Mr. Rogers & The Beastie Boys

Mr. Rogers gave us so much. A kind, gentle spirit for one thing.  A guiding life philosophy, for another. 

I’m not sure if he’s the one who came up with this idea, but he’s the one I heard it from first: “Live your life so that you have no fear of the truth.”

That’s good stuff, that is. Mr. Rogers was awesome. And so was his neighborhood.

Creepy Lady puppet. *shivers*

OK, sure, there was the bad puppetry. That Lady Elaine Fairchilde always creeped me out. And maybe his unusually cordial relationship with his delivery man skewed my impressions of how grown-ups acted toward one another. I mean, has anyone ever talked to a delivery man? Delivery men I know pretty much chuck stuff at my door and drive off.

Lately though, it's become clear that Mr. Rogers influenced me more than I ever realized because of his sweater and sneakers thing. When Mr. Rogers changed into his zip-up sweater and sneakers, it signaled the transition from the big grown up world to the slowed-down world of home and make believe. And that’s exactly what I do when I get down to work. I will often put on my comfiest hoodie as I suit up for battle with the Muse. 

Here's what I generally put on while I write. 

This is my Upstate New York sweatshirt. It's one of a kind and also a bit of a joke between my husband and me. See, my husband’s from Brooklyn and there’s this line of Brooklyn themed clothing that all the cool kids wear. But I won’t wear it because I didn’t grow up in Brooklyn, and I feel it would wrong.

RIP Adam Yauch. Word.

My husband special-ordered this Upstate hoodie for me so I could represent my lame-o, economically depressed, constantly cloudy ‘hood. 

And if you're inclined to take issue with that characterization, let me just point out that ain't nobody's writing rap songs about wanting to get back to Upstate New York. And therein lies the difference between cool and not cool. 

And there it is, right there. Mr. Rogers' wisdom at work: I'm not trying to be something I'm not. I'm living my truth ... about being lame. And I'm doing it in a comfy hoodie.

Do you have a uniform you wear when you're writing? A sweater? A pair of slippers? Sweat pants? Favorite vintage Beastie Boys t-shirt?

Donner, Party of Five

Not surprisingly, the epic snow storm of the past few days has turned my thoughts to cannibalism.

Would I? Wouldn’t I? If I did, which part would I eat first? No, never that bit. Ew. Leave that for the dog to munch on.

Oh, come on! I’m just kidding, people! Sheesh. You anti-cannibalists have no sense of humor.

Things haven’t gotten to that stage yet, but they just might once the Blizzard of 2010, Part 9, moves through the area tomorrow. The grocery stores are still pretty well stocked. At the moment. I just returned from a snowy hike over to Whole Foods, and I was pleased to find that the organic salsa was still flowing freely, and their selection of goat cheeses were just as plentiful as ever. Thank GOD. But that could change in a heartbeat. That’s where that old saying comes from, after all: “Don’t count your goat cheese before the storm.”

And speaking of food, this morning, me, the hubs, and the kids were returning on foot from our eighth sledding trip of the week when we ran into that guy from the Discovery Health Channel, Nathan Lyon. He’s got his own cooking show. It’s all wholesome and stuff so I don’t watch it that much, even considering my cooking show addiction. I knew his parents lived nearby because one day I passed this house, and there was a huge banner on the porch advertising “A Lyon in the Kitchen.” I figured the guy who lived there was either the biggest fanboy ever or, you know, just a proud dad.

Anyway, the young Mr. Lyon was shoveling his dad’s car out – very nice of him -- and so we asked him for some recipe advice: “So what can I do with three scallions, a cup of snow, and a jar of mustard? ‘Cause that’s all we got in the kitchen at the moment.”

He said maybe he should do a blizzard-themed show on how to cook squirrel with a Bic lighter. Ha. I may have to start watching his show more often. Of course, you have to catch the squirrel first. There’s the tricky part. City folk aren’t as wily as some of the people I knew growing up. Do remind me to tell you the story of my summer job working in a factory and how, during break time, several people sitting around the table were discussing eating squirrel as kids. Yeah. That snapped me right out of my snotty, adolescent mood, I’ll tell you that much.

Seriously though, enough with the snow. We’re up to our bollocks in snow, and I don’t even have any bollocks. I do have Brooklyn Black Chocolate Stout, however, and I will use it. Some of you may recall some foolishness on my part, about swearing off it because one of its side effects is cellulite. But these are dark times. Dark, snowy times. And dark times call for dark beer. If you quote that, do remember to give me credit. Please. Or else I might eat you.

The Twelve Blogs of Christmas, Day 2

Yo Christmas Tree

As God is his witness my husband will not abide a fake tree for the holidays. Where this commitment to natural evergreens comes from, I don’t know. Had he been raised on a Montana Christmas tree farm and his family driven out of business by the excesses of the corporate fake Christmas tree industry, I might understand it. But the man grew up in Flatbush so it’s not like he and his dad were out cutting down Christmas trees with an axe every holiday season. In Brooklyn real Christmas trees can only be acquired by ambushing tourists in Times Square and taking theirs.

In deference to his need for a recently-deceased tree to adorn our home at Christmas, every year we celebrate the holidays by gathering ‘round Ye Olde Tannenbaum to decorate with our odd assortment of Christmas tree ornaments, most of which are missing limbs for reasons that you are about to find out, and then we step back to admire our handy work. Then we shout, “Timber!” Because for the fourth time in the last six years, the goddamned tree has tipped over after we finished decorating it.

A fully loaded Christmas tree falling over has a certain sound that you will never forget once you’ve heard it …four times. Imagine British Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson in full military dress, his chest full of war medals, and now imagine him having one too many egg nogs and hitting the ship deck face first. It sounds just like that. Following that there is the rush of water out of the tree stand accompanied by the sound of a dog lapping up the puddle off the floor because, you know, we don’t give her any water in her water dish ever which is why piney fresh, sap-tainted tree water is so precious to her. Immediately following this is the sound of someone’s wife saying, “That is IT! Next year we’re getting a fake tree! I am SICK OF THIS!” In the background, children are weeping softly.

Getting a fake tree is an idle threat, however, because a real Christmas tree makes my husband happy. Or rather, having a fake tree would make him unhappy, and unhappy husbands have a way of ruining the holiday mood, especially when they start drinking and muttering about nobody having any standards anymore because fake trees are morally WRONG and the day he gets a fake Christmas tree is going to be the day he starts using moisturizer and wearing sandals because that’s a day that is never going to come and if it ever does, we’ll all know he’s gone cold and dead inside, and when THAT happens, then you can get your damned fake tree. Our compromise is that we have rigged up a guy-wire between the Christmas tree and the wall. You know why it’s called a guy-wire, right? Because some guys from Brooklyn will never stand down on the real Christmas tree thing. Not ever.

And so every year I must reconcile myself to picking up the pieces of our toppled tree and vacuuming pine needles out of the rug until Arbor Day. Perhaps next year I will find a store that sells rubber Christmas tree ornaments, or better yet, maybe next Christmas we can save some wear and tear on everybody’s nerves and just set the stupid tree up horizontally. We’ll call it “Brooklyn-style.”