Crispy On the Outside

Outskirts, coastlines, shores I am sure of.  Bullseye, the middle seat, landlocked I'm shellshocked.

I love edges. The butt of the loaf. The disappearing/reappearing line in the sand that's stitch-scratched out by a shorebird. The perimeter of the dance floor, where there's more room to bust yer own dang moves. The sound of something Cocteau Twinned, blending like a raindrop into  a crazy, wavy sonic puddle. The points on a meezer, like Derrick's toasted circus-peanut ears. And of course, the golden-brown halo on a pancake, but I think you only get that if you use a real pan (non-stick, ick!) and real butter. 

(Groan. Better writing=less examples in that first paragraph, but which one would you have pulled?! I couldn't pick, so screw that!)

I'm not sure why I feel a gazillion times better on the edge than in the center, but it's like this perfect storm of a) being a natural outsider-type of person (not wired to, say, succeed on Family Feud), b) growing up in a seaside town, c) having childhood asthma (can always use more room to breathe) and c) a burning love for fried foods (which are inherently edge-y). 

Conversely, I feel a little woodgy-boodgy too far away from water's edge or without access to the exit, so you can imagine how worried I was about my business trip to Denver earlier this month. Based on my track record there, it's no surprise that visiting the Mile High City was on my short list of 'absolute worst anxiety-making things to do ever.' 

But you know what? I got through it more than OK (stay tuned for the deets in an upcoming post in which I compare it to my recent trip to Vegas), thanks to, oh, like everyone I whimpered about it to. And special thanks are also due to Rick James, whose  autobiography, Memoirs of a SUPER FREAK, helped set the tone for kicking some big, honkin' Rocky Mountain a$$. I leave you with an excerpt from the book, which was filled with cocaine-fueled comma placement and all kindsa crazy typos that I found utterly delightful (Barry Gordy! Like 100 times!). Moral of the story: Might as well jump:

The cancellation of the tour had crushed me and I went to Hawaii to think. While I was there I had dinner with Shep Gordon. An artist was there eating with us. He and Shep talked art and shit but my mind was in another place. The artist thought I had great lips, at least that's what he said. He asked me if he could sketch me, which he did, on a napkin. The artist was Salvador Dali, he handed me the napkin. Later that day I unthinkingly jumped in the ocean wearing the same clothes from dinner with the napkin and the portrait in my pocket.

Go 'round the outside…

Wordless Wednesday: Say Cheese

Or in this case, it's more like, "Say frozen yogurt." I took this photo of Lorenzo trying it for the first time ever--he'd do a hard stop and sit for a few fat seconds with his mouth open every time he took a bite and realized it was cold. But the best thing about this, besides patient Derrick waiting his turn: When I posted this on Facebook, my friend Elyse told me that her daughter Melody saw it and asked if they talk.

Continuing with this week's great atomic power theme:

Meezer Monday: You Da Bomb

No wonder I like Anthony Perkins so much. Not only did he have two Siamese cats as pets (according to my extensive "if you read it online, it's gotta be true" research, this is either Banjo or Pansy), but he kicked butt in On the Beach, the film version of the Nevil Shute book that scared the sh*t out of me when I first read it.

I can't be the only kid who had recurring nightmares about nuclear war. No bombs ever went off in these dreams, it was more like me trying to navigate through the smoldering staircase of a falling building, no one around and I'm just trying to get home to feed the cats. I was moved, and confused (atoms that turn everything to ash?), enough to read all I could (bad idea), but at least I acted on it. My first protest--walking past Town Pond in East Hampton with my friends Petra and Mike carrying a sign that read "Students Against Shoreham" and demanding the editor of the local paper take our photo. Yes, there were only 3 of us, and we probably would have been taken more seriously if we weren't laughing, but it was a start. Only way to grow big balls is to start with teeny ones.

Wordless Wednesday: Between A Rock and a Heart Place

I found love on a two-way street...ok, it was just 91st and 3rd. 


C'mon, you know you wanna hit play! Interesting trivia fact: This song was inspired by Dr. Zhivago:




Sugar headache? An antidote, found festering where the sidewalk ends: