All content copyright 2009 by Holly Gleason. Web design by Lauren Carelli.
TIME has a way of hiring beautiful writers, people who can make their prose flow like rivers and offer up analogies and metaphors that have a beauty all their own, draw conclusions with an ease and a grace that is almost humbling to people who read a lot. Walter Isaacson, who lives in the nosebleed range of the TIME masthead, is one of the best of their best… and he has turned his attention, research abilities and especially his pen to one of this nation’s true renaissance men Benjamin Franklin, who did so many things not only so well, but with so much humor and style.
The subtitle is “Embracing Your Life With The Heart of A Buddha,” and the book offers readers a gentle way to look into the face of fears, stressors, other people and whatever else makes one uncomfortable so that whatever aspect is plaguing one, it can dissipate. It’s about walking through life both with a gentle acceptance and quieting the voices in one’s head that allow the inner critic to drive, the inner doubt to flourish and the inner gnawing to have a continual buffet on one’s soul. At the end of each chapter—broken down by various aspects of our lives, but each building upon what comes before it—are meditation guides. And not big farflung, try-this-without-your-yogi-at-your-own-risk offerings, but basic real life executable notions. It’s as simple as one’s breathing and what you do with it, and it blunts one’s black dogs and fiery hounds better than the fat chronic blunt (with apologies to Snoop Dogg and “Chasing Amy”/“Clerks”/“Mall Rats”‘s Jay and Silent Bob). More than any self-help title I’ve seen, any philosophy tome I’ve encountered, this one is worth picking up. Not above mere mortals, but elevating the flesh and clay feet amongst us in ways that will truly rotate your reality without being so saffron robes that you can’t get there from here.
Find the tiniest ones you can. Slice them into coins and get yourself a cast iron skillet. While you’re melting down half a stick of butter—go ahead, this is one of those times to treat yourself, indulge in the calories in the name of real food—chop up an onion and toss it into the butter to give just the tiniest bit of that tang. Once that starts to cook down, put in the vegetation and let it start cooking… Keep turning them over, letting them wilt, then cook into something really really good. Maybe a bit of freshly ground pepper, some sea salt with basil. Or just a bit of dill for the last several moments. Let’ em keep cooking, though. Let ‘em get a little carmelized and crusty (the gift of the iron) and put in a big bowl and serve.
Tinkerbelle free floating with no agenda. Tangled in the long grass, hovering just above the lawn. They’re like flickering stars within reach—and they can’t help but make you smile when you come upon a field of them, cast out like a net of twinkling hopes and sparkling could-bes. There was always a warmth and a charm when the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s Jimmy Ibbotson sang about small town pleasure and life in “Long Hard Road (Sharecroppers Dream),” especially the line about the joy of watching “lightning bugs go dancing in the rain.” Before they’re gone, make it a point to get to a field, one’s backyard or wherever and see the flicker of life and light before their season passes completely.
Summer. Fresh produce. Stuff that’s not grown with a lot of chemicals, but on a real farm. And you can taste the sun, the dirt, the rain in every bite. Whether it’s lettuce that tastes like anything, tomatoes that’re both sweet and just a bit salty, carrots that make your lips turn up for pure exultant joy —and and and… You see the nice people with the boxes of fruit and vegetables by the side of the road. They smile. You smile. Maybe share a word or two about the weather where they come from, what they think is especially good this day, even how they might prepare what you’re buying. Whatever it is you bring to your table, though, you have a strong sense of where it comes from. A pretty stout reality in this world of tomatoes shipped green and ripened with gas, lettuce that’s merely mush and water, potatoes that stick to your teeth. In a world of engineered food, there ain’t nothing like the real thing.
It was a little foofy dog and it didn’t quite seem to know to get out of the road, then bolted. Just as I said, “You think we oughta go git it,” my friend Jaime pulled the car over and said, “That little guy shouldn’t be out of the house…” In a world of pay-it-forward, rescuing a wanton pet is maybe the best thing one can do… Before the kids turn into a squonk—dissolving into a pool of their own tears, before the mom has a breakdown of guilt and nerves over how “rover” got out, before dad spends hours driving around looking for a puppy who somehow lost his sense of how to get home, just pull over. It’s easy. It’s something that makes a world of difference. And it creates a way of knowing that even the domestic go wild, but can be foudn before they’re lost. The karmic reality is that somebody makes a small effort—and saves a lot of people steep remorse.
Yes, her Vogue profiles of political women (first wives, Condoleeza Rice, candidates spouses) integrate humanity with grit, perspective with personal touches—and imbue each of her subjects with the truth that extends far beyond politico-attachment-that-waves-and-looks-solid. But if you want to read this incredible writer on fire, read anything Julia Reed writes about food in The New York Times Sunday Magazine. She is a deep South girl, who is at peace with her heritage—and she celebrates the rich food and a time lost with passion and the tiniest details. For her, culinary expression can be grand or down home, but it all hits the stomach with a good honest sense of connecting to something realer, more grounded, wonderful.
Imagine the Emerald City grafted to your toe nails—making the promise of the ruby slippers and the eternal place of happiness one! Kelly green metallic flecked with gold, it has the finish of a custom Stratocaster for some high hair heavy metal band of the late ‘80s, all excess and flash and promise… and no man behind the curtain getting it done. Just wiggling toes that seem to say, “click your heels together and say ‘wherever you want to go; wherever you want to go…’!“Oz by way of ahhhhhhs - and certainly something to draw comment during the dog days of sandal wearing summer.
Reaching toward the sky, reddish orange trumpets of awakening and acceptance, day lilies are every bit as wildly beautiful as their all white Casablanca and varying pink Stargazer cousins. The only difference is these are made to be tossed about by the wind, pulled by the quick passage of trucks, hardy enough to be okay with whatever Mother Nature deals out in the way of weather. And as one goes speeding by (you gotta get there, we know), they seem to wave and remind one of that ancient Chinese proverb painted on the wall of Berthold Grigby, the wholesale florist in Cleveland, Ohio: “How can a culture call itself civilized, when it prices flowers to make them a luxury?” Here, in some of the most unacknowledged parts of our country, these freewheeling blooms blossom as a reminder that beauty is where it sets its roots, even the muddy knoll or gaping ditch on the side of the beat-up two-lane that just happens to have a few numbers assigned to it.
“Existing on prey. Hungry. Insatiable.” We all know people with bottomless appetites. If not their stomach, their adrenals, their ego, the hormones. No matter how much they get, it’s never enough—and it’s never quality, only quantity. Bring it on, more more more more moremoremore. And still they quest and lust and charge. Rapaciousness runs rampant—even when you can’t see it overtly. But it’s out there—and when you recognize it, especially the stealth kind of Pacman or Promethean reality—you have the word for it. And what a word it is!
At Sands in Shaker Heights, Ohio, they slice them like coins, quick fry them—and serve them with honey mustard dressing. Moist on the inside, loaded with nutrients and just a bit sweet and airy, a young friend had their first bite and melted into paroxysms of moaning delight. It was almost (ALMOST) like “When Harry Met Sally,” except the volume was muffled. Either way, though, worth the trouble!
To some, he may be little Ricky in the hat that dwarfed him, the beltbuckle the size of a hubcap and a starched shirt that screamed “George Strait,” and certainly Rick Trevino had the country hits to warrant the wardrobe. But sometimes what an artist is at the core takes a while to come to the surface—and so it is/was that Rick Trevino, the young man from San Antonio, Texas, found himself as part of the Grammy-winning Los Supersevens project, which also featured members of Los Lobos, the Mavericks’ Raul Malo and the rest of the best of the L.A. Latino music scene. A deeply romantic record, sung in Spanish, it moves seamlessly through several flavors of Latin music. But each of the songs speak to yearning, to thrilling, to reaching. It is the kind of music that speaks beyond mere language and reaches deep inside. If you’re willing to suspend the linear lyrical connection, this is an album that will move your soul and your soles.
With summer being so beastly brutal, chlorine drying better than straw in a stall, sun damage running rampant, the quickest fix plump’n'pump is as easy as a dab of eye cream on your lips. Use your ring finger and pat on just like you would the skin around your eyes. Don’t load it up, just lightly coat— and watch your lips reinflate, look inviting or at least appear like something that hasn’t been left parched and baking on the two-lane for three days.
Almond Snickers. Caramel Crunch Bars. Peanut Butter M&Ms. Heck, even Goo Goo Clusters have stepped it up with a Pecan version of the marshmallow/caramel/peanut covered in chocolate confection. Sure, it’s marketing-driven =- ramp up the old franchise with a tiny variation to expand franchise by creating excitement around something new and improved. They work to varying degrees these new models… the Caramel Crunch is pretty good, but it’s gotta be the right temperature… but it begs the question of newer, brighter, shinier and its role in the realm of candy. Is well-enough-alone enough? Or do we need these brave new candy bars? Here is the topic line for your next heated debate at dinner, in a bar or wherever inquiring minds might gather.
Eye Movement Desensitization and Redirection. A long name for taking the stuff that’s too traumatic to process during REM sleep and creating a context to where whatever’s blocking it from being folded and put away can go to work. A miracle may be too strong a word… but when the memory of putting Scott my 4-year old Cocker Spaniel to sleep became a ghost that followed my unguarded thoughts and dreams, a reality that made me cry at the least opportune times, EMDR helped me put in perspective, create a truth that I could cope with and allow the painful visuals to fade.It works with far more horrible things—things too horrible to yummy, frankly—than this. And if you need to be set free, need to purge your subconscious, this simulated sleep reality (usually created through pulses or sounds that toss the mind from left brain to right brain like a good quick game of catch) can do what almost seems to defy the realm of logic. To find someone who can work the miracle of reassignment on you, check the website: www.emdr.com
Like everything at Hermes, price is relative. Expensive for what it is on paper, absolutely. Expensive for what you’re getting—if you’re about a level of quality that’s not often seen anymore—probably not. And so it is with Hermes cotton scarves, especially beautiful and wink-inducing this season. The color families, as well, are something worth checking out. Whether it’s the nautical alphabet done in a strong mix of pinks, a water lily pattern that is celadon, lavender, pale pink and light yellow or something far more intense, the cotton scarves have the same appeal as both a bandana and their pricier silk ilk. If Hermes can be downhome, this would be how.
In a world of Cosmopolitans and Green Apple Martinis, sometimes the basics remain classic for a reason. Take tequila: straight up with lime and sometimes salt, margaritas in myriad flavors or sunrises to remind you what hit you last night. It’s a pretty non-complicated proposition—and it’s the kind of thing that comes in enough grades and classes, you don’t have to find yourself at the bottom of a well the next morning. “How much tequila did I drink last night?” once crowed the departed troubadour Steve Goodman in song. As much fun as rueful expression, you got the feeling the pain didn’t come anywhere near the pleasure, and it was only a matter of minutes before the bonding, the laughter, the good times were fixing to begin all over again.
The fashionistas have proclaimed this one of the key pieces for the fall —and what could be better? It’s clean-lined, utterly tailored, dangerous and soignée and everything you want it to be without trying! You can do it any number of materials or colors and you know that no matter what you choose, there is no chance of looking like a house or a frou-frou-wanna-be-teen-who’s-just-too-old-and-refuses-to-get-it. Pick your length. Feel all Lauren Bacall. Learn how to whistle. Devastate all who fall before you!
If you can keep your voice down (because for some reason people think cell phones = yelling), there’s nothing more fun than making a date with a friend in another city to share dinner. You start around the same time, talk about what you’re having, laugh through the news of the day, compare the people seated around you. An old friend called from a restaurant in London, he was having dinner and I a late lunch. It was totally spontaneous… totally unexpected… but it made me think: how many times could I share this most gregarious of activities with people by doing what Ma Bell used to urge us with their (maybe) best tagline ever: “reach out and touch someone.”
All over the city of Nashville—catfish (to borrow from Tammy Wynette) “painted up, powdered up” in every way imaginable. Kind of like Chicago’s cows, actually, but more locally relevant as opposed to the, well, impossible importance of cattle on the Windy City (because I don’t think slaughterhouses are ANY town’s true defining moment). Anyway, it’s whimsy on the sidewalk. Ranging from rainbow stripes to covered in corks, these finned and whiskered creatures are as fanciful as Harry Potter on LSD at the bottom of some river looking for dinner. Walk the streets of my hometown; see the pretty catfish; know imaginations can run wild.
Not quite a feminist manifesto/magazine a la Ms nor a riotgrrrrl Bible, Bust has spent 10 years celebrating women who aren’t afraid to be who they are, addressing the real downlow and offering up a full-tilt sort of acceptance for the very behaviors society tries to tell women “aren’t ladylike.” They also accept the how-it-really-is (much of their 10th anniversary issue is devoted to women and their gay friends) on their way to some great chick-centric reviews (books, records, movies). But—and regular yummiers know this publication’s appeared before— their interviews with Cher and cultural critic Camille Paglia offer some pretty interesting perspectives both of survival and pop culture as it’s evolving in the early 21st century. At a time when it all seems pretty stagnant, plastic-injection molded, test-marketing fulfillment reality-based programming, they each present aspects to consider that make you want to forge forward, believing that individuality and tenacity is still a bill that can fill personal destiny. Read ‘em and weep…
Sometimes you just need to cowboy up. There’s a real freedom in owning one’s transgressions against someone else, even if they weren’t intentional, even if they came from a well-meaning place. And often it’s not that it was ever expected, ever necessary, but there’s a lightness that comes from acknowledging the hurt one may’ve caused and letting the other person(s) know that you are sorry for it. After all, how many times would someone letting you know that they know and actually care about the impact of their innocent (or intended) misstep/action/word make you feel like your emotional self mattered? After all, bruising heals—for sure—but getting that hug, that moment of I-want-you-to-feel-better-in-spite-of-the-action is an elevator that no one can ever underestimate. And a bridge and a bond to real respect for another person.
Driving from Cleveland Hopkins International Airport to Sydney, Ohio for a three day country music festival, someone at one of the hotels suggested this two lane Mapquest-defying short cut—and it was breathtaking. Amish buggies; gorgeous pain peeling barns in various states of repair; small towns with squares; deer; farm country and swollen rivers and everything else one thinks of when one thinks of the heartland.
In a world where we all move too fast, there are people you will know with gaps of years. Years. People you know. People you like. People you care about. People who exist beyond the pale, beyond the grasp of your here (especially) and now. And then there you are—airport, car wash, grocery store, backstage—and there they are. Someone you haven’t even thought of, but adored… And you sit down. There’s much to tell, much to share. So much life to catch up on. A dear long loster actually opened with, “So you married? Got any kids? Sleeping with boys? Sleeping with girls? Sleeping with dogs or sheep or cows?” Just like that, we were laughing, savoring the moment, the miles, the commonality of where we were and the uncharted reality between then and that very moment.
There are some records that stay with you for lifetimes. So it is with Rickie Lee Jones’ album that was largely inspired by her first child. “We can fly, way up high…” opens “The Horses” and the jaunty “Jukebox Furies,” with its stacked harmonies on the chorus, its raw exuberance bouncing on someone’s knee. Lovely orchestrations, moments of sheer delight, images etched as only she can—it’s all bound up in a scat-tethered bow of music, moments and that voice as feral as it is arresting. And it also contains one of the very best lines ever, a line most people who know me have had quoted to them over the years: “When we were young, we were wild, wild ones.” Indeed.
Taking the notion of “yes, we have no bananas…” to a literal extreme, it seems that mosquitoes are drawn to the smell of banana through human skin. Which isn’t to say sidestep the simian-craved potassium source altogether… but when you’re picnicking, knowing you’re going hiking or boating or camping or just spending a day outside, be aware of this. The skin you save may be your own.
Imagine a tart, garlicky marinade that was as tangy as it was lip-smacking good. Imagine soaking anything in it—flank steak, vegetable skewers, pork tenderloins, chicken—and then letting it cook slowly to maximize this distinctly Cuban proposition. Most Krogers carry it, usually in either their ethnic foods section or the Mexican food part. Either way, it makes the mundane exotic in 4-6 hours…and tastebud exploding overnight.
Sidney, Ohio had so much rain that they couldn’t shoot off their fireworks on the 4th of July. So, they rescheduled them for July 12—and walking out of a Holiday Inn to a late dinner of Taco Bell following an all day show, the night sky lit up and exploded out of nowhere. And it may just be that fireworks out of time are even more beautiful and breath-taking than fireworks when you expect them.
It’s however many years later… well, 18 to be exact… and the problem of the family farmer is still with us. In these days of multi-national corporate buy-outs, decentralization and sliding margins of profit, very little that’s done in our financial landscape has anything to do for the health or the long term good of the people living in this country. Look at Enron. Look at Time/AOL. Look look look… Now think about this: agribusiness is about maximizing the profits they squeeze out of the land. That food isn’t engineered for your nutrition, it’s about hitting this year’s numbers. Genetic modification (do we understand it?). Irradiation (what else does it do?). Think about the way a tomato someone grows tastes versus what you get at the store… Think about it. Know that’s the difference—and know the people who grow the tomatoes that’re worth eating are the ones being squeezed off the land. Those people feed their families what they sell us—they know the difference, but they can’t afford to stay on the land. Do something! Pick up the phone and pledge for sure. But also, pick up the pen or the computer and write your congressmen, your senators, your state reps. Because you don’t figure in a spreadsheet—so you can bet (no matter what that big business is telling you) you’re not a factor in what’s being legislated.
Me, the girl who loves her AC/DC on 12, learns the gift of silence. Those moments between the sounds, but also the time when you sit in a pool of quiet—taking in whatever’s out there. Maybe it’s birds, maybe it’s the hum of the air conditioner or a far-off train. Maybe it’s just the sound of your heart beating. In that quiet, there’s a sound inside your head. It’s your soul. It only comes out if you let it have the quiet it needs to emerge. And yes, there is sooooo much to listen to and enjoy, but what could be more potent than the beauty within oneself? Try it. It’s hard at first, but it’s something worth seeking out. And when you can start to get there, you’ll be amazed at what you see.