In Anticipation of Rain

The weather people are promising thunderstorms today, and I hope they're right. I could use a big ole' thunderstorm about now -- lots of lightning and thunder and pounding rain that rushes into the street and down the sewers.

The Evil Committee was its usual evil self yesterday. It's what you'd imagine a committee in Hell would be like -- a little conference room with a white screen and no windows, tables in a square formation with little chairs around them. The tables have dried rings on them from countless wet glasses and cups. Pictures of males on the walls along with plaques for excellence in employee satisfaction or housekeeping or softball -- all slightly crooked. Extra chairs and odd broken pieces of equipment piled in the corners, so there's really not much space to move around in. The computer only shows half of the document on the screen, and everyone peers at it and then someone will ask about a particular word, then someone else will chime in about that word and another word. T will write everything down on her copy, L will bring up something that has no relation whatsoever to the subject at hand, A will address L's comment, so that P and M have to express their opinion on the matter. Then C will jangle her bracelets and state her views, causing T to mark out what she'd written and write something else down. The room and meeting are all self-contained, with no escape. I drink my tea or water very, very slowly and wonder why I'm even there and how I'm going to survive another one.

Our summer chorus taper rehearsals have been moved to Mondays instead of Sundays, and the place we normally meet at has broken air conditioning so we're now meeting in a big church basement. Last night's rehearsal went pretty well, all things considered.

Got my Vermont workshop workbook yesterday, and it's about what I expected. Some writers included stuff that's simply incomprehensible to me, others included respectable work. Maybe it's just because I'm older but I strongly believe a poem should be about something recognizable, notwithstanding "language" poems, which I look at as exercises rather than poems. I'm concerned that my instructor is not Bruce Weigl, who I signed up for, but someone named Baron Wormser. Never heard of him (her), and I don't appreciate the switch with no explanation. I wrote Louise to see what was going on, and she said Bruce had health problems and then Jack bailed. I hadn't gotten the e-mail about Bruce, so it was all a surprise to me.

No meetings today, so I can deal with this pile of work without having to leave my office right in the middle of it. I had a lot of phone calls yesterday, so I may just let the system take messages today.

Sugar Franklin has been drinking her special water more and more, without a problem. Seems to me she's a bit perkier, but that could be my imagination. We go back for a gram stain on Thursday.

Charli has taken to sleeping on the other side of her cage, on top of a half-chewed toy. Parrots can sleep in the oddest places in the most contorted postures; clearly they don't have arthritis, or at least they don't have it yet.

On the drive to work this morning, I heard on NPR that McCain's latest commercial blames Obama for the increase in gasoline prices. There is no twisted form of logic or madness available to me that would make that make any sense whatsoever.

Blogs and Politics

At 9 am it's already 90 degrees. I managed to haul myself out of bed early enough to go have breakfast at one of my favorite places before the pre-church crowd wandered in. I was thinking that maybe the art of blogging is just translating the more literate stuff that rolls around in your head -- of course, some blogs are commercial or deliberately political, but I'm talking about the casual blog. Like this. I know I have the most perfect wonderful charming entrancing parrots in the world, but I can see how someone else could get bored hearing about them.

I took all 20 pounds of the Sunday paper to the restaurant with me, of course. And there on the local section's front page are pictures of yet another funeral of yet another poor kid killed in Iraq. What angers me is how the friends and some relatives will stand around and say, with true heartfelt sincerity, that "he died so those people could be free," or "he gave his life to keep us all safe." I can understand how the immediate relatives may be forced to say and believe such things in order to keep their sanity, but no one else believes that stuff. There is no doubt in my mind that Bush stole both elections and that he went into the White House determined to wage war against Iraq.

And meanwhile, Osama bin Laden is still out there. And we're throwing away our citizens over there -- for what?

I am registered independent, and in this state independents can't vote in the primary unless an independent candidate is running. But if I were registered Democrat, I would have voted for Hilary. I just don't think Obama is seasoned enough to handle it.

But I'm voting for him in November, and he can damned well learn. He's a lot wiser than Bush was/is. McCain gets up there and talks just like Bush -- who among us wants another four years of Bush-ism?

sigh . . . don't get me started.

The birds were beside themselves when I got home; calling at the top of their voices and running back and forth. I think Charli is over her hormonal surges -- she's happily been sitting on my knee and climbing to the back of the couch to chew up a fresh roll of adding machine tape -- no interest at all in the coffee table.

The Virtue of Salads

I don't have a thing I have to do until rehearsal tomorrow evening, though there are zillions of things I should do.

I finaly braved the 90-plus heat and went over to Texas Roadhouse for a late lunch. Now I know that some Texas Roadhouses are not excellent, but this one is. I've never had a messed up order or bad dish and the service is always excellent. My only complaint is that it's so crowded after 5 and on weekends. I love their little sirloins, ribs, mashed potatoes with brown gravy, baked beans, fresh baked rolls with honey and cinnamon butter, and salads.

Rather than my usual 6 ounce sirloin I had their veggie plate: mashed potatoes with brown gravy, apple sauce, baked beans, iced tea unsweetened, and a salad.

I love a good basic garden salad, though I don't know why. One of my grandfathers ate nothing but eggs and meat (he died of a stroke; they didn't know the connection back then). My other grandfather was almost as bad and died of heart failure. My dad rarely ate veggies and had a heart attack (he died of Alzheimer's though). My mom will eat a vegetable if I fuss at her long enough. So my love of salads is certainly not genetic.

I've had lots of bad salads and lots of superb salads -- I'm talking garden or side salads here; no Jell-o salads or weird stuff people like to bring to potlucks. The ones I like are about like the one I had today. Cold variety of dark leafy lettuces; a little iceberg is okay as long as it's not the bulk of the salad. A sliver or two of red cabbage, some shredded cheddar cheese, croutons that break easily with a fork, some hard boiled egg (both white and yolk), lots and lots of fresh cut tomatoes, maybe some shredded carrots. Mushrooms and a sprinkle of crisp crumbled bacon are welcome additions, as are thinly sliced cucumbers. No onions. My favorite dressing is lime and honey, but not many restaurants serve that. So I end up with french or sun-dried tomato or thousand island on the side. I also like O'Charley's Black and Blue salad, which comes with cooked sirloin strips and bits of blue cheese and all the other salad things I like. Ditto for the Southern Chicken salad they have: crisp tender bits of chicken breast.

On my way home from lunch there was a bad wreck; maybe three cars. The police hadn't arrived yet. One car was hit front driver's side so badly ain't nobody gonna ever drive that car again. There were maybe eight cars pulled off to the side and maybe 12 people standing around. Beside the totaled car a woman was laying on the hot asphalt, moaning, while a couple of people talked to her. I hate it when people stop and gawk at wrecks, though I myself always slow down just a little bit, even though I think it's rude. If I'm not involved and the police or some kind of help is there, it's none of my business, and the best thing I (anyone) can do is get out of the way.

I stopped at the little convenience store in my neighborhood to get my lottery tickets and one of those huge colas for 69 cents. I love Pepsi in bottles or cans, but for fountain drinks nothing beats a Coke.

I had all the birds out earlier, except Charli. She's awfully hormonal or something these past few days. I bring her out and scritch her little head, then she decides she wants to chew everything on the coffee table. I pick her up, she goes back and hangs upsidedown and climbs down to the shelf of the coffee table and proceeds to chew everything there. I pick her up and she nips me and tries to get to the coffee table again. I give her a couple of her favorite toys to chew on and she's destroyed one of my crossword puzzle books, but no -- it must be the coffee table. Sugar's cage is next to the coffee table, and Charli also likes to climb on top -- which Sugar certainly does not appreciate.

So Charli comes out separately so I can keep dragging her away from the coffee table.

And Nicholas is in full voice today. I swear he hasn't stopped calling and chirping at the top of his lungs all day. I may have to take some aspirin.

Physical Therapy and PEAC

I was planning to sleep late today, but I forgot that Nicholas doesn't approve of people sleeping once the sun comes up. I wanted to get up early so I could out and have breakfast before the crowds and then go downtown to the farmer's market for some fresh veggies -- but I also wanted to sleep late. Either way, both the restaurant and the farmer's market will be swamped at this time of day. Too many people for me. Plus it's going to be murderously hot again today.

The physical therapy session wasn't too bad yesterday. She said it's tendonitis in the shoulder and we spent an hour measuring my range of motion, working on my posture, and going over a bunch of exercises I'm to do at home. Next week we'll be doing something with a machine. My shoulder felt a lot better after the session.

The therapist is an older woman, with thin blond hair cut blunt and held back with two bobby pins. Her accent is either Irish or British, or something non-American. She talks alot, like she's got so much knowledge and enthusiasm she just can't contain herself. I liked her right off.

I got an emergency note from my friend B in California. She created PEAC (Parrot Education and Adoption Center), and funds are running dangerously low these days so she's asking members for donations. For those who don't know, PEAC is a great organization and I'd give anything to have a chapter here. They have a chapter in Alaska, Cleveland, and Pittsburgh. They foster parrots until homes can be found; staff and adoptors and foster people all have to pass classes in how to understand and deal with parrots. And yes, I made a small donation.

Well, I guess I'd better get up from the couch and go do my shoulder exercises -- that is, if Nicholas doesn't mind too much.

My Poetry Manuscript

C and I ran a small literary press back in the early 90s, and he has since gone on to run his own publishing company. So when I ran into him at the Book Fair three years ago, I said, "Well, you've published everybody else we know. When are you going to publish me?"

He told me to send him my manuscript, which I did. And never heard from him again. His company publishes a lot of literature and local interest stuff, and C's made a good name for himself and his press.

I was talking to JBH a month or so ago about sending my manuscript to a Louisville press and I mentioned C. JBH told me to keep after C, even after three years of silence. So I did.

And . . .

I just heard from C; he said he does want to publish my poetry manuscript but that it wouldn't be until late next year. The press is booked (so to speak) that far ahead. (And no, he wouldn't publish me just because we're friends or if he didn't think he could make money from it.)

Yea!!!

Of course, I was planning to send my manuscript to the Louisville press during their submission period but now I'll have to see if C accepts simultaneous submissions.

C said to go ahead and tinker with the poems since poets are always tinkering with their poems (this is true; poems are never finished, they're just abandoned).

Double yea!

My book about brown-headed parrots is still with the publisher; he wrote me a few weeks ago to send him some more pictures for the cover and back, so I asked the folks on the brown-head parrot list to contribute. And did they ever! Three people sent in almost a hundred pictures, which I forwarded on so the publisher can choose.

I wore one of my nice suits to work today, just in case I do have to give a disposition.