Move Along, Folks

Generally speaking, I'm going to avoid using Ye Olde InterTubes to vent. It's no fun--and not just a little cowardly--writing insults about strangers on the Web, where's there's such little chance of the dissenting, corrective punch in the mouth.

Generally speaking.

But there was this fucking idiot in the sandwich shop today . . .

OK, look, I don't know this guy or his situation, which sounds like it must be pretty difficult. Furthermore, because I don't know him or his relationships to the young women he was speaking to, I don't know what kind of social posturing, defensive compensation, or stupidity in the face of proximate cuteness may have influenced his utterances.

I'm trying not to pass judgment--trying. But, turns out, I am gonna vent:

The terms of a custody arrangement notwithstanding, you don't HAVE to spend time with your kid. If you don't want to, don't. Shut yer fucking yap, pack yer fucking bags and go. Send checks and stay clear. If it feels like an onerous obligation, then do the kid a favor and piss off before he's old enough to sense your reluctance and resentment.

But, jesus, man, don't hang around in coffee shops bitching about how you lose a Friday night to your kid. And please, please, please, don't follow the complaint with an account of how wasted you were LAST Friday.

Please.

"What's a custody arrangement for," he whined. Hint: It's not state-enforced babysitting, you jackass.

Nobody can stop you from being a self-involved idiot. If you're devoted to that pursuit, it's your right. But, thing is, nobody needs a self-involved idiot parent.

So, choose.

Or, at least, pick a different sandwich shop.

Are You Ready to Play Let's Lie About Lunch?

Lunch today:

• spinach and tempeh salad, with light drizzle of tahini-lime dressing
• black bean burrito, with organic tomato, red onion & cucumber salsa
• fresh beet-orange juice

Mmm. After 30 minutes of yoga and 15 minutes of journaling, it really hit the spot!