I Want This Shoe

Maybe I'll get this shoe for my birthday. (And the left one, too.)
Here's a good song off the Roches' new CD, Moonswept:

NO SHOES
i had no shoes and i complained
until i met a man who had no feet
that’s really beat i had no feet and i
complained until i met a man who
had no knees that was his disease
i had no knees and i complained until
i met a man and you know what he
had no butt i had no butt and i
complained about it all and then
i met a man who had no balls i had
no balls and i complained until i met
a man who had no guts no balls no
butt and now no guts i had no guts
and i complained until i met a man
who had no heart the most important
part i had no heart and i complained
i did not understand and then i met
a man who had no hands i had no hands
and i complained until i met a man who
was a wreck he had no neck i had no
neck and i complained until i met a
man who had no chin some folks lose
and some folks win i had no chin and i
complained until i met a man who had no
nose that really blows i had no nose and i
complained until i met a man who
never cries he had no eyes i had no eyes
and i complained until i met a man who
felt no pain he had no brain i had no
brain and i complained until i met a man
who had no head as good as dead i had no
head and i complained until i met a man
who had no hair there was nothing there
i had no hair and i complained until i met
a man who had no hat picture that not even
a hat i had no hat and i complained until i
met a man who had no sky no reason why
i had no sky and i complained until
i met a man who had no stars no
venus or mars and not any stars
i had no stars and i complained until
i met a man who had no god that’s
rather odd i had no god and I com-
plained until i met a man who had
no faith nothing just in case i had
no faith and i complained until i
met a man who had no love nothing
to dream of i had no love and i com-
plained until i met a man who had
no hope at the end of his rope i had
no hope and i complained until i met
a man who had no luck that really
sucks i had no luck and i complained
that i had nothing left to lose and
then i met a man who had no shoes.

Portrait Tips

© Linda Davick
I googled windblown hair for my readers, and uncovered this information from a prominent portrait photographer:
Hair that is easily moved can be a problem on the beach. There is almost always a sea breeze. Plan for it. If you must use hair spray, use light or flex hold very sparingly as to allow your hair to flow naturally. Avoid new cuts and styles. I cannot be responsible for windblown hair! Flyaway hair can be retouched but not in the face or over the eyes.
Please remember that your portrait photographer cannot, under any circumstances, be held responsible for windblown hair.

Rabies

© Linda Davick

Monkey

© Linda Davick

Entomophobia

© Linda Davick

'Tude: Choose Your Prize

1. Button collection
2. Sketch book (7 x 10)
3. Tequila-flavored sucker with worm
4. Perfectly good plumbing fixture except for small leak

Tenn. Sal and Ken, thanks for playing! The contest was much harder for you two being that you've known me for 25 years and have never seen me in girls' shoes.

Gregory Conover

Noggin is a fun and beautiful show. When I walked in, there were so many red dots I thought the gallery had chicken pox.

Gregory Conover is Cheryl's ex. Whenever she visits from New York, she stays in his apartment and Janet and I descend on it and drink all his wine and eat all his cashews.

The show is at 349 25th Avenue. To see it, call 415-786-6742 for an appointment.

This e-mail just in: I followed the link in your blog and went to see Gregory Conover's web site. His works are so colorful and cheerful. To tell you the truth, I think I like him better with his lemon hair rather than the (natural?) brunette in your blog. I wish him a successful show so he can buy more cashews for his visitors.

Shoe Contest / Great Prize

1. Zebra
2. Slipper
3. Gardenia
4. Royale w/out Cheese
When I opened the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink this afternoon, a waterfall gushed out. We had to go to Home Despot and buy a new faucet. And we all know what's right across the parking lot from Home Despot. Right! Nordstrom Rack, the purveyor of fine shoes that nobody has bought at Nordstrom Proper. Be the first to guess which shoes I bought and win a delightful prize.

Reclining

I recline

But we were desperately hungry. Before we could think about stepping into a Home Despot, we needed some nourishment–and FAST. Tom refused to drive by for a Royale with Cheese. We ended up running into this little joint on Judah which we mistook for a Jamba Juice. We ordered sherpa sandwiches. (Carrot raisin loaf filled with cashew cream cheese. With tomato, red onion, lettuce, sprouts. $6.50.) I know what you're thinking. This doesn't sound like me. But once again, I was making a sacrifice for my marriage. We noticed a tiny room in the corner full of pillows with a sign that said: Please Remove Shoes.

We looked at each other. We removed our shoes. We sat down. Five minutes went by. Ten minutes went by. Twenty minutes went by. It occurred to us that this was not a fast food joint. It dawned on us finally that this was not a Jamba Juice at all–it was a raw foods restaurant called Judahlicious. Overcome by hunger, I keeled over.

Our sandwiches arrived. They were spectacular. Worth the wait even. The raw food gave us the fortitude to venture into Home Despot, and then onward to the shoe department at The Rack.
Tom reclines

Pilgram (sp.?) In A Playboat

© Linda Davick


It was rainy and windy on the beach this evening. But getta loada this hair I found! I think it must have been from a little Hawaiian skirt. When I tried it on a triangular black rock closer to the water, the ocean snuck up on me and carried it away.





E-mail from Luci
(referring to spelling comment from last Sunday's post): Would you like to bet whether Marie's blog is Pilgrim in a Playboat instead of Pilgram? :)

After I opened Luci's message this morning, I went straight to Marie's blog. I was horrified to find that Marie had spelled the word "Pilgram" wrong. And in the title of her blog! And that it had been misspelled ever since she started her blog, and no one had called it to her attention. Would she not be humiliated? After all, she was getting ready to graduate from a prestigious New England university.

Casually I typed "pilgram" into my online Oxford dictionary, just to be sure. No such word! I glanced at my links and it gradually dawned on me whose mistake it was.

Later ...
From: Luci
Subject: pointy stone
Date: May 3, 2007 1:32:36 PM PDT
To: Linda
I’m sorry I didn’t mention it earlier, like … since you first put her link (grin & wink). I am the one with the worst grammar in my family, everyone always correct me --- even Christer (ever since he can talk). My defense is English is not my first language. And, my first language has no form of past tense, present tense, singular, or plural, etc. But, I can’t use that excuse in my family because my mom, aunts, and uncle have no such problem. My grandfather passed away when I was eight. Had he lived longer, I’d probably have better grammar. He was known to return people’s mail with grammatical/spelling correction written in red ink. Having enough experience from my lovely family of grammar bullies, I hope you understand why I didn’t point it out much earlier. As all points go … they’re generally pointy à ouch!
Love, Luci.

I Always Wanted a Little House on the Beach

© Linda Davick

subpar |səbˈpär| adjective below an average level

When my internet pal Sal was in eighth grade she was the feature editor for her school newspaper, and was invited to go to a special conference in New York for school newspaper editors. David Halberstam was the guest speaker.

She writes how inspiring his speech was, and how it left her with the feeling that there were many more possibilities in life than she'd ever imagined.

When I was in eighth grade, Richard Nixon came to the Memorial Auditorium to speak. Our class rode over in a bus, eager to be going anywhere other than algebra. As we were in line, riding up the escalator in the auditorium, I suddenly spotted Sexton (wow–what a name!) my boyfriend from summer camp, on the floor below. Dressed in his McCallie boys' school uniform, he was ambling among a navy blue cloud of other boys. I shouted out his name and waved madly.

My English teacher collared me at the top of the escalator and shook me hard. "You know better than that! Behave yourself!"

A few years later I was elected editor of our high school literary magazine The Driftwood. My boyfriend wrote a poem for it. I published it. If you read it vertically instead of horizontally, the first letter of each line spelled "F*CK YOU." One day Steve C. felt compelled to point this out to my English teacher, Mrs. Johnson. Mrs. Johnson called me at home on the phone and told me how disappointed she was in me.

I visited my Mom two weeks ago and took her check book and credit card with me when I left. I told her I was taking them in order to protect her, and she agreed that it was a good idea. I made arrangements with the staff at the Terrace to pay for whatever she might need when they went on an outing, and to charge it to her monthly bill. Today Aggles called and said that Mom was very upset that I took her card; and that she even wondered briefly if I took it so I could use it. Instantly I felt guilty, even though I am a different person today than I was in high school. Really I am. I am, really.

Yesterday I found a gift card from Crate & Barrel on the beach. When I got home, I checked the number online and discovered that it had fifty dollars on it. What would you do? Would you try to figure out who lost it, or would you order Funky Monkey straightaway?