A few nights ago, while I was lying in the dark trying to fall asleep, blankets thrown off and the fan on full strength, a whirring, crunchy, large cockroach flew into the room and dive bombed my head. It was gross. I killed it with my sandal and buried it in my trash bin. Then a mosquito bit me, and when I smooshed it against the wall it left a blood mark. Ah, the joys of summer!
In actuality, this kamikaze cockroach got me thinking about my life, and I had a moment of profundity in which I realized that my life lately has been filled with "cockroaches of destruction." They come in the form of worrisome thoughts, fears and doubts that sneak into my head and dive bomb my sense of self, and my ability to put things in perspective. If only I had enough sandals to kill them all . . .
These cockroaches are nothing new- they have been around since I was a wee lass, clutching my stuffed dog in the back of the station wagon, anxiously asking my mother: "Mama, what are we going to do today? What is the PLAN?"
Of course, the big joke is there is no plan- there is a semblance of control most of us seek, and there is a big, scary, vast, beautiful unknown that is the true foundation of our short time here.
Then, as now, it would be in my best interest to stop asking what the plan is, eat a push-pop, and take a nap.
As it turns out, my 29th year of life seems to be providing ample breeding ground for these goddamn cockroaches. I went into a little corner grocery in the S Congress neighborhood of Austin the other day, and the nice 40-something lesbian owner behind the counter, upon hearing my age as we made small talk about my ID, said "I gotta tell you honey, I love being in my 40's. Your late twenties are HARD, but it gets better the older you get."
As I begin to poll women in my life who have a decade or two on me, the consensus seems to be that as you age like a fine cheese, you begin to relax into who you are, and hopefully become kinder to yourself as years go on. You are proud of your cheese plate, of your crackers, and who you have become.
All this aside, my new life in Austin continues to delight and surprise me. The other day it went from 90 degrees to 50 and raining, in a matter of hours. I realized how quickly I had acclimated to Texas weather when I said aloud, after looking outside at the rain, "well, I guess I won't ride my bike today."
From the reports of family and friends in Seattle in Portland, it sounds as if I chose a particularly nasty winter/spring to skip. Of course, I'm scared shitless for 30 plus days of 110 degree heat, but I think I have to buckle down with a cooler full of drinks and snacks, a inner tube for the river, and ride it out.
I shall keep you posted as the great saga continues to unfold, and I encourage you to destroy your own cockroach thoughts, and I will continue to do the same. May the sandal be with you.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
A Jew in Texas
"What do you mean you're OUT of gefilte fish?!" The tattooed, bearded Whole Foods employee looks blankly at the large mustached Jewish man and his auburn haired wife, who are pushing a half empty cart of Matzoh, a small jar of horseradish, and about 3 bottles of wine.
"Uh, we're just, out."
Thus begins our journey into the joys of being a non-practicing half-Jew in Texas, attempting to procure food for a Passover Seder.
We did manage to find Gefilte fish (white fish which comes in glass jars and appears to be the consistency of fluffy fish pate, but for some reason tastes kind of awesome) at Wheatsville, the local co-op where everyone looks like they live in Olympia, except they all have tans.
We skipped the roast lamb this year and settled for store bought mesquite roasted chicken, a wise decision on a day when the heat and humidity was pushing into the 90's. (I know that's nothing for Texas, but my parents said it was 38 degrees and raining when they left Seattle last week.)
Of course, the thought of roasting meat on a scorching afternoon did make me a bit nostalgic for the childhood summers spent in Canarsie, Brooklyn, when Bubbie would insist on cooking us roast turkey in her tiny apartment, and my Dad would have to take us out to walk around the neighborhood and eat popsicles for hours while it cooked. I think the heat of that kitchen even made the plastic covering on the sofa begin to sweat.
Bubbie was dearly missed last night, though she has been gone from us for 13 years now. My lovely, big hearted Jewish grandma apparently sent my parents a "Jew package" when she heard we were going to start celebrating Passover, about 30 years ago. We still use everything she sent. In fact, my parents brought a bunch of it with them on the flight from Seattle so that we could celebrate Passover here in Texas, with my roommates, our dear friend Annie and her son, and the few other half-jews I have found in the last 2 months here.
In addition to the Seder items, my folks also produced from their suitcases a package of pink, delicious smoked salmon, my running shoes, and TWO STUFFED ANIMALS! I now have a panda, a dog, a porcupine, and Vladimir the koala on my bed. My dad suggested I build them a shelf. God help me.
Besides eating and drinking ourselves silly, my parents and I sat around on the couches in the living room, took lots of naps, played guitar, and went on a road trip to find the Alamo.
On the way, passing by gigantic strip malls and watching the sprawl of San Anotonio bleed out into what once was farmland, Papa lost it a little bit, and started yelling; "Look at that! A fucking mall the size of Rhode Island! Now there's a fucking traffic jam in the middle of fucking nowhere! I love Texas."
He calmed down once we ate delicious Mexican food for lunch, and although my parents both agreed they could never live in Texas, they will visit me a lot.
Back to our road trip. Did you know the Alamo is NOT in the middle of a field? I didn't. I was imagining a two lane dirt road, marked by cactus, the sun bleached skulls of bulls and iron statues of David Crockett. Turns out it's in the middle of downtown. I did get to see some nifty dioramas.
I was thinking about family quite a bit over the last few days, as I spent time with my parents, relishing their ridiculous sense of humor, generosity, and loving spirits. Shelley and Melissa you were missed last night as I dropped wine on my plate yelling, "Vermin! Cattle disease! Slaying of the first born!" For some reason that made me miss you.
It is strange to adjust to the thought that I may only see them a few times a year, at best, for as long as I live outside of Washington. But, this is part of the journey, I reckon, and it although a sap likes me tends to wallow in nostalgia, it causes me to realize yet again that change, although usually fraught with some level of uncertainty, leads us where we need to go.
I cried like a baby when they drove away (nothing new for me, I just like to stick with my routine when it comes to saying goodbye to people I adore) and they took with them a handful of postcards and a cactus named Scooter, tucked into my Mom's purse. (A gift courtesy of Scott.)
I am left with more groceries then I know what to do with, money for a haircut and a new bike tire, a summer dress and some pillows from Target. They really know how to treat a girl a well.
The house feels quiet now, and suddenly their few days here seemed to have passed far too quickly.
I know I have been lax in writing, most likely because I have spent too many days and nights looking up basset hounds on the internet, waking at 4 am to work at the coffee shop, playing scrabble, and checking out all the happy hour deals within walking distance of my house. Stay tuned for more Texan tales of how I defeated pinkeye, and other shenanigans.
As always, I hope this find you well. Mom and Pa, I miss you already.
Yours very truly,
Red
"Uh, we're just, out."
Thus begins our journey into the joys of being a non-practicing half-Jew in Texas, attempting to procure food for a Passover Seder.
We did manage to find Gefilte fish (white fish which comes in glass jars and appears to be the consistency of fluffy fish pate, but for some reason tastes kind of awesome) at Wheatsville, the local co-op where everyone looks like they live in Olympia, except they all have tans.
We skipped the roast lamb this year and settled for store bought mesquite roasted chicken, a wise decision on a day when the heat and humidity was pushing into the 90's. (I know that's nothing for Texas, but my parents said it was 38 degrees and raining when they left Seattle last week.)
Of course, the thought of roasting meat on a scorching afternoon did make me a bit nostalgic for the childhood summers spent in Canarsie, Brooklyn, when Bubbie would insist on cooking us roast turkey in her tiny apartment, and my Dad would have to take us out to walk around the neighborhood and eat popsicles for hours while it cooked. I think the heat of that kitchen even made the plastic covering on the sofa begin to sweat.
Bubbie was dearly missed last night, though she has been gone from us for 13 years now. My lovely, big hearted Jewish grandma apparently sent my parents a "Jew package" when she heard we were going to start celebrating Passover, about 30 years ago. We still use everything she sent. In fact, my parents brought a bunch of it with them on the flight from Seattle so that we could celebrate Passover here in Texas, with my roommates, our dear friend Annie and her son, and the few other half-jews I have found in the last 2 months here.
In addition to the Seder items, my folks also produced from their suitcases a package of pink, delicious smoked salmon, my running shoes, and TWO STUFFED ANIMALS! I now have a panda, a dog, a porcupine, and Vladimir the koala on my bed. My dad suggested I build them a shelf. God help me.
Besides eating and drinking ourselves silly, my parents and I sat around on the couches in the living room, took lots of naps, played guitar, and went on a road trip to find the Alamo.
On the way, passing by gigantic strip malls and watching the sprawl of San Anotonio bleed out into what once was farmland, Papa lost it a little bit, and started yelling; "Look at that! A fucking mall the size of Rhode Island! Now there's a fucking traffic jam in the middle of fucking nowhere! I love Texas."
He calmed down once we ate delicious Mexican food for lunch, and although my parents both agreed they could never live in Texas, they will visit me a lot.
Back to our road trip. Did you know the Alamo is NOT in the middle of a field? I didn't. I was imagining a two lane dirt road, marked by cactus, the sun bleached skulls of bulls and iron statues of David Crockett. Turns out it's in the middle of downtown. I did get to see some nifty dioramas.
I was thinking about family quite a bit over the last few days, as I spent time with my parents, relishing their ridiculous sense of humor, generosity, and loving spirits. Shelley and Melissa you were missed last night as I dropped wine on my plate yelling, "Vermin! Cattle disease! Slaying of the first born!" For some reason that made me miss you.
It is strange to adjust to the thought that I may only see them a few times a year, at best, for as long as I live outside of Washington. But, this is part of the journey, I reckon, and it although a sap likes me tends to wallow in nostalgia, it causes me to realize yet again that change, although usually fraught with some level of uncertainty, leads us where we need to go.
I cried like a baby when they drove away (nothing new for me, I just like to stick with my routine when it comes to saying goodbye to people I adore) and they took with them a handful of postcards and a cactus named Scooter, tucked into my Mom's purse. (A gift courtesy of Scott.)
I am left with more groceries then I know what to do with, money for a haircut and a new bike tire, a summer dress and some pillows from Target. They really know how to treat a girl a well.
The house feels quiet now, and suddenly their few days here seemed to have passed far too quickly.
I know I have been lax in writing, most likely because I have spent too many days and nights looking up basset hounds on the internet, waking at 4 am to work at the coffee shop, playing scrabble, and checking out all the happy hour deals within walking distance of my house. Stay tuned for more Texan tales of how I defeated pinkeye, and other shenanigans.
As always, I hope this find you well. Mom and Pa, I miss you already.
Yours very truly,
Red
Thursday, March 24, 2011
"Rock the house but keep it country"
I'd like to send yet another shout out to one of the members of the Frankfurt based phenomenon The Tiki Kings, for the title of this post. I may turn this into a bumper sticker and affix it to my new blue bicycle, or perhaps just scrawl it on the front of a t-shirt.
I've got thoughts floating all over the damn place right now, perhaps propelled by the onslaught of cherry blossoms, morning sunlight and birdsong jams that are overtaking the dryness of winter.
SXSW came and went in a flash, streets full of drunken fools and girls and guys on fixed gear bikes looking for a place to park.
I skipped much of the chaos of the crowds and headed for the sleepy town of San Marcos for a few days, where I took part in my own abridged music festival. Mix one part Lindsey, Scott, and his friend Calvin (who wore his t-shit "fuck y'all, I'm from texas", while watering his cherry tomatoes) and you get one incarnation of the Alamo Squad. We put together 2 songs and recorded them, in between copious amounts of beer/whiskey, and the shooting of the BB gun. Turns out if you take the label off the Shiner bottles they break easier.
I did manage to catch the last Moondoggies show with my roomie Caroline, we drank free beer and watched Jon Pontrello going f-ing crazy on the tambourine. We then headed to the Hole in the Wall, a well known dive bar near UT Campus, and checked out a young band named Marmalake that I loved.
The true highlight of SXSW happened after all the crowds had rioted and gone home, all of music makers, hoarse and exhausted, collapsed back into their vans for the long drive home. Last night I had the sincere pleasure and privilege of seeing Danny Schmidt, along with Carrie Elkin and Raina Rose, at the Cactus Cafe.
If you don't know of this singer-songwriter, go find him at Easy Street Records or some other fine shop, and open up your lil' heart- his music will hopefully make a nice home for itself deep in there.
A few years ago Danny Schmidt played a house concert at my parent's place in North Seattle, we cleared out the furniture, set up the amp and the mike, Mom made greek salad and a lovely toast, and his voice filled the summer the night. I had the chance to play a few songs before he began- one of the highlights of my fledgling musical journey.
As I was listening to his songs, some new, some old and familiar to me now, I felt undone by the memories that came up so suddenly, and so vividly.
This one goes out to Samm and Kyle, listening to Parables and Primes, sitting in the kitchen with french press coffee, Chris painting giant pieces of plywood out back. Kyle running down the street with a backpack full of fireworks, Maria baking cookies to put in the stolen Seattle PI dispenser outside on Wallingford Ave. Samm and I on our way to the Methow, "Riddles and Lies" playing as the mountains rose to meet the winding green road.
Another went out to Miss Alice, dear grandmother who is sorely missed, remembering how as we flew back from Charlottesville after laying her to rest, Danny was playing a show on Phinney Ridge, and at the request of my Mom, played "Company of Friends" in memory of her. I will always remember that act of kindness, and I consider it a blessing.
In each instance of feeling my eyes well up with tears (this very rarely happens to me at concerts) I was reminded that we cannot have these people or these times back once they have gone from us, but there is this quiet, intimate place, occasionally found in song, where their spirits/memories of those years are close again. A few minutes when our existence feels simple, and full of that delicate combination of longing and acceptance that we so rarely find.
Alright, someone shut me up, that's enough waxing poetic. I feel like Pa after too many birthday Martini's.
Yesterday at work a short pudgy white man introduced himself as James Brown, drank two Frappuccinos, and then asked me if I hung out at Walmart, because he thought he saw me there last night. So weird.
But, that's why we love Austin- for the weirdos, the lizards on the front porch reading the Sunday paper, the delicious veggie sandwiches at Wheatsville, the weather forecast that predicts sunny skies in the 80's for the next week straight.
That's right Seattle, I am in shorts and a tank top right now. I can't believe it either.
That said, I miss you. Send me a postcard, and I'll send you one in return. Promise.
love,
Lindsey
I've got thoughts floating all over the damn place right now, perhaps propelled by the onslaught of cherry blossoms, morning sunlight and birdsong jams that are overtaking the dryness of winter.
SXSW came and went in a flash, streets full of drunken fools and girls and guys on fixed gear bikes looking for a place to park.
I skipped much of the chaos of the crowds and headed for the sleepy town of San Marcos for a few days, where I took part in my own abridged music festival. Mix one part Lindsey, Scott, and his friend Calvin (who wore his t-shit "fuck y'all, I'm from texas", while watering his cherry tomatoes) and you get one incarnation of the Alamo Squad. We put together 2 songs and recorded them, in between copious amounts of beer/whiskey, and the shooting of the BB gun. Turns out if you take the label off the Shiner bottles they break easier.
I did manage to catch the last Moondoggies show with my roomie Caroline, we drank free beer and watched Jon Pontrello going f-ing crazy on the tambourine. We then headed to the Hole in the Wall, a well known dive bar near UT Campus, and checked out a young band named Marmalake that I loved.
The true highlight of SXSW happened after all the crowds had rioted and gone home, all of music makers, hoarse and exhausted, collapsed back into their vans for the long drive home. Last night I had the sincere pleasure and privilege of seeing Danny Schmidt, along with Carrie Elkin and Raina Rose, at the Cactus Cafe.
If you don't know of this singer-songwriter, go find him at Easy Street Records or some other fine shop, and open up your lil' heart- his music will hopefully make a nice home for itself deep in there.
A few years ago Danny Schmidt played a house concert at my parent's place in North Seattle, we cleared out the furniture, set up the amp and the mike, Mom made greek salad and a lovely toast, and his voice filled the summer the night. I had the chance to play a few songs before he began- one of the highlights of my fledgling musical journey.
As I was listening to his songs, some new, some old and familiar to me now, I felt undone by the memories that came up so suddenly, and so vividly.
This one goes out to Samm and Kyle, listening to Parables and Primes, sitting in the kitchen with french press coffee, Chris painting giant pieces of plywood out back. Kyle running down the street with a backpack full of fireworks, Maria baking cookies to put in the stolen Seattle PI dispenser outside on Wallingford Ave. Samm and I on our way to the Methow, "Riddles and Lies" playing as the mountains rose to meet the winding green road.
Another went out to Miss Alice, dear grandmother who is sorely missed, remembering how as we flew back from Charlottesville after laying her to rest, Danny was playing a show on Phinney Ridge, and at the request of my Mom, played "Company of Friends" in memory of her. I will always remember that act of kindness, and I consider it a blessing.
In each instance of feeling my eyes well up with tears (this very rarely happens to me at concerts) I was reminded that we cannot have these people or these times back once they have gone from us, but there is this quiet, intimate place, occasionally found in song, where their spirits/memories of those years are close again. A few minutes when our existence feels simple, and full of that delicate combination of longing and acceptance that we so rarely find.
Alright, someone shut me up, that's enough waxing poetic. I feel like Pa after too many birthday Martini's.
Yesterday at work a short pudgy white man introduced himself as James Brown, drank two Frappuccinos, and then asked me if I hung out at Walmart, because he thought he saw me there last night. So weird.
But, that's why we love Austin- for the weirdos, the lizards on the front porch reading the Sunday paper, the delicious veggie sandwiches at Wheatsville, the weather forecast that predicts sunny skies in the 80's for the next week straight.
That's right Seattle, I am in shorts and a tank top right now. I can't believe it either.
That said, I miss you. Send me a postcard, and I'll send you one in return. Promise.
love,
Lindsey
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Pompadours and Avocados
South by Southwest is about to descend on our fair city like a horde of drunken mice- sleeping in all the beds, taking up all the parking spots, and eating all the breakfast tacos. 6 weeks into my new life here (it feels like substantially longer then that) and I am about to be initiated into a week of grandeur and merriment I can barely imagine, though it is only days away. I shall report back.
The stormy seas of change I described upon my arrival here have reached a more even keel, as the many different pieces I was juggling fell into a new, but comfortable, rhythm. In the past 4 weeks I have found myself 2 part time jobs, acquired a bed, and met some absolutely lovely people, some of whom I've taken quite a shine too . . .
My first job, which we shall now refer to as "my stupid job," is at a chain coffee shop similar to Tully's, which originated in Southern California. To this end, we sometimes have very blond, very tan women in shiny Escalades run into the store, gushing "I'm so glad I found you! Oh my GOD! Can I please have a large ultimate extreme mocha iced blended? Oh, and no whip!" Kill me now. The people I work with are quite nice, and to be fair, many of the regulars are very sweet too. I am getting used to working early shifts, the opening shift being from 4:30 am - 10:00 am. Every time I wake up that early I remind myself that my dear father has been waking up at 4:00 am for the the past 30 years for his job at SDOT. Hats off to you, Papa.
Speaking of which, my parents have been very sweet and have sent me a box of things from home, so I now have sheets, 2 vegetarians cookbooks, a few pairs of sneakers, kleenex, a chocolate bunny, and some of my favorite sundresses hanging in the closet. I should start stocking the bar for their arrival, sometime in mid-April . . .
The short plays I am working on are going well, though a bit stress-inducing as we head straight into the last few weeks before performances. I think I have effectively managed to burn myself out within the first 2 months here (dammit Samm, you called it!) and have decided that following these shows I will take a break until the fall, so I may allow more time for reading Steinbeck novels and going swimming as the temperature begins to rise.
I also really want a dog. Is that bad? A dog and a car, I would like each of those. Maybe not for awhile, but I am putting both those thoughts on the back burner, to simmer until I find a job that pays more then $8 an hour.
Did I mention the land smells different here? Reminds me of my Nanny and Grandpa Dave's neighborhood in Charlottesville. Wide streets, trees with large beautiful branches, front porches all adorned with chairs for sitting, and the scent of dirt, acorns, and sunlight.
Rodney, if you happen to read this, I wanted to tell you that I saw a great Rockabilly set by the venerable Dale Watson, a local legend with a shock of white hair that he styles into a sweet Pompadour, who plays weekly around town. I saw him at the Highball, a bar/bowling alley with antique lanes that made me think of that final scene of There Will be Blood, where they serve pickled okra with your beer, and ladies dress up to two step dance on the shiny wooden dance floor. I went with my friend Annie, we said hello to her friend who plays bass with Dale Watson, had some wine, the headed to The Broken Spoke.
The Broken Spoke is an Austin institution- looks like it hasn't been touched in 40 years, and was home to the likes of Willie Nelson, back in the day. They serve your beer or wine in plastic cups, you drink at picnic tables covered in red checkered tablecloths, and old men show up everynight to two-step, and glide across that floor with absolute grace. After the Highball Annie and I went to see another local musician named Jesse Dayton play, he is something of an aging rockstar who was rumored to have a distinct sexual charisma onstage. He was a prodigy in his early years, and I will readily admit is a venerable force as a guitar player and performer. I wasn't really sold on the allure of him, bit of a potbelly starting to show under his faded t-shirt, until I noticed he had locked eyes with me during one of his songs, at which point Annie whispers to me. "he just purred at you." It was true, he had. Only in Texas, is my response to that- only in Texas.
Morning is upon me now, and I do believe it is time for eggs and avocado, turkey bacon and a cup of coffee. A day off, free to work on the Bike Noir play, sit on the porch, and survey the neighborhood.
I miss my folks, my sisters, my dear friends, and will especially hold you in my little heart in a few weeks, as my birthday approaches. Not a bad way to spend a year though- traveling far and wide, only to end up in a desert city that is brimming with vitamin D and rife with possibility. Not bad at all.
Stayed tuned, for more tales from ATX . . .
yours very truly,
Red
The stormy seas of change I described upon my arrival here have reached a more even keel, as the many different pieces I was juggling fell into a new, but comfortable, rhythm. In the past 4 weeks I have found myself 2 part time jobs, acquired a bed, and met some absolutely lovely people, some of whom I've taken quite a shine too . . .
My first job, which we shall now refer to as "my stupid job," is at a chain coffee shop similar to Tully's, which originated in Southern California. To this end, we sometimes have very blond, very tan women in shiny Escalades run into the store, gushing "I'm so glad I found you! Oh my GOD! Can I please have a large ultimate extreme mocha iced blended? Oh, and no whip!" Kill me now. The people I work with are quite nice, and to be fair, many of the regulars are very sweet too. I am getting used to working early shifts, the opening shift being from 4:30 am - 10:00 am. Every time I wake up that early I remind myself that my dear father has been waking up at 4:00 am for the the past 30 years for his job at SDOT. Hats off to you, Papa.
Speaking of which, my parents have been very sweet and have sent me a box of things from home, so I now have sheets, 2 vegetarians cookbooks, a few pairs of sneakers, kleenex, a chocolate bunny, and some of my favorite sundresses hanging in the closet. I should start stocking the bar for their arrival, sometime in mid-April . . .
The short plays I am working on are going well, though a bit stress-inducing as we head straight into the last few weeks before performances. I think I have effectively managed to burn myself out within the first 2 months here (dammit Samm, you called it!) and have decided that following these shows I will take a break until the fall, so I may allow more time for reading Steinbeck novels and going swimming as the temperature begins to rise.
I also really want a dog. Is that bad? A dog and a car, I would like each of those. Maybe not for awhile, but I am putting both those thoughts on the back burner, to simmer until I find a job that pays more then $8 an hour.
Did I mention the land smells different here? Reminds me of my Nanny and Grandpa Dave's neighborhood in Charlottesville. Wide streets, trees with large beautiful branches, front porches all adorned with chairs for sitting, and the scent of dirt, acorns, and sunlight.
Rodney, if you happen to read this, I wanted to tell you that I saw a great Rockabilly set by the venerable Dale Watson, a local legend with a shock of white hair that he styles into a sweet Pompadour, who plays weekly around town. I saw him at the Highball, a bar/bowling alley with antique lanes that made me think of that final scene of There Will be Blood, where they serve pickled okra with your beer, and ladies dress up to two step dance on the shiny wooden dance floor. I went with my friend Annie, we said hello to her friend who plays bass with Dale Watson, had some wine, the headed to The Broken Spoke.
The Broken Spoke is an Austin institution- looks like it hasn't been touched in 40 years, and was home to the likes of Willie Nelson, back in the day. They serve your beer or wine in plastic cups, you drink at picnic tables covered in red checkered tablecloths, and old men show up everynight to two-step, and glide across that floor with absolute grace. After the Highball Annie and I went to see another local musician named Jesse Dayton play, he is something of an aging rockstar who was rumored to have a distinct sexual charisma onstage. He was a prodigy in his early years, and I will readily admit is a venerable force as a guitar player and performer. I wasn't really sold on the allure of him, bit of a potbelly starting to show under his faded t-shirt, until I noticed he had locked eyes with me during one of his songs, at which point Annie whispers to me. "he just purred at you." It was true, he had. Only in Texas, is my response to that- only in Texas.
Morning is upon me now, and I do believe it is time for eggs and avocado, turkey bacon and a cup of coffee. A day off, free to work on the Bike Noir play, sit on the porch, and survey the neighborhood.
I miss my folks, my sisters, my dear friends, and will especially hold you in my little heart in a few weeks, as my birthday approaches. Not a bad way to spend a year though- traveling far and wide, only to end up in a desert city that is brimming with vitamin D and rife with possibility. Not bad at all.
Stayed tuned, for more tales from ATX . . .
yours very truly,
Red
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
"Road Humps"
"Newman, I don't think we're in Washington anymore."
These were the words I said to myself as I disembarked from the plane a mere two weeks ago, noticing the severe lack of mountains and the fact that the sky was sunny and clear, and the guy throwing the baggage onto the cart was in shorts and a tank top. In late January.
I felt a bit like Dorothy, thrown into a new land following the tornado of one's late twenties, a natural phenomenon (or disaster, depending on how you look at it) that causes people to do things like MOVE TO TEXAS.
That said, although I have not met midgets, monkeys, or tin men, the city of Austin has been peopled with plenty of characters.
Top award thus far goes to a man named Pat, a lovely middle aged fellow with profound cognitive delays (by my estimation) who chatted me up at a bus stop during my first days here. (Side note: the bus here sucks, I am sad to admit, and is quite similar to bus systems across the country- smelly, strange, and unreliable, although cheap and thoroughly entertaining.) So, back to our story: Pat introduces himself to me, shows me his 2 big gulp cups which he has used a label maker to mark as his own, and then shows me his 2 gigantic bags of yarn from JoAnn fabrics. He tells me he crochets blankets, and I smile and nod approvingly. He asks if I want to see the one he's working on, I say yes, and he proceeds to unlock three small padlocks on a wheely suitcase and pull out, I kid you not, a gigantic, perfectly made, rainbow colored Afghan. To add to the party we also had these individuals standing at the bus stop: guy with dreads down to his ass, and possibly inbred teenager on the cellphone who asked me how to buy a bus ticket to Kansas.
Gotta love public transit. Within the first week or so I managed to find a room in a house in a neighborhood called Cherrywood, borrow a one speed bike named Mr. Ed from my awesome buddy Angelina, and get cast in two short plays as part of the University of Texas New Works festival.
In full disclosure, one of the plays is being directed by the talented and wonderful Noah Martin, friend from undergrad, and we had spoken about it before I arrived. It is a bike play (in which audience and actors complete a 7 mile bike ride during which scenes are performed in site specific spaces) and it will be done film noir style. Badass, right?!
The second play was written by an MFA Playwriting student, and I will be playing a squirrel named Marla with a hoarding problem. Hysterical. I am hoping for a squirrel suit, or at least a tail.
My house is very cute, though a bit rundown. Room has wood floors and lots of light, and Emily, my new roommate, is a very generous and warm-hearted lady. The girl who just moved out was a bike rider from Seattle, so I fit right in. I have already met a few folks from the Pacific NW, and every time this happens I try to pump fists and yell, 206 rules!!!!!
If you haven't received a phone call from me yet, you may not know that I am struggling a bit (understatement) with the entirety of the being in a new place that although is culturally compatible with Seattle (and especially Portland) is VERY different from my old, comfortable life. You know it's bad when you cry upon receiving a package from your parents from Trader Joes's, and REALLY bad when you cry while looking at pictures of elderly, adoptable golden retrievers on Petfinder. Shit.
But, I get that it took a certain amount of bravery to jump ship and move to a new place without benefit of a boyfriend or friend, or the structure of school to leap into.
I imagine that once I am gainfully employed and no longer sleeping on a pile of sleeping bags on the floor, I will start to feel better.
I am heartened by the kindness of Austinites, and the cheap and delicious food that seems to abound. Near my house there is a walk-up taco stand called Chilito that has a giant mustache seesaw in the parking lot, and just today at my local coffeeshop I had a big cup of coffee and a blueberry scone for under $4. Can't beat that.
Tomorrow I am going to a fancy bowling ally called Hi-Ball with my good family friend that I stayed with for the first week, upon arriving in Austin. She has been my saving grace- taking me to Ikea to get curtains and towels, hanging out watching The Daily Show in the morning, and offering support whenever and however it is needed.
The title of this post refers to signs that dot many residential roads, proclaiming "road humps." Personally I would think that "bumps" might be a description that would lead to less thoughts of innuendo, but whatever. In my case, I think it fitting to say that I am experiencing my own "road humps/bumps" on this delightful little highway of transition, but I trust that they will even out, especially as the weather begins to warm up and I begin to settle in.
This shit ain't easy, that's for sure.
All that said, thank you for reading, and stayed tuned for stories about chorizo and egg breakfast tacos, Bulleit bourbon cocktails, bike rides and food carts and hula hooping fiascos. Hope this finds you well, and more soon . . .
your ginger gal,
Miss Newman
These were the words I said to myself as I disembarked from the plane a mere two weeks ago, noticing the severe lack of mountains and the fact that the sky was sunny and clear, and the guy throwing the baggage onto the cart was in shorts and a tank top. In late January.
I felt a bit like Dorothy, thrown into a new land following the tornado of one's late twenties, a natural phenomenon (or disaster, depending on how you look at it) that causes people to do things like MOVE TO TEXAS.
That said, although I have not met midgets, monkeys, or tin men, the city of Austin has been peopled with plenty of characters.
Top award thus far goes to a man named Pat, a lovely middle aged fellow with profound cognitive delays (by my estimation) who chatted me up at a bus stop during my first days here. (Side note: the bus here sucks, I am sad to admit, and is quite similar to bus systems across the country- smelly, strange, and unreliable, although cheap and thoroughly entertaining.) So, back to our story: Pat introduces himself to me, shows me his 2 big gulp cups which he has used a label maker to mark as his own, and then shows me his 2 gigantic bags of yarn from JoAnn fabrics. He tells me he crochets blankets, and I smile and nod approvingly. He asks if I want to see the one he's working on, I say yes, and he proceeds to unlock three small padlocks on a wheely suitcase and pull out, I kid you not, a gigantic, perfectly made, rainbow colored Afghan. To add to the party we also had these individuals standing at the bus stop: guy with dreads down to his ass, and possibly inbred teenager on the cellphone who asked me how to buy a bus ticket to Kansas.
Gotta love public transit. Within the first week or so I managed to find a room in a house in a neighborhood called Cherrywood, borrow a one speed bike named Mr. Ed from my awesome buddy Angelina, and get cast in two short plays as part of the University of Texas New Works festival.
In full disclosure, one of the plays is being directed by the talented and wonderful Noah Martin, friend from undergrad, and we had spoken about it before I arrived. It is a bike play (in which audience and actors complete a 7 mile bike ride during which scenes are performed in site specific spaces) and it will be done film noir style. Badass, right?!
The second play was written by an MFA Playwriting student, and I will be playing a squirrel named Marla with a hoarding problem. Hysterical. I am hoping for a squirrel suit, or at least a tail.
My house is very cute, though a bit rundown. Room has wood floors and lots of light, and Emily, my new roommate, is a very generous and warm-hearted lady. The girl who just moved out was a bike rider from Seattle, so I fit right in. I have already met a few folks from the Pacific NW, and every time this happens I try to pump fists and yell, 206 rules!!!!!
If you haven't received a phone call from me yet, you may not know that I am struggling a bit (understatement) with the entirety of the being in a new place that although is culturally compatible with Seattle (and especially Portland) is VERY different from my old, comfortable life. You know it's bad when you cry upon receiving a package from your parents from Trader Joes's, and REALLY bad when you cry while looking at pictures of elderly, adoptable golden retrievers on Petfinder. Shit.
But, I get that it took a certain amount of bravery to jump ship and move to a new place without benefit of a boyfriend or friend, or the structure of school to leap into.
I imagine that once I am gainfully employed and no longer sleeping on a pile of sleeping bags on the floor, I will start to feel better.
I am heartened by the kindness of Austinites, and the cheap and delicious food that seems to abound. Near my house there is a walk-up taco stand called Chilito that has a giant mustache seesaw in the parking lot, and just today at my local coffeeshop I had a big cup of coffee and a blueberry scone for under $4. Can't beat that.
Tomorrow I am going to a fancy bowling ally called Hi-Ball with my good family friend that I stayed with for the first week, upon arriving in Austin. She has been my saving grace- taking me to Ikea to get curtains and towels, hanging out watching The Daily Show in the morning, and offering support whenever and however it is needed.
The title of this post refers to signs that dot many residential roads, proclaiming "road humps." Personally I would think that "bumps" might be a description that would lead to less thoughts of innuendo, but whatever. In my case, I think it fitting to say that I am experiencing my own "road humps/bumps" on this delightful little highway of transition, but I trust that they will even out, especially as the weather begins to warm up and I begin to settle in.
This shit ain't easy, that's for sure.
All that said, thank you for reading, and stayed tuned for stories about chorizo and egg breakfast tacos, Bulleit bourbon cocktails, bike rides and food carts and hula hooping fiascos. Hope this finds you well, and more soon . . .
your ginger gal,
Miss Newman
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Postscript: The Texas Diaries
When you last left me about 2 weeks ago I was sitting in the cozy living room of my friend's apartment in Frankfurt, furtively hoping that I would be boarding a plane for Seattle in a few hours. Truth be told I did not leave until 4 days later, after 3 canceled flights and full days spent at the airport in horrendously long lines. However, in the evenings I was lucky enough to return to my friends Rick and Heike, who filled me with gluhwein (mulled red wine and rum- dangerous stuff) gingerbread treats, and good cheer. We ate pizzas, watched Madmen, and spent a night at a blues bar, where I was convinced to jump onstage and sing "Ain't no Sunshine," to a gaggle of drunk Germans and reluctant ex-pat musicians.
Frankly, it was worth braving the chaos of the airport and the free Luftansa food to collect these last lingering stories, and I now look back on Frankfurt with an even greater sense of fondness.
On my way back home I was detoured through Dulles International overnight, but luckily enough was saved by my rad Uncle Eric, who arrived in his pickup truck with snacks (as directed by my Mom, his oldest sister.) We went back to his house just over the border in West Virigina, drank beer, watched a reality tv show about hockey, and hung out with his cat, whose eyes are not the same size . . .
I finally made it home the next day, all the while entertaining myself with thoughts such as:
"You know you've been traveling too long if you routinely stop by the duty free store to spray your smelly pants with perfume."
OR
"You know you are on a plane to Seattle when you sit next to a nice lesbian couple wearing fleece, gortex, and shoes that look like potatoes."
Jokes aside, I made it home on the 23rd, my luggage managed to follow me, and all is well. There was Christmas day, without presents but including fried mussels, bloody mary's, a family viewing of the film The Hangover, and Chinese food for dinner. (Best Christmas in YEARS!!!!) There were games of dice at the Cozy Inn, New Years Eve at the Center for Wooden Boats dancing with old friends, watching the fireworks from the space needle, and nights spent turning the volume up on the amp in the living room and playing guitar with my Pops.
Although I reckon I could have traveled for longer, I feel solid about returning to my homeland with some Benjamins in my pocket and energy to spare. So, to get to the purpose of this epilogue, and to quell your curiosity about why in the hell a ginger who is prone to sunburns might title an entry, "The Texas Diaries," I ask you this: what can be bought for $125?
The answer:
A one way plane ticket to Austin, TX.
I am moving on January 25th, and as many of you know this idea has been churning in the butter of my brain for several months now. What does Austin have? From what I hear, what DOESN'T it have? It's got sunshine, banjos, barbecue, cowboys, songwriters, improv theaters, Noah Martin, bike plays, friends old and new, swimming holes, and BATS! And of course, it has newness and opportunity. And that is what Red is all about at this juncture in her life.
So, if you have friends there, or food carts you think I should visit, or sunscreen you want to send, I'd love to know about it. I don't know how long I will be there for, but I'd like to find a nice place and a way to make some money and post up for a bit. I will do my best to find a living situation that includes a nice fold out couch or futon for YOU! My Grandpa said he is already looking at when he can drive out from Virginia to stay with me. I can't wait!
I may update this a few more times, for those of you who enjoy my ramblings and want to hear about my midnight bikes rides to Townes Van Zandt's grave, and other soon-to-be stories.
Until then, a happy new year to y'all, and look for tales of the illustrious Red as she begins her new chapter in the Lonestar state.
with love,
Lindsey
Frankly, it was worth braving the chaos of the airport and the free Luftansa food to collect these last lingering stories, and I now look back on Frankfurt with an even greater sense of fondness.
On my way back home I was detoured through Dulles International overnight, but luckily enough was saved by my rad Uncle Eric, who arrived in his pickup truck with snacks (as directed by my Mom, his oldest sister.) We went back to his house just over the border in West Virigina, drank beer, watched a reality tv show about hockey, and hung out with his cat, whose eyes are not the same size . . .
I finally made it home the next day, all the while entertaining myself with thoughts such as:
"You know you've been traveling too long if you routinely stop by the duty free store to spray your smelly pants with perfume."
OR
"You know you are on a plane to Seattle when you sit next to a nice lesbian couple wearing fleece, gortex, and shoes that look like potatoes."
Jokes aside, I made it home on the 23rd, my luggage managed to follow me, and all is well. There was Christmas day, without presents but including fried mussels, bloody mary's, a family viewing of the film The Hangover, and Chinese food for dinner. (Best Christmas in YEARS!!!!) There were games of dice at the Cozy Inn, New Years Eve at the Center for Wooden Boats dancing with old friends, watching the fireworks from the space needle, and nights spent turning the volume up on the amp in the living room and playing guitar with my Pops.
Although I reckon I could have traveled for longer, I feel solid about returning to my homeland with some Benjamins in my pocket and energy to spare. So, to get to the purpose of this epilogue, and to quell your curiosity about why in the hell a ginger who is prone to sunburns might title an entry, "The Texas Diaries," I ask you this: what can be bought for $125?
The answer:
A one way plane ticket to Austin, TX.
I am moving on January 25th, and as many of you know this idea has been churning in the butter of my brain for several months now. What does Austin have? From what I hear, what DOESN'T it have? It's got sunshine, banjos, barbecue, cowboys, songwriters, improv theaters, Noah Martin, bike plays, friends old and new, swimming holes, and BATS! And of course, it has newness and opportunity. And that is what Red is all about at this juncture in her life.
So, if you have friends there, or food carts you think I should visit, or sunscreen you want to send, I'd love to know about it. I don't know how long I will be there for, but I'd like to find a nice place and a way to make some money and post up for a bit. I will do my best to find a living situation that includes a nice fold out couch or futon for YOU! My Grandpa said he is already looking at when he can drive out from Virginia to stay with me. I can't wait!
I may update this a few more times, for those of you who enjoy my ramblings and want to hear about my midnight bikes rides to Townes Van Zandt's grave, and other soon-to-be stories.
Until then, a happy new year to y'all, and look for tales of the illustrious Red as she begins her new chapter in the Lonestar state.
with love,
Lindsey
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Au Revoir Istanbul/Send My Regards to Europe
The following is an excerpt from a short play I have just written called, "Lindsey and the Turk . . "
Lights up. A 28 year old red haired American woman stands on a street corner in Istanbul, shivering from the cold, her hands deep in the pockets of her purple coat. Enter young Turkish man, tall, who swaggers towards her.
Turk: Hello, where are you from?
Lindsey: Turkey.
Turk: What? Really?
Lindsey: Yeah, can't you tell? (pause) No, I'm from the U.S.
Turk: Oh, you are very sweet, like a honey.
Lindsey: How would you know that, you've been talking to me for 5 seconds.
Turk: Can I kiss you?
Lindsey: That's ridiculous. No.
Turk: (laughs) Do you want to drink a tea with me?
Lindsey: No, I am meeting my friend here.
Turk: Ok, see you later!
Lights out. End of play.
And this, dear reader, is but a snippet of an oft repeated scene enacted on the sexy streets of Istanbul. I returned to the fabled city after a few snow filled days in Ankara, where I helped in the creation of a snow fort, drank Salep (sort of like liquid vanilla pudding) and re-watched a few Woody Allen flicks.
Stepping off the bus into Taksim square, now decorated with strings of white lights, I easily made my way back to Ian's apartment, and knew I was close when I passed some sassy transvestites and the corner stand that sells intestine sandwiches. It was lovely to see my friend Ian again, we spent some time catching up and eating cookies, and of course drank beer at Ritim, the local watering hole. Ian's apartment building is in the midst of some small renovations, and they TOOK OFF THE ROOF the other day. That's right, as in, walk up to the top floor and check out the dark sky through rips in the plastic.
The weather was wretched, though familiar, as I waded my way through 2 days of very cold, rainy weather, not uncommon for this time of year. I spent a day wandering around the Blue Mosque, then stopping by to visit with my friend Melanie and her husband Ferhat. Ferhat is a chef, and made a delicious dinner that night of white beans with peppers, and an eggplant salad dotted with thyme. Melanie and I drank tea and made paper snowflakes, and we walked around the spice market and grand bazaar that night, dodging rivers of water that rolled down the streets, eating baclava type deserts and tangerines.
I spent a few hours at the Modern Art Museum, watched the men fishing off the Galata bridge, and bought a few last pieces of schwag to cart home with me.
Turkey got under my skin, and I feel that now that I have traversed a small portion of it, I have a sense of where I might like to go when I come back. It is a confusing, interesting place, most certainly. A country where Kurds are underdogs, to say the least, Armenian churches empty and the topic taboo, everybody seems gay but is apparently straight, women with headscarves cannot take classes, some people still believe that "gypsies stole my chicken," and "Jews control all the money." A place where Istanbul Turks work 14 hour days for 12 lira, and village men sit from morning to night sipping tea. Where if you meet a woman's family it means you want to marry her, where though people may be poor, there always seems to be enough to eat. I won't soon forget the amount of delicious olives, bread, cheese, and various dishes I ingested so happily, the sweet farmers who promised to find me a husband if I come back, and the overwhelming kind hearted Turks and foreigners, and friends and strangers, I met along the way.
As the plane arrived in Frankfurt from Istanbul the other morning the feeling of coming full circle was palpable. I made my way through the snowy streets, marveling at how familiar the city how felt, ready for beers and bratwurst. I hung out with a friend last night and we recorded an original song of mine- what a delightful way to end a pilgrimage! My brain is still sifting through the last 3 months, but before I go I wanted to thank you again for your listening ear.
I think if one has the chance to go on a soul journey, whether it be to travel to a grandmother's homeland or visit sites of Richard Brautigan books, it should be attempted come hell or high water. It seems that in searching for what we think we are lacking, we many times find that we had everything we needed all along. That has been my experience at least.
I don't feel this is the end of my adventuring, in fact quite the opposite. Though I am still sorting through some logistics, I will give you a hint that my days in Seattle are numbered. Seattle and I need to have "the talk" when I get back. I think I will take Seattle to Greenlake, we will walk around and drink our lattes and I will say, "I know we have been together a long time, but I think we need to see other people now." Seattle is like the long term boyfriend I couldn't bring myself to break up with, but I wasn't sure I wanted to marry.
I envision myself living somewhere warm for the time being, where a kitchen garden of basil and mint can be tended, little cactus can dot the windowsill, and rain will be contained to afternoon thunderstorms. A place where my father can drink Tequila sunrises on the front porch, and we can start a Linda Ronstadt cover band.
But in the interim, I look forward to seeing your sweet Seattle and Portland faces, eating some pumpkin pie and imbibing some strong micro brew, watching season 3 of Madmen and riding my bike again.
The snow is falling heavily here, and I have my fingers crossed I make it out of Germany tomorrow morning as scheduled despite the impending blizzard. I will dream tonight of Polish trains, Grzybow farm, my soul man Mick in his angel wings, Hope mama and the smell of Jasmine, Turkish villages, high school friends, rembetica beats and short lived bands.
I think this is the start of a beautiful thing. See you on the other side.
This is Red, signing off.
Lights up. A 28 year old red haired American woman stands on a street corner in Istanbul, shivering from the cold, her hands deep in the pockets of her purple coat. Enter young Turkish man, tall, who swaggers towards her.
Turk: Hello, where are you from?
Lindsey: Turkey.
Turk: What? Really?
Lindsey: Yeah, can't you tell? (pause) No, I'm from the U.S.
Turk: Oh, you are very sweet, like a honey.
Lindsey: How would you know that, you've been talking to me for 5 seconds.
Turk: Can I kiss you?
Lindsey: That's ridiculous. No.
Turk: (laughs) Do you want to drink a tea with me?
Lindsey: No, I am meeting my friend here.
Turk: Ok, see you later!
Lights out. End of play.
And this, dear reader, is but a snippet of an oft repeated scene enacted on the sexy streets of Istanbul. I returned to the fabled city after a few snow filled days in Ankara, where I helped in the creation of a snow fort, drank Salep (sort of like liquid vanilla pudding) and re-watched a few Woody Allen flicks.
Stepping off the bus into Taksim square, now decorated with strings of white lights, I easily made my way back to Ian's apartment, and knew I was close when I passed some sassy transvestites and the corner stand that sells intestine sandwiches. It was lovely to see my friend Ian again, we spent some time catching up and eating cookies, and of course drank beer at Ritim, the local watering hole. Ian's apartment building is in the midst of some small renovations, and they TOOK OFF THE ROOF the other day. That's right, as in, walk up to the top floor and check out the dark sky through rips in the plastic.
The weather was wretched, though familiar, as I waded my way through 2 days of very cold, rainy weather, not uncommon for this time of year. I spent a day wandering around the Blue Mosque, then stopping by to visit with my friend Melanie and her husband Ferhat. Ferhat is a chef, and made a delicious dinner that night of white beans with peppers, and an eggplant salad dotted with thyme. Melanie and I drank tea and made paper snowflakes, and we walked around the spice market and grand bazaar that night, dodging rivers of water that rolled down the streets, eating baclava type deserts and tangerines.
I spent a few hours at the Modern Art Museum, watched the men fishing off the Galata bridge, and bought a few last pieces of schwag to cart home with me.
Turkey got under my skin, and I feel that now that I have traversed a small portion of it, I have a sense of where I might like to go when I come back. It is a confusing, interesting place, most certainly. A country where Kurds are underdogs, to say the least, Armenian churches empty and the topic taboo, everybody seems gay but is apparently straight, women with headscarves cannot take classes, some people still believe that "gypsies stole my chicken," and "Jews control all the money." A place where Istanbul Turks work 14 hour days for 12 lira, and village men sit from morning to night sipping tea. Where if you meet a woman's family it means you want to marry her, where though people may be poor, there always seems to be enough to eat. I won't soon forget the amount of delicious olives, bread, cheese, and various dishes I ingested so happily, the sweet farmers who promised to find me a husband if I come back, and the overwhelming kind hearted Turks and foreigners, and friends and strangers, I met along the way.
As the plane arrived in Frankfurt from Istanbul the other morning the feeling of coming full circle was palpable. I made my way through the snowy streets, marveling at how familiar the city how felt, ready for beers and bratwurst. I hung out with a friend last night and we recorded an original song of mine- what a delightful way to end a pilgrimage! My brain is still sifting through the last 3 months, but before I go I wanted to thank you again for your listening ear.
I think if one has the chance to go on a soul journey, whether it be to travel to a grandmother's homeland or visit sites of Richard Brautigan books, it should be attempted come hell or high water. It seems that in searching for what we think we are lacking, we many times find that we had everything we needed all along. That has been my experience at least.
I don't feel this is the end of my adventuring, in fact quite the opposite. Though I am still sorting through some logistics, I will give you a hint that my days in Seattle are numbered. Seattle and I need to have "the talk" when I get back. I think I will take Seattle to Greenlake, we will walk around and drink our lattes and I will say, "I know we have been together a long time, but I think we need to see other people now." Seattle is like the long term boyfriend I couldn't bring myself to break up with, but I wasn't sure I wanted to marry.
I envision myself living somewhere warm for the time being, where a kitchen garden of basil and mint can be tended, little cactus can dot the windowsill, and rain will be contained to afternoon thunderstorms. A place where my father can drink Tequila sunrises on the front porch, and we can start a Linda Ronstadt cover band.
But in the interim, I look forward to seeing your sweet Seattle and Portland faces, eating some pumpkin pie and imbibing some strong micro brew, watching season 3 of Madmen and riding my bike again.
The snow is falling heavily here, and I have my fingers crossed I make it out of Germany tomorrow morning as scheduled despite the impending blizzard. I will dream tonight of Polish trains, Grzybow farm, my soul man Mick in his angel wings, Hope mama and the smell of Jasmine, Turkish villages, high school friends, rembetica beats and short lived bands.
I think this is the start of a beautiful thing. See you on the other side.
This is Red, signing off.
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