War Wins

       War.
     Can't seem to live with them.
     Can't seem to live without them.
     Why do we fight them?
     Answer: Over boundaries, resources, and atrocities, freedom and fears.
     Nothing 'good' happens out of them.
     Or maybe, it does.
     People band together, medical sciences advance, technology is tested, and logistics and diplomacy are fine-tuned. We, in essence, find our inner strength- and never more then during World War II.
     My father-n-law was a rifle marksman and flame-thrower in the Pacific theatre during those years. 
     He learned to live with less, follow orders, survive rabies, and come back alive, and here in New Orleans we have the distinct honor of housing the National World War II Museum, and it is fabulous (and hideous, and inspiring, and powerful).
     You should visit.
     But before you leave (and after you've toured the exhibits) take a load off at the Soda Shop, with an ice cream float, while the Juke Box plays, and Howard K. Smith leads the evening news on one of three television channels. 
     Oh yea, and visit Rosie in the garden...

You'll be riveted by her victorious tomatoes.

The American Sector
National World War II Museum
On and around the intersection of
Andrew Higgins St. &
Magazine

A gorgeous, environmentally friendly,
recycled-plastics
table top in fresh lime color.
It remains cool in the summer and doesn't freeze in cool weather.
So smart. 

One of several buildings in the complex.

One wall of herbs in the Victory Garden which is open to the public
and used in the kitchens of the Museum.

Another corner of the Victory Garden.

One of several posters that adorn the warm brick walls that surround the
Victory Garden.

This is how I do my hair.
What?
Available at the gift shop.

So many retro styles available in the gift shop.
This reminds me of my grandmother Daisy.
Wrap it!

   
   
   

A Concrete Jungle

I live in the city.
I am a farmer at heart.
I must garden.
I have no earth.
What-to-do-What-to-do?
Why, import soil, build boxes, put legs on them, roll them around, fill them with plants, spray them for pests, feed them for health, pick them for lunch, and love them to death. 
Literally...

They will be sacrificed. 

Elevated trugs made of cedar planks with rolling castors are
holding my farm high above the concrete in the front courtyard.

We are already harvesting cucumbers.

Young Eggplant.

Roma Tomato
(One of three cultivators I grow)

A Koi Man

OK.
I know.
Two days of cat posts!
You're bored out of your minds.
Ready to leave me forever.
Cheryl's gone fuzzy-butt crazy.
Maybe.
But, if there's an Apocalypse and I need someone to watch my back, keep me warm, kiss me, and keep me fed...

Earl's my man.

Fishing in the Fountain-
cat style.
We have Koi.

Dancing Around Love

     About a month ago, we (I) adopted a new little girl.
     Yes, we do that. We're that kind of cool.
     She's adorable, and sweet, and funny, not potty trained (yet) has a birth defect and she's a cat.
     I'll let my awesomeness spread over you for a sec.
     Her furry brothers, Willie and Earl, love her, and her Mommy takes her to bed for cuddles. 
     HappyHappyHappy.
     Her Daddy just keeps tossing his American Express on the counter and mumbling, "This is gonna cost me", and then feeds her fresh fish from the fishmonger down the street because he's convinced that that is what she really likes, and asks,"Where's her favorite toy?" because she doesn't have one but he thinks she does and I'm hiding it from her because that's the kind of mind games I play, and "Did she have a good day today?" like any day lounging on a silk pillow with a saucer of milk by your side could be a bad day even if you do have a wonky back leg, and "Did she play today? Were the boys nice?" because maybe I should somehow have a conversation with Willie and Earl and explain to them that she's 'Special Needs', and "When is her next appointment? I'm going."
     Your going?
     "Of course I'm going?"
     "Of course. Like that's a regular occurrence and I shouldn't be questioning you?"
     "Let's just say I'm interested."
     "O....K.... And you'll schedule around this?"
     "My schedule's my own. I do what I want."
     Of course you do...

Of course you do.

Little Miss Peg.
With her two appendages:
Only one is a tail.
Ol´a!

Her back left leg doesn't bend.
X-rays show her patella (kneecap)
is going in the wrong direction and she has atrophy of the ligaments
making them short and tight.
She will often just throw it up over her back and hop on three legs.
Here she is tired and playing laying down.
I do this often.

   

Rock Of Ages

     I had just dropped our daughter off at the airport so that she could return to her life in Chicago.
     "Goodbye Princess Bryn. Mommy will miss you."
     "Miss you too Mom."
     "Can I have a kiss?"
     "Is it really necessary?"
     "Oh come here goofball."
     "Mom, I'm 24. You're embarrassing me."
     "Yes, I know you're 24. Yes, I know you're totally capable of taking care of yourself. But your leaving me- again. With your father. All alone. With his crazy."
     "You'll be fine."
     "Fine? I'm not getting any younger 'ya know."
     "You're F-I-NE."
     "Just in case, bury me in simple pine, with cotton linen upholstery. No brass- Holy Mary Mother of God- no brass! Brushed nickel instead. Much more tasteful. And both a service at the parlor AND graveside. I'd like classical music for visitation and bagpipes graveside..."
     "We're not even Scottish?"
     "Whatever.."
     "You're not going anywhere!"
     "Oh, I am going. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But I'm going, and I'd like a party atmosphere, with lots of booze and a full spread. Maybe a horse drawn carriage..."
     "You mean a hearse."
     "... to take me in style. And LOTS of flowers. For the LOVE OF GOD don't forget the flowers, and remember to plant a standard Hydrangea  at my feet, 'cause your aunt and I have robbed tons of those out of graveyards, and we should 'give back'. We're conscientious that way."
     "What about Dad?"
     "What about him? Put his ashes beside me. Why should anything change?"
     "And what kind of message on your stone would you like to leave?"
     "Well, that's easy. As big a one as possible"...

Rock On

Now this is what I'm talkin' about!
Metairie Cemetery
New Orleans

Neo-classical Gallic ruins-
 for a subtle message.

A super-sized version of an
Amazonian Angel
at your gate-
 'cause if 'ya need a guard,
 why not have a
BIG one.

She might be dead but she still needs her veggies.
Yes-
yes I will.
And wine.

Ben, contemplating his life
without me.

Adorable but,
somehow,
just not me.

The Flip Side

     And the hits just keep coming...
     We've had a very busy few weeks here at A Pleasant House- guest after guest after guest, and now for some traveling on my end, so I'll see you on the flip side next Monday.
     I'm off to Gotham to discuss what tracks to lay on side-B with Bloomburg...

while enjoying my 32oz. Slurpee.

A Plastic Mother's Day

     The day before Mother's Day, when I was about ten years old, I rode my bike down to our village, (with all of my saved-up allowance money- probably around $5) and headed straight into Woolworth's.
     A shopping mecca by anyone's standards.
     I spent what felt like h-o-u-r-s going up and down the aisles in search of the perfect gift for my perfect mother, until I stumbled upon the artificial flower department.
     Genius! Neon colors never seen in nature and plastic to boot!
     They would live forever as a physical reminder of my awesomeness and great fashion forward home decor atheistic.
     Day-glo orange roses were selected and purchased. 
     Day-glo people.
     Like mind-numbing glo-in-the-dark screaming meemee Orange.
     I had never been more proud.
     My mother accepted them with the 'oohs' and 'aahs' and hugs and kisses that were the expected result of my expression of love- and style, and the 70's hippie coolness that was 'me'.
     I was satisfied. My job was done- but hers was not.
     That night my parents were hosting a dinner party.
     The table was set.
     The crystal was sparkling.
     The linens were pressed.
     Perfect- like always.
     And there, at center stage, were my gamma ray plastic orange roses arranged in all of their glory!
     But wait- it get's better... as the guests arrived and eyed her 'choice' of centerpiece, she never said a word.
     Not one word.
     All damn night long!
     God, I LOVE that woman...

she's more than perfect.

One of my favorite photographs that I took of my mother, in her early Fifties.
Damn her.
Actually, perfect.