Archive for July, 2009

Beer Summit, et al

Posted in political on July 31, 2009 by Nada

cake_summitWhen President Obama said “the Cambridge police acted stupidly,” the tiny voice in my head instantly piped up, “Oh, you haven’t seen stupid. I can show you stupid.”

Both sides of this conflict, Dr. Henry Gates and Sgt. James Crowley, wanted an apology at beer summit, which they didn’t get, but what they got was beer and with Obama. Beers at the White House on the lawn with the President. Priceless. (Except to the American taxpayer, of course, who probably paid for plane fares and hotels overnighters of Gates, Crowley and all their relatives)

I can’t help but think if Gates and Crowley were women, they would have thrown in the towel (the kitchen one with the dried spaghetti sauce on it) and apologized, tearfully hugging each other in front of the Prez. Then when they were out of earshot, calling each other Le Grande Ho with implants, instead of au natural. Meow.

And let me say two other stray words about beer summit – Joe Biden. Why was he there? So the race count card was even? 2 black and 2 white. And did Biden contribute anything or just eat crackers? He seemed to just eat crackers like Obama’s parrot for the two minutes the press watched. “Biden wants a cracker. Biden wants a fake beer. Biden’s a pretty bird.”

And here’s the beer list:
Prez – Bud Light
Birdie Biden – Buckler
Dr. Gates – Red Stripe
Sgt. Crowley – Blue Moon

I have to go with the Prez or the Sgt. on this. The Buckler? Just makes me want to say, “Belly up to the bar, Bidey. Drink a man’s beer, not some Dixie cupped kindergarten juice.”

And me? Well, I want to go to a summit at the White House. I want to be the next Joe Blow that gets in some deep seated and yet trivial conflict that the President missteps on. I want to sit on the White House lawn, making small talk and not apologizing. I want to drink beer, only I can’t drink anymore so how about cake? Maybe the Prez could have a cake summit for me and we could settle and yet not settle things right there in D.C. as the Prez ate cake and Biden ate some sort of sugar free version.



Posted in writing class on July 30, 2009 by Nada

From writing class today, where the assignment was to write about an animal, an insect, a house, or a tree…

I appear in her dreams because I am her childhood – hardwood floors, double French doors, and a fireplace big enough to burn a car. My bomb shelter was built at the time when it was chic, when the Russians were the red scourge with nuclear weapons capable of annihilating bacon sandwiches assembled in my kitchen. And they were the best bacon sandwiches with crispy fried fat, runny ketchup, and burned toast, the kind she made when her mother wouldn’t get out of bed.

My roof was backboard to a thousand hickory nuts, heaved into the air by my peak. I watched as they tumbled into my rain gutter. She threw a baseball through my front window, a basketball into my garage door, and a boomerang into the mudroom’s screened porch. I didn’t complain. She was the last person off the property when I was sold, and the only one to return when they took a wrecking ball to me. She watched my chimney fall like a shot soldier, and the workmen run my well dry. She watched me die, not the quiet demise of old age and deterioration, but one of shouting and falling bricks.

And so, I return to her in dreams with ripe persimmons, overgrown bushes, and windows that want washing. Lightning brings the methodical plink plunk of summer rains on my patio. The dream water melts everything, including myself. For her, I die again, knowing this is an ending she can endure.

Einstein and the Kitchen Cabinet

Posted in animal, YouTube on July 29, 2009 by Nada

Fly Guy

Posted in animal, YouTube on July 29, 2009 by Nada

YouTube Entertainment

Posted in cars, YouTube on July 28, 2009 by Nada

I like to catch up on Sky Hill and see what car David is submitting to the climbing challenge. This is one of my favorites, but that could be just because of the name “Halfmaster.” Another good one was the time they attempted to run a school bus up the hill. It didn’t make it. And last night, I watched Rick attempt Sky Hill on a bike. When he couldn’t make it, they asked him if he needed more beer.

It’s Alive and It’s Free

Posted in cars on July 27, 2009 by Nada

The Buick is alive reserving its right to die another day like the pretty girl in a James Bond movie only the Buick is a paint peeling banged up scraper. The oil sensor was malfunctioning and Amir, our Romanian mechanic, fixed it for free. And why did Amir fix it for free? Because we’re idiots? Perhaps, but Amir said the last time we were at his shop for the oil leak, he replaced the sensor, and it was still under warranty. He didn’t even charge us labor. FREE FREE FREE. There’s nothing I like better than free, unless its ice cream.

Is It Dead Yet?

Posted in cars, travel on July 26, 2009 by Nada

dividerDefinition Scraper: Urban Oakland slang for late model Buick. Term acquired from suspected felon during his jury selection procedure.

Definition Crapitola: Capitola, California. Californians, specifically non-residents of said city, use alternate name Crapitola because of the city sewer’s propensity to overflow and flood the tourist section of town. Smelly sandbags are typically left blocking restaurant doorways a few weeks after said incident in establishments with names like Mr. Toots.
dividerOn Friday, Hubby went to Crapitola in his scraper to see his Great Aunt. Though the scraper did an admirable job of going to Crapitola, it crapped out (so to speak) on the way back. Hubby called me from the road. It sounded like a Las Vegas a slot machine hitting the mother load in the background.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“That’s what I’m calling you about,” Hubby said. “The old pressure gauge is going berserk, bouncing around like a basketball and dinging.”

I thought a minute. “Whad’ya gonna do?”

He thought a minute. “What do you think?”

In the end, we decided he should try and bring the scraper home.

“I’ll drive in the right hand lane,” he said. “And the gauge only complains when I press on the gas.”

“Try and coast,” I said.

I hung up and called my brother.

“It could be a relay or it could be the oil pump, or sump. I think they call it a sump,” my brother said from his man cave in Georgia at 1-800-dial-a-brother-Mr.-Fix-A-Wreck. “If it’s the pump, the car could seize before he gets home. Make sure he’s in the right hand lane, ready for it, if it’s gonna happen,” my brother said.

I called Hubby back.

“How is it?” I asked.

“Good,” he said as the oil gauge played a solid melody. “Traffic’s bad, but I still found myself in the left hand lane.”

And here, here is where I pause and break into a sweat because though Hubby knows a whole lot about cooking and sewing, he has never lived in redneck-ville and seen a car lock up on the interstate going 65mph.

“I’m-I’m in the right hand lane now,” he said.

The dinging noise in the background sounded like, “bite me now; bite me now.”

“How fast are you going?” I asked

“30,” he said. “Friday rush now, yanno. Irritating.”

“Be grateful,” I said. It may save the engine from locking.”

In 45 minutes, Hubby called, “I’m getting off on our ramp.”

I called my brother back. “He’s home,” I said, in my Houston ground control voice.

“Tell him not to block the Smart Alec car. The Buick may seize when you start it up,” my brother said.

I called Hubby one last time and watched him on the surveillance camera as he parked the scraper in front of the house. And so, we wait until tomorrow when Anad and Amir open their auto repair shop on the corner.