Smithery's Open Salon Blog

Greenheron's Open Call - me as a pirate

Fri, 25 May 2012 11:05:26 -0400

But I don't wanna be a pirate!

Love In Three Photos

Tue, 14 Feb 2012 11:02:25 -0500

Slate.com had a little Valentine's Day thing where they asked readers to submit "picture haiku" love stories told with three pictures and a few words. I didn't submit anything to Slate but thought of OS first and decided to put my little picture haiku out here instead.

Valentine's Day, it seems, is like the New York football Giants: you either love it or hate it. With regard to February 14th, I was more towards the latter opinion for a long time. But, as does sometimes happen, my opinion changed. Thank you, Angela...Happy Valentine's Day.

The first time we kissed

In October, '09....wow!

My best fall ever

Now we mostly meet

On the west coast. We love wine

And the Pacific

But last November

She was here...we did taste wine

And threw dried corn cobs

~xoxoxo~

Playing Poker

Tue, 10 Jan 2012 10:01:12 -0500

One night last winter Angela and I were talking on the phone and she had a fire going in her fireplace. I’m envious of her fireplace…it burns wood like a fireplace is supposed to. I have a propane-fueled gas fireplace at my house that, while it looks like a fireplace and there is actually fire in it when it’s on, it’s not a real fireplace. It even has fake wood in it. Like a low budget movie set, it’s made to look real but not quite getting it done in function. On the rare occasions that I’ve sat in front of it, it reminds me of what it’s like to watch said low budget movie and see the boom microphone come down into the shot.

So anyway, back to Angela…she has this fire going in her real fireplace and she had to adjust a log or something and let it slip that she was using a spatula as a fireplace poker. A spatula! A plastic one! Yes, the kind you have in your kitchen drawer that ordinarily would be used for flipping pancakes. I couldn’t believe it.

Not just because, you know, plastic isn’t a good material to stick into a lit fireplace, but outside of a pizza parlor when was the last time you saw a spatula with a handle longer than a foot? And aside from that those big pizza parlor spatulas (actually called "peels", I understand), in addition to having that giant flat part on the end making them terribly unweildy, are made of wood. Another reason it's not something you want to put into a fire unless you’re short on firewood and lost out in the wilderness. In which case what are the chances you’ve been toting around a giant wooden pizza parlor spatula anyway?

So I told her I’d make her a real fireplace poker. Unfortunately, it took me a while to get around to it but I finally did last summer. Not exactly fireplace season but at least she was prepared for this year and I’m happy to report she has been using it and not once has it melted or caught fire.

As some of you may know, I was bitten by the blacksmithing bug a few years ago. That may seem an odd type of bug to have been bitten by, but there you go…there’s no accounting for where such things come from. I like to do lots of stuff and playing with fire and hot metal seemed like a delightful diversion and something I wanted to try.

The poker was actually a fairly straight forward project that was done over the course of a couple weekends although I’m sure a pro could have done it much faster. I wish I had taken photos of it in progress, but as you can imagine two hands are mandatory in nearly every aspect of smithery. Even if I’d had a third hand with which to take pictures while I worked, most likely I would have been using it to drink beer instead because the garage gets pretty damn hot in the summertime with the forge going full tilt.

I know it took a while for us to get here, but below is the finished product; the bending, twisting, flattening, welding and grinding all done and it's ready for the first coat of paint. My forge doesn’t get quite hot enough to forge weld so I attached the separate pieces with an arc welder (welding I got into for the cool goggles you get to wear).

Close up of the business end.

Another shot of the pointy bits.

Two shots of the handle; that spring-like piece of quarter inch round stock was straight and three feet long before looking like this. Now it’s like a big curly fry from Arby’s…only heavier and with fewer calories.

Close up of the end of the handle. “S” for Smithery (ok, not really).

The twisty part in the middle. To do this you heat up the section to be twisted to a nicely glowing yellow-orange, stick one end into a bench vise and use a couple of channel locks to twist it around and around from the other end. This square stock was pretty beefy so it took a couple cycles of heating and turning to achieve this length of twist. After that was done I heated it again to true it up with a hammer against the anvil and also to flatten the ridges of the twist.

Last shot, all finished with high temperature-resistant paint and ready to ship out.

I had the good fortune of actually using the new poker in Angela's real fireplace at her lovely home back in December. It does work quite well though honestly, it does that by simply not melting and being long enough so that your arm hair doesn't get burnt off. It looks good, too (if I do say so myself), and really, isn't that 90% of what's important anyhow? Just ask Mitt Romney.

I did see the old spatula poker while I was there; I think Angela's keeping it for allegorical purposes and I can't blame her. Not to get too deep here but I think it may be symbolic of other things in her life with which she simply had to make do. But she doesn't have to anymore, with the fireplace poker I mean. And maybe some other things, too.

~xoxoxo~

Whither the writer (blogger, novelist, essayist...whatever)

Tue, 3 Jan 2012 09:01:23 -0500

I’ve been absent (absent! I hope I don't need a note from my parents to be excused) although I've been checking in now and then to read and comment…certainly not nearly as much as I’d like to, though.

And posting? Forget about it…my last one is from when? August? Crap.

Sure...it's a "new year" and all that, but I'm not making any resolutions about writing more or anything. You write when you write and sometimes you just feel like rambling on and on, just like I'm doing right now.

There is also the lack of time but that's too easy an excuse. It's gotta be the top go-to excuse. And while not a crock for some, it really is for me (time is a consideration for everyone; I’m not special. Besides, people far busier than me find time to write. I’m just not committed to it enough (or good enough) (hey, a sub-parenthetical clause. And here’s another one! See? What a mess) to be serious or taken seriously in the serious writers' community). Sure, I could have written last night but nooooo; I was too busy…uh, watching a few episodes of Californication Season 4 on DVD. That show, ironically enough (although not too ironic, because for me to identify with the show’s protagonist would be like Gomer Pyle identifying with...well, Leonard “Private Pyle” Lawrence from Full Metal Jacket*), focuses on a writer named Hank Moody who can’t write, or at least doesn’t, much of the time…but for decidedly much more nihilistic and self-destructive reasons than I have (the parenthetical clauses are really getting to be a pain in the ass, aren’t they?).

For me (this is all about me, after all – see chart below) (hah! Another one!), at least some of the problem is also that I struggle with what this is supposed to be…I mean “this”…the page at which you (all three of you) are staring. Is it a blog? Is it a place for essays? Future book chapters? Short stories? I know it’s user-dependent; it can be anything you want it to be, which is pretty neat. I think I’ve used this space in a couple of different ways. Though I'd have to say this way, the way I’m writing right now...to you, the reader, conversational style - blogging I guess - is the style in which I write most of the time here. I think. And when you blog...what do you tend to write about?

There are, I see from my reading here, many types of blog-topics. There are far too many sub-sets of topics to list here, especially since I’ve neither the inclination nor interest in doing that. But the common denominator is that we, the readers, are given the blogger’s take on the topic at hand, more often than not their own personal story or connection with the topic, so in a way they are all stories in the blogger’s own imaginary newspaper editorial page filled with letters all having to do with some aspect of his or her personal journey through life. My own very unscientific poll of OS blogs and their generalized blogging topics (from the blogger's perspective) is illustrated in the only slightly amateurish-looking pie chart below:

There are a few writers that do not typically fall into the above categories; however there are so few posts like that the slice for them in the pie depicting my unofficial, unscientific and likely untruthful poll is much too narrow to warrant being assigned a color. Kent Pitman comes to mind. Kent’s excellent articles on the environment are thoughtful, extremely well researched and written and almost completely devoid of me-stuff (him-stuff?).

And please understand that pointing out the me-stuff is not a criticism; quite frankly it's hardly even an observation. A little like pointing to the sky and saying, "Holy shit, the sky is blue!", or, in this case, the pie chart. Most of it, anyway. I am certainly not going to bad mouth all the “me”. How could I? If I was to press a few more buttons and chart by pie my own blog entries (and you know I had to), it would look like this:

I’m good with all this me-stuff, by the way. I love to read about other people’s lives. I think we all do or we wouldn’t be here. Though there is the obvious car-wreck fascination aspect that appeals to some (ok, all), there are also the personal relationships that develop; friendships, loves (oh, yes indeed) and even alliances. Animosity…true; lots of that as well although OS seems to be in a period of peace, or at least détente, that has lasted now for some time.

In the end I guess it comes down to writing what you know. About what subjects do any of us know better than the stories that make up our own lives?

Which brings us back to poor Hank Moody…for whom it seems writing about himself is rife with turmoil and deceit. Part of the plot arc for the series has him writing a supposedly great semi-autobiographical novel after a long dry spell. But before he can turn the manuscript in to his publisher, the sole copy (Hank likes to write on a typewriter) is stolen by a woman who figures prominently in the story Hank has lived and written. She, a wanna-be writer and a manipulative one at that, changes a few things then has it published as her own work, much to the chagrin and detriment of Hank and those close to him.

The novel is then optioned to be made into a movie. In a particularly humiliating ironic twist, guess who is asked to write the screenplay? Yes, it’s our hero, Hank; though at least he is well versed in the nuance of the story.

Thus I close on another blog-chapter of navel gazing. See you all here again in another 6 months or so! I am busy, after all. The washing machine leaked and made a mess the other day and my car needs to go in for service and my daughter asked me to paint something for her and, and.....

* I was thinking about this as I edited this piece (not well enough, I know)...that it's quite a juxtaposition, by the way. Those actors, I mean: Jim Nabors and Vincent D'Onofrio. Remember how on tv and in movies Nabors talked like, well, like Gomer Pyle but yet had that amazing baritone singing voice? I recall seeing ads on daytime TV when I was a kid that were selling albums (your choice of LP, 8-track or cassette!) of Jim Nabors singing standards and trying to wrap my head around the fact that this was Gomer. Conversely, it makes me wonder of Vincent D'Onofrio in real life is more like Barney Fife than his character Detective Goren on "Law and Order, Criminal Intent".

*****

Drinking for the Fun of It

Tue, 9 Aug 2011 11:08:29 -0400

^{Photo by me.}

There’s nothing quite like getting your drink on once and a while.

Not getting drunk mind you; but having a few drinks can be fun especially if you have a drinking companion with whom to talk, laugh and observe the world through the prism of good drink. Angela and I do love to go wine tasting and also have enjoyed afternoons or evenings having a drink or two together at bars or restaurants as we chat, munch on appetizers and people watch. Neither of us are big drinkers but we do enjoy imbibing together once and a while.

I recall one evening where we spent the better part of an hour tracking down a winery we'd seen online. We had been to several wineries throughout the course of the afternoon and this was last on the list. It soon became as much about the chase as the wine and after a tenancious search we found it a woodsy neighborhood; all hills and narrow streets. The "tasting room" was a large garage filled with homemade wooden shelves stacked with cases of wine. It was after dark and cold; we really weren't dressed for hanging out in a drafty garage but Angela had called ahead to get directions and the woman there was nice enough to stay open until we arrived (which I guess meant keeping the garage door open. Despite the setting we enjoyed the wine and chatting with our hostess and wound up buying a couple bottles. There is another detail to this story I will leave out but that added a colorful footnote to the evening; Angela knows what I'm talking about. The rest of you get your minds out of the gutter.

On my last trip out to the west coast for one of the wonderful visits Angela and I share, I flew into Mineta San Jose International. It was early afternoon and I knew before coming out that day that Angela would be unavoidably detained for a couple hours after I arrived and would not able to meet me at the airport. Being the resourceful fella I am I figured I’d come up with something to do.

I wandered out towards the hotel shuttle pick-up area; the sun blindingly bright against the white concrete pavement. I donned my shades, threw my backpack over my shoulder and pulled my carry-on bag behind me over to the glass-enclosed shelters to wait on a shuttle. Long story short my plan was to snag a free ride on a shuttle to a nearby hotel to sit at whatever bar I found there.

So I waited on a shuttle...any shuttle. And waited.

Who knew Saturday afternoons at SJC would be so dead? This one certainly was. Finally a shuttle showed up but it had no hotel name on the side. Two pilots who had also been waiting got into it and from the interaction they had with the driver it appeared the shuttle was there specifically for them; not much chance of me glomming a ride. After they left it was down to me and some dude in a wheelchair. Meanwhile the cab stand just down the sidewalk 'a piece was starting to look pretty good. I used my iPhone to scope watering holes in downtown San Jose and found a bevy of them at a place called Santana Row. That was to be my new destination. I bid farewell and good luck to my wheeled friend and moseyed down to the hack stand where I stepped into one ready and waiting; the driver put my bags in the trunk and off we went.

^{Photo from Google Images}

^{But I could have taken it; I was right there!}

Twenty five dollars later (note to self: be more patient with the shuttles next time) the cabby dropped me off along a swanky-looking street lined palm trees, high end shops, a hotel or two and restaurants. The street was crowded with weekenders of all stripes, some wearing expensive clothes and $300 sunglasses and just as many wearing t-shirts and shorts. I fit in with my sport coat and jeans but was weighed down by my baggage (aren’t we all). The Hotel Valencia was right in front of me with a bar visible through its sidewalk windows. I walked over but there was no one in there then I noticed the sign that said they didn’t open until 5pm…about three hours.

So I kept looking. Fifteen minutes later I found a slick looking steak house that was open but nearly empty as it was that sweet spot right between the lunch and dinner crowds. I found my way to the empty bar, stacked my wheeled duffle bag and backpack at one end, introduced myself to the bartender and asked if he had someplace I could plug in my phone. Thankfully he did and I sent an email to Angela to let her know where she could find me.

Now, you have to understand the situation. I’d walked into Philly International shortly after parking my car in a long term lot at 5:30am Eastern Time that morning. It was now about 2pm Pacific Time, roughly eleven and a half hours since I’d seen anything but the inside of airports and the cramped aluminum tubes that tend to cluster around them.

I really wanted something to drink.

I decided to wait until Angela arrived to order food. Probably not the best move given the, ahem, light airplane fare I had been served but, throwing caution to the wind and knowing I wouldn’t be driving later, I ordered a vodka martini…up, with a twist.

Oh, it tasted good.

So I savored it enthusiastically until there was nothing left but the lonely lemon peel and ordered another one.

Mmm….just as tasty as the first.

I think those first two martinis lasted me about an hour. I sent a text to Angela, “Where are you?? I am here!” and included the picture that’s at the top of this post.

Her return message: “I’m in the parking garage across the street. I’ll be right there!”

And thankfully, she soon was.

The place was still empty and I said to the bartender, with whom I’d been chatting for a while, “hey, look…my girl’s going to be here in a few minutes and I haven’t seen her for three months. So, I’m going to kiss her…probably more than once. That cool?” He said that was just fine.

Then she walked in, looking beautiful as she always does.

And I did. More than once. And it was indeed fine.

As it is with us on every visit, it’s like we had never been apart and we started talking about this and that and of course, ordering another round. Oh, we did order some food, too.

I'll mention at this point that there is an etiquette to drinking in a public place that all experienced and responsible bar dwellers know. The object, of course, is to have a good time. A large component of that, to drink well if you will, is to enjoy those drinks but not lose oneself in the merrymaking. First and foremost you must know yourself, then factor in the pace of the drinking, food intake, when to drink water, and the length of your anticipated stay. All of these elements must be taken into account, especially if you plan to get behind the wheel upon departure. But even if you won't be driving, you must be mindful of becoming too...well, mirthful, when drinking in public. You do not want your enjoyment of the time, place and company to conflict or otherwise have a negative affect on the ability of your fellow bar patrons to enjoy the same. There is nothing more irritating than a fellow drinker who lacks said etiquette and thinks everyone else at the bar should be enjoying his or her drunken wit and charm.

Fortunately for us that day we had no issues with such rabble, like the drunken Bostonian we encountered in Half Moon Bay (his accent was right out of Good Will Hunting's casting call). We observed the rules of the fine art of bar drinking ourselves and for two or three hours we sat there and talked, laughed, drank and ate…and it was great. The bartenders were professional; there when you needed them, not hovering when you didn’t. The place was dimly lit but large amounts of sunlight poured in from the windows along the sidewalk so it wasn’t dark. We enjoyed each other while enjoying the cool elixir that condensed the moisture in the air against our martini glasses in a way science explains but which explanation fails to acknowledge the refreshing splendor of that cool, wet glass balanced just so in your fingers.

The place started to fill up after a while and we had someplace else to be so at last we decided to give up our barstools and get moving. It had been a memorable afternoon...though for the most part it had been just the two of us at the bar it was festive, relaxing and we had a wonderful time. The dinner we had later that night in Santa Cruz tasted unbelievably good, no doubt due in part to the appetite we'd worked up earlier.

Oh, I know hanging out and drinking at a bar isn’t for everyone. And for me a lot of the time a beer on the porch at the end of a long day is every bit as enjoyable. But dammit, we had fun that afternoon.

That's the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen. - Bukowski

^{Another photo by me.}

^{Yeah, no shit.}

******