Shining Like A Diamond: Guy Clark
Thinking and rethinking the contributions of Guy Clark. “If I could just get off of that LA freeway…” His spirit lives on in a beautiful way. So glad I saw him perform that night five years ago.
Gruene, TX, June 13, 2011 – At Gruene Hall, it can often feel like you’re in somebody’s living room listening to an old friend play some guitar. Sometimes it feels like it could be your own living room. And here tonight, Guy Clark felt like that old friend, just playing guitar and singing songs – songs that he wrote and that have become classics that defy a time period.
It was a sold out show. It was hot – 100+ degrees in early June. We got there early to stand in line with hundreds of others just to get a good seat when the doors opened. I looked over at one point while standing in line on the sidewalk, hot and sweaty and with the people in front of me drinking Dox XX beer to try to keep cool, to see a golf cart scooting down the street and there…
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Rusty’s Banana Pancakes: No Sugar, Just As Sweet
Here’s a recipe for banana pancakes that sure to please. No sugar added.
Ingredients
1 cup flour (can be all-purpose, whole wheat or a combo)
1 cup milk (2% low fat is fine)
¼ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp salt
1 egg
1 TBSP butter (melted)
1 ripe banana
In a large bowl, mix together the flour, baking powder and salt. Separately, mix the milk, egg, and butter. Pour that into the dry ingredients in the bowl. Mash the ripe banana flat, and then stir that into the batter in the bowl. The batter will be slightly lumpy.
Heat a griddle (a good Teflon coated griddle shouldn’t need oil at all) to 400 degrees. When hot, pour in about a ¼ cup of the mixture for each pancake. Wait for bubbles to show up thoroughly, then turn. Allow to brown on the bottom side (about 30 or 40 seconds) and they’re ready. Serve with butter, syrup and a side of strawberries and orange slices.
I’ve been making these for years. Never added sugar. And it has minimum amounts of baking powder and salt.
Way Out: Lost in London
London, England – Let’s say you’re lost. Let’s say you’re in a foreign country. Add in some rain. Throw in jet lag. Forget the map you’ve already checked. Do something most guys don’t do: ask directions. At least here they speak English, right? But it’s me with the funny accent.
“Oh, God,” one of the two men said as I asked if I could ask a question.
“Which way is Marble Arch Station?”
“Go back down that way. And don’t turn. It’s maybe 15 minutes.”
“Don’t turn,” I repeated, but they both had already crossed the intersection – without looking back at me, the poor lost soul on the rainy streets of Westminster.
Hyde Park Mansions, Cravens Road, Bishops Bridge, Sussex Gardens – the names swirled in my head as I looked again at the map. I’d unknowingly gone exactly the wrong way as I left the hotel in search of Oxford Street. I’d already made a trial run that morning down Edgware Road and was within two blocks of Oxford and all its shops, but it began sprinkling and I realized my umbrella was back in the hotel room. I turned back and vowed to take a different, more interesting route on my second attempt.
Bad idea – the one about taking the alternate route. Good idea – the one about the umbrella. But after almost an hour of trying to find Oxford and looking at Bishops Bridge rising into the air, where the hell was I?
Later, and after my question to the two gents, I found myself just as lost. A young man without an umbrella was trying to cross the street the same time I was. The traffic was endless. We both moved down the street to the intersection, and I asked, “Which way is Marble Arch Station?”
“The best way is to take the tube, it’s right down there,” and he pointed to an entry way to the London Underground a half block away. I followed him and we both ducked into the entrance and out of the rain. I bought a ticket, asking for the Edgware Road station, instantly giving up on the whole Oxford Street idea.
“Go down to Platform 1,” the lady behind the glass said. “Then take the circle and go to Edgware.” Little did she know I had already been going in circles. Asking directions even to Platform 1 I felt a fool. I stepped onto the subway car, the recording shouting, “Mind the gap!”
Within seconds I was gone – at least away from Lancaster Gate, which is where I was but didn’t know it. I asked the young girl sitting next to me for help. She got out her own map of the Tube and told me to get out at the next station and take the Central Line. “Queensway,” the conductor said over the PA system. Suddenly I was out of the car again as the young girl gave an open palm, side-to-side wave as if to say, “Whatever.” She was very helpful though. In fact, she had saved me.
I followed the signs to the Central Lines, green and yellow life lines that would take me back to where I began this crazy journey. The recording came on as I boarded, “This line is a circle line to Edgware Road,” the announcement declared with that distinctive British clip as I sat down and watched the Queensway tube sign disappear along the age-old brick walls outside the train windows.
“The next stop is Edgware Road,” I heard. I stepped out. There was the sign I’d been looking for so long: Way Out. Yes, the Way Out.
I slipped my tube ticket in the exit turnstile and the gates opened. I exited. Not bad. I emerged at street level and saw the hotel marquee within one block. It was pouring rain. But I had my umbrella and I was home. Safe.
When I next go to Oxford Street, I’ll walk.
Tribute to the Old Trumpet Player
“Bang the drum slowly” comes to mind, given the old trumpet player always liked a good downbeat. Throw in some laughter, because that was surely there—most days I’m sure. He had that kind of “life is ridiculous” take on most things, even though he understood probably everything through a mathematical steel trap that said emotion has no place. That’s where all that smooth jazz came in, the notes floating here, there, and everywhere (one of his favorite Beatles songs).
Strange: a couple of friends revealed around Christmas just past that they listened to Firesign Theatre back in the day. How many times did we spin those LPs? I repeated lines verbatim to my two friends, who had no way of keeping up. And then I learned the old trumpet player passed away on Christmas Eve. “All out for Fort Stinking Desert.” There’s that laughter again.
Laughter carried the day for him. He could laugh at math problems. He could laugh at physics. A beautiful woman passing by? A certain smile, I’m sure. Oh to be inside that mind of his, but no—no chance. One could get close. He was okay with close. He was okay with silence. He was okay with me and you and everybody else.
I last spent time with him in Portland, Oregon, his new-found hometown. It’s been almost twenty years. He picked me up at the Portland Airport. Ate at Jake’s downtown. Great West Coast seafood. He seemed content in Oregon. I enjoyed being around him, talking, catching up about the years that had zipped by. Laughter, there it goes again.
When I learned that he was gone, flying high in some super nova somewhere, I went to a bar on Earth and drank some Shiner beer. In his honor. To his memory. The old trumpet player and I were once tripping through the Hill Country, down by the Blanco, throwing horse shoes at a post. Debating, and laughing. So cool, so cool. The old trumpet player, my friend. Now gone. Keep flying, you super nova, wherever you are.
Dream Job Reunion: Lifeguards
A job is a job. But one of the all-time dream jobs is lifeguard. You’re cool at the pool, it’s always sunny, and the tan…well, you get the idea.
When my old friend Boston Bob sent me a Facebook message about a Barton Springs lifeguard reunion, the dream job image shot through my mind. Bob, a true New Englander, left Austin after his lifeguard stint in the early ’80s. We had played on the same softball team back then. I hadn’t seen him since, but Facebook reconnected us. He resides in Atlanta, but he’s still a Red Sox fan. No surprise there.
The problem for me with the reunion: I was never a lifeguard. Maybe I should’ve been. I certainly wanted to sit up on that tall white platform above Austin’s favorite watering hole. And since the lifeguard reunion would include the fine folks who actually did sit way up high from 1976-82, I might recognize some faces besides Bob’s. I was at Barton Springs all the time, swimming, snorkeling, checking out the scene. It was the place to be.
So on a sunny afternoon in early May, I showed up at Scholz Garten, another Austin treasure, to meet up with Bob and his fellow lifeguards. I got to Scholz’s just as the Kentucky Derby was announcing post-time. Bob wasn’t there yet, so I sipped a Real Ale Fireman’s Four and watched as the greatest two minutes in sports flew by on the big screen just above the bar.
The race was over and still no Bob, so I wandered out to the beer garden area. I sat at a table across from a guy who was there because his brother had been the pool manager back in the day. So here the two of us sat, neither of us lifeguards. From our vantage point at a worn out picnic table in an old Austin icon, we watched the joy of a reunion: hugging, laughing, and people maybe not recognizing each other.
I didn’t know a soul. One or two faces seemed familiar. Even lifeguards get old.
Bob did show up. As we talked, I realized the tough road he’d had. He was sober for one thing, and had been for nine years. I was glad for him. He was divorced for another, but remarried. And he had a twenty-something son he was very proud of. Showed me pictures on his smart phone. I was happy for him. About the divorce, he joked, “I didn’t get along with my wife’s boyfriend.” He grinned, and I saw the same confident look in his eyes from back in the old days when he was sitting up on the lifeguard stand.
As darkness descended and the twinkle lights in the trees came on to provide some outdoor lighting, a lifeguard (well, a retired lifeguard) with her smart phone camera asked everyone at our table for a group photo. I stood and moved to the side, but she insisted I get in the photo. Click! We all laughed and for one evening, I was a Barton Springs lifeguard. What a cool job.
The Singer, the Set List, and the Autograph
I thought about bringing pen and paper to the Radney Foster gig at Gruene Hall last summer. It would be nice to look back on the list and remember which songs this super songwriter chose to play in the set. Nah, forget that. Too much trouble.
Then a delay in getting out of the nearby restaurant put us in a line for the show stretching down the sidewalk. We’ll probably be near the back of the hall, I thought. Too crowded. The rustic venue is small and seeing acts like Raul Malo and Guy Clark is especially enjoyable if you’re sitting near the stage.
Gradually the line moved forward, it was getting dark outside and as we hurried toward the side entrance, our hopes were up that we’d at least get seats maybe halfway back. Surprise! No chairs were set up at all. And only a few people were hanging around at the front near the empty stage. We headed that way and were greeted by five or six women, apparently all friends with one another. Before long, they passed a bucket of longnecks our way and offered us free beers.
Radney Foster, dressed in jeans, boots and a black t-shirt, came onto the stage with the band. They all took up their instruments, the keyboardist settled in near where we stood just a few feet from the stage, and Radney leaned into the microphone. “I’m Radney Foster from Del Rio, Texas.” Whoops and hollers filled the air. All the female friends pushed up closer, as we did. He looked down at us and smiled.
The band started into the first song. Radney sang, “Just call me lonesome, heart broke and then some…” The night had begun. The female bass player grinned at the crowd’s reaction, the tall longhaired lead guitarist concentrated on his fret and fingers, and we were rocking. The women friends passed more beer our way, and everyone was happy. Radney laughed when he looked down at the women. He glanced at us (mostly Cherie) from time to time. Everyone was having a good time.
The set list was at his feet. I could see it from where I stood. As Radney sang his last song, “God Speed,” alone on stage, I wished I had brought the pen and paper to track the songs. He concluded to wild applause and said he’d be back by the bar to meet anyone who wanted to stick around. He tossed a pick into the air and reached down for the set list. I extended my hand and he looked up and smiled. He handed it to me and walked off stage.
We went back to the bar area. Folks were standing patiently in line to get pictures made with him. Cherie had her photo taken. “Now what was your name?” he asked her, obviously remembering her from the crowd. Flash…the camera took the picture. I stepped up and shook hands with him. “Would you sign the set list?” He grinned and took pen in hand. What a night!
Summertime Blues? Not With This Cherry Limeade
So we’ve skipped spring this year. Big deal. It’s hot – already in the 90s in April. Is that what’s got you down?
Fear no more. Here’s the recipe you’ve been waiting for: the Three Olives® Cherry Vodka Limeade. Be sure you get the Three Olives® Cherry Vodka for this too. Experts have advised me, so I’m just passing that along. In fact, there’s some really awful flavored-vodkas out there, so don’t mess around with this key ingredient.
Anyway, start with a 16-oz glass. Fill it with ice. Squeeze in a couple of lime slices, maybe even a couple-a-couple of lime slices. Add a shot of Three Olives® Cherry Vodka. (The original recipe I came across called for 2 ½ oz of the stuff, but that will kick your butt, so be careful!)
Next, pour in a couple of splashes of sweet-n-sour mix. And then, finally, top it off with…
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What’s Important: “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly” Hits Hard
If you were paralyzed, couldn’t speak and could only blink one eye, could you write your memoir?
It’s hard enough to think about revealing all that you’d like about your own personal life in writing a memoir, but in the French film “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,” magazine editor Jean-Do comes to the realization that he can imagine anything he wants. And he does to survive.
After suffering a massive stroke, he learns that he can’t speak, even though his mind is responding to all the questions from various doctors. As he works with a speech therapist and a psychologist, he begins to make progress. Part of his survival is writing, with the blink of an eye signaling to his therapist to write down the letter that she recites to him in descending order of their use in French. The painstaking process becomes easier, and with the help of a full-time translator, Jean-Do is able to write his memoir, completing it shortly before his death.
After his stroke, which leaves him much like someone in a diving bell, people from his life come to visit him: his former lover and the mother of his children; his current estranged lover; his associate who he once gave up his plane seat for and who wound up a hostage in Lebanon for four years; his children; and – by phone – his father.
As Jean-Do accepts his fate, he begins to appreciate the beauty in life. He recalls a scene with his aging father, who complains about life while his son shaves him; his lover, who refuses to make love on a romantic getaway because she’s trying to focus on her religious piety; his children, who kiss him on the cheek and run around him in circles while he’s confined to a wheelchair on the beach; the mother of his children, who reads to him on the beach while he watches her swimsuit cover-up rustle in the wind to reveal beautiful legs that he is, of course, at a loss to voice his appreciation of.
Yet as he begins to write his inner feelings, his prose helps him express himself in a truly beautiful way. The simplicity of the ocean foam, its searing whiteness almost blinding; the low-slung buildings near the beach that remind him of a western ghost town; the memories of his father and the others in his life that he once took for granted. It’s a powerful reminder of the fragility of life, the preciousness of love, and the twists of fate that come upon us to change us forever.
Saying Good-Bye, Saying I Love You
My mother passed away last Saturday. She was 94, so wonderful and so wise, and strong and beautiful until the very end. I hope that sharing part of her story will bring me strength.
Hazel was her name, an uncommon one even for her times. She was a Georgia Peach, having been born in Georgia in the summer of 1918, the oldest child of three. A younger sister and brother shared a lifetime of love with her until they passed a few years ago.
When she was four, her family moved to Houston, Texas. She was a teenager during the Depression and had such high hopes and dreams. The times, however, made it difficult and sad. Her father left the family, making it even sadder. Still, she endured the hard times, found strength in friends and family, and became a wonderful, popular, and inspiring woman, a natural leader with an irresistible kindness that was evident to all.
In 1940, she married my dad, Tommy, and over the next 12 years they had four children: three boys (I was the youngest of them) and then my baby sister. My mom was the epitome of the classic housewife and mother of the era, raising children, going to church, selling Beauty Counselor products to earn extra money for us, and then later helping my dad, once he quit the refinery work he was doing, run the business he started out of our garage, Hollywood Boat Works. The boats, fishing and ski boats, were a success and changed our quality of life drastically. We moved from our humble beginnings and were part of a brand new neighborhood, a new school, and a new life. But it wasn’t to last as far as their marriage was concerned. It was the 1960s by then, and the pending social revolution hit our family early and hard.
They divorced in a time when divorce wasn’t that common. It was even considered a social stigma. My older brothers had already gone off to college, and my sister and I were there to take the brunt of the dissolution of their seemingly wonderful marriage. It was painful, and the pain never really went away. They both remarried and moved away from Houston and went their separate ways. But I’m not sure that either one of them was really happy without the other. Sure, their lives continued. They had different families and in-laws and holidays and so forth. My mom picked up golf as a hobby, and she played cards and dominoes with the neighbors and sought solace in the church and bible study classes and grandkids.
She moved back to Houston when her husband died in the late 1990s, and eventually ended up living with my sister the last seven years of her life. The two of them reconnected and healed their relationship, and that was a good thing. And my mom was back where she could be close to her sister, her brother, and other family. They got together often.
With the advent of satellite communications and cable TV, she faithfully followed her favorite teams the Houston Astros, Texans, and Rockets through all their many games, win or lose, but especially enjoyed it when they won. She watched almost every game on TV, clapping her hands, and yelling, “Be there!” She was a true fan.
Above all else, Hazel enjoyed studying the Bible and going to church on Sundays. She found such solace in reading the Bible, underlining passages, and praying. In the last years when I would visit, we’d sit around the kitchen table and talk about old times, sometimes talking about the times when she and my dad were still married. Times before his alcoholism led him to make terrible decisions and then stay away from us even though she would have forgiven him if only he had come back. It was something that was hard to understand for both she and I all these many years later.
Now she’s at rest. She’s in a peaceful place, and I’m sure she’s with her sister and brother and mother and they’re having fun, just like the old days. I miss her. But I know I’ll miss her more as each day goes by.
Aging Eyes
Her aging eyes, cloudy brown after more than 90 years, smile sweetly. And it rings true: somehow we become the parents of our parents. Caretaking, giving, encouraging, sometimes sitting in a hospital room staring at a sleeping heart attack patient that once raised us, taught us, loved us. And still loves us.
The familiar laugh scratches its way to the surface of our minds, still unchanging after decades of heartache, of living life, of seeing friends and loved ones and husbands and brothers and sisters pass on. Missing each one day after day, beckoning a memory of a conversation to return, but only silence answers. Familiar nicknames whispered to no one now.
Doctors try, with gentleness, sometimes with a blunt statement, to ease those in their care into a reality unsought. A greater unknown speaks louder. The physicians’ wisdom is sought after in the hallway outside the room, their news often shattering instead of uplifting. The low tones and beeps, the blinking lights and the neon graph lines of the expensive equipment dangling near the hospital bed muffle and tweet and track across the screen. Young nurses in purple scrubs float in and out, tucking a sheet here, reminding their patient to follow instructions there, at last disappearing from a cold dim room.
Pills and potions, milliliters and injections, elevated beds and elevated blood pressure readings are all part of the daily routine. A Bible verse is flipped from a daytimer, a morning paper read in its entirety joins a stack from the days before on the side table of an easy chair.
At night the blinds are drawn on that eastern window, and in the morning they’re opened again. Frail fingers leave the walker momentarily to complete the task. Daylight to dusk, daylight to dusk. The passing of days, the passing of years, the passing of life.
Yet beauty is seen in those very hands. And love is felt in that laugh scratching the silence. And dawn gives way to daylight. And hope shines on the roses still sleeping in the morning dew.
On Writing: Revisions Lead to New Tactics
Resistance got me down for quite a while. Resisting listening. Resisting revising. Resisting the inevitable. Blame the old ego. Once I let go, revising a novel became a lot more clear. Revisions are pretty much the norm. Not pretty much. Required.
But now, six months into a major revision of a novel, I’ve come to another realization: my style has changed. And that change can be read “improvement.”
I’m part of a writers’ critique group. We’re all novelists, fictions writers. And as I got to the critique session for my final revision of additional new writings to add to the opening, the one where I now pick up my novel where I left off… Well, I knew I needed to add a new beginning to my novel. That came in the form of three new chapters that took me the better part of six months to write. All of this new additional writing has now been presented to the critique group, and has been judged, rewritten, revised until now….voila…I have arrived at the point where the original story begins.
I submitted the first chapter of that (with a little revising to make it fit with the new beginning) and got the results back. “Too much detail.” “Why did you write that?” “This fits better here.”
I digested the comments and came to the realization that my style has changed. I’ve grown. I’ve (hopefully) improved. That ‘s why the group was so questioning with the latest submittal (the old Chapter 1) after reading the first three new chapters. It took me a while to realize the point of the questioning. I thought I could create three new chapters and then cut and paste the original story in. Wrong!
The reality is that I’ve created new characters, a new storyline, and a new style. In essence, I’ve grown and now I have to face the facts: there’s no shortcut to writing a novel. I will have to go forward with the thought that whatever I’ve created with the addition of the three new chapters to open up the story is now critical to what happens—not in the old original story, but in the new story that’s now being written.
It’s an interesting problem. It’s a good problem. I just have to keep writing. Have you had a similar experience?
Crossing Paths with Coach Darrell Royal
Austin, TX—Coach Darrell Royal of the University of Texas was memorialized here today, one week after his death from Alzheimer’s.
He was the Texas Longhorns coach from 1957 to 1976. His influence on college football, on the University of Texas and on players and students alike is impossible to measure. I would love to have known him better, or gotten up the courage to say something when our paths crossed, which happened several times.
Take 1978 for example. Cisco’s on East Sixth Street was, at that time, the gathering spot for power brokers, legislators, sports notables and local celebrities. On a Saturday morning in October, especially with the Longhorns out of town for a game, there were maybe six people there. And one of those was Coach Darrell Royal. I was sitting a table or two away, but didn’t have the nerve to speak to him. He would be doing the color commentary on television later that day, flying up to Lubbock after breakfast to cover the Texas Tech-Texas game; it would be one of the first times for him to do a broadcast since he left coaching two years earlier.
Then in 1990, I again crossed paths with Coach Royal. In my job at UT, I had the great assignment of writing and producing a video on the life of Professor J. Neils Thompson, a professor of engineering. The college would be honoring him with a dinner that featured the video. Neils was the president for several years of the NCAA, the governing authority of intercollegiate athletics. He served as NCAA president back in the heyday of Coach Royal and the Texas Longhorns, the wishbone offense, national championships and a 30-game winning streak. Together, these two men made great strides for college sports. At the dinner, the video was played. The coach attended and was asked to offer some comments from the podium. It was one of the proudest moments of my life when he said—in that Southwestern twang of his—“Well, that’s one of the best videos of its kind I’ve ever seen.” Wow!
In the late ‘90s, I took our youngest son, Adam, to a Longhorns basketball game. I nudged Adam and said, “Let’s move down there.” Great seats. But about five minutes before tip-off, I glanced around to see Coach Mack Brown and Coach Darrell Royal coming down the aisle toward our row. “Please, Lord, don’t let us be sitting in their seats.” They breezed past us and sat across the aisle a few rows closer to the court. Whew! Kids came up to Coach Royal the whole game, asking him to sign their shirt or their cap. He never refused a single one.
Six or seven years ago, a friend of mine was in a band that played country and western music. I went to the airport-area hotel where the band was playing at a gathering for the Texas High School Coaches Association, and took a seat. Who should be at the next table but Coach Darrell Royal. People asked for autographs or stopped to chat with him, and it looked like he was enjoying every minute.
Finally, in 2007 I was honored by the university with a service award. Seated on the second row, I soon realized I was sitting directly behind Coach Royal, who also was being honored that day. I was called to the front by the university president, who briefly described my accomplishments. On the front row, Coach Royal was looking at me, listening and smiling, as if he knew all along that I would one day make him proud. I’m so glad our paths crossed. I will miss him.
Jersey Shore: Sweet Memories, Gone Forever
The heartbreaking scenes of Hurricane Sandy’s devastation on the Jersey shore are almost too much to bear. New York, Manhattan, Virginia, the Carolinas, Rhode Island, Maryland, Delaware – the whole Eastern Seaboard – share in the disaster, surely the worst of its kind in modern history.
I’m married to a Jersey girl and have become familiar with the phrase “the Jersey shore.” In Texas, where I grew up, we went to “the beach.” But in New Jersey, Cherie went “to the shore.” And the Jersey Shore is the best there is. I’m not talking waves, swells, sets, surfing categories. I’m just saying for an outing to the ocean, the Jersey shore is it.
New Jersey takes abuse of all kinds from comedians, and particularly from New Yorkers – and that abuse is passed down to listeners who believe what they hear, even though these comedic images of Jersey are nothing more than fiction. In reality, New Jersey is a beautiful state, and the Jersey shore in particular is a beautiful place, treasured not only by those from the state of New Jersey, but by New Yorkers and visitors from all over the world who come to enjoy the clean sandy beaches, the cold Atlantic, and the boardwalks that give the area its unique character.
Hurricane Sandy changed all that. The storm hit hard as it moved onshore at Atlantic City and moved on to wreak havoc for 500 miles in several directions. Boardwalks disappeared, 80-mph winds and torrents of sand inundated picturesque seaside communities.
So when you hear about the “Jersey shore,” understand that it holds a special place in people’s minds: fun at the ocean, romantic boardwalks lit up at night with roller coasters and ferris wheels, the smells of foods of all kinds being prepared. A day at the shore, sadly, won’t be the same for quite a while.
New Health Food Kick: Mango Margarita
It’s got all the new age characteristics of a healthy way of living: rich in Vitamins A and C, a great source of fiber, and it contains plenty of antioxidants. It even has an enzyme to smooth the digestive process. What could be better than a mango? Well, try one in a margarita. You’ll be on the right track to the new health kick: mango margaritas.
Mangos have been grown for over 4,000 years. The fact is that mangos are eaten fresh – in their natural state, so to speak – more than any other fruit in the world. This delicious and beautiful fruit comes primarily from Mexico, Haiti, and the Caribbean. So now try this…
Put the usual eight or ten cubes per margarita in a blender. Add two tablespoons of frozen limeade concentrate per drink, a shot of tequila (preferably a good tequila and golden in color) per marg, a half shot of Cointreau per marg, and a quarter cup of freshly cut mango. Blend until frozen, serve immediately.
Cutting the mango is tricky, only because most people are not familiar with how to go about it. The easiest way is to use a sharp knife and cut the two cheeks of the fruit away from the pit. Cut a checkerboard pattern into the two halves and then slice the peel away, leaving the cubes for the blender.
Get started on a healthier life style: try a mango margarita.
Snorkeling Tip Number 131: Learn How to Swim
Maroma Beach, Quintana Roo, Mexico – On a sunny day, the Caribbean would beckon. Visibility would be good to a hundred feet or more. The Palancar Reef, one of the world’s premier diving and snorkeling areas, is a short boat drive away. But today it’s pouring – tropical rain. Drenching rain. Thunder in the distance. Lightning strikes visible on the beach to the north. Rain pours through the thatched roof of the palapa.
“Okay, time to go,” says the captain. “Everybody with a purple wrist band follow me.” He leaves the palapa, wades through the running water, and heads for the boat. “And please take off your shoes before you get in the boat, okay?” More thunder.
We huddle below deck in a cramped, humid compartment not quite big enough for all of us. But we’re all in there. The captain sticks his head in. “We’re taking off now.”
The pilot behind him, in a yellow slicker and barefooted, holds the wheel steady as we leave the dock.
At the dive location, we gather topside for “instructions” from the captain. “First, has anyone not snorkeled before?” Several people, amazingly, raise their hand. “This is a snorkel.” The captain is holding up one for everyone to see. The rest of the instructions take maybe twenty seconds. “Okay, who here cannot swim?” Again, amazingly, a couple of people raise their hands. “Okay, I’ll have a life ring with me in the water,” the captain says. “You two hold onto the ring. Okay, is everybody ready?” We begin jumping into the dark murky water.
Within minutes we’re strung out a hundred meters across the ocean and, because of the strong current, we’re also swimming for our lives. The captain dives down to show us a lobster. The closest snorkeler to him kicks his fins, creating a sand storm. Visibility: zero. More swimming for our lives. The current gets stronger. It’s wise to keep up with the captain, whose bright yellow flippers are about the only visible thing underwater. The two people who can’t swim are holding onto the life ring.
We swim (furiously) back to the dive boat. “Okay, let’s go to a second location.” The captain looks at me for reassurance that his idea is a good one. I nod toward a sister dive boat behind us, driving rain making her appear like a ghost ship in distress. She’s barely visible. Diesel fumes and smoke swamp our view as we pull away.
At the second location, more currents, more extreme swimming (forget snorkeling). Nobody cares about the fish or the lobster or the reef. Crackling thunder splits our ears as we surface momentarily. Again, we’re strung out across open water. The captain is yelling at the laggards. It’s time to reboard.
On the cruise back to the dock, no one speaks. The captain shows us his tip jar. He thanks us for coming. The sister boat behind us has disappeared.
From Russia with Coconuts
Xcaret, Quintana Roo, Mexico – May 31, 2012
Taken from the travel journal:
…We snorkeled early, but the sea was rough and the water chilly. We walked back to the beach and read under the palapa and had mango margaritas.
Later that afternoon, a young boy shimmied up a nearby palm tree and snagged some bright yellow unripe coconuts. He excitedly showed them to his mom and another lady in the beach chairs near us. I noticed the Russian letters on their beach bag. We tried to converse with them. I took a couple of pictures of the young boy and his mom and said I would send them the photos if they could give me their address. What ensued was hilarious as we tried to communicate; they knew not a word of English, we knew no Russian. Cherie had one of the ladies speak Russian into her iPhone, but the translation was impossible and we all laughed together at our hopeless communication skills.
The boy wrote his name in a back page of my journal as he sat on the end of my beach chair. I asked if he knew English and he firmly shook his head. No! His mother and her friend talked excitedly to one another. Email! That began another furious writing attempt by the boy. For some reason and thinking it would help, the ladies were asking (in Russian) what our room number was at the hotel. Finally the father showed up. He spoke no English either. The ladies had earlier told us they knew some French. He took the journal and wrote his email address, but not before fussing at his wife for apparently being in the sun too long without enough sunblock.
Later that evening in front of the outdoor theatre, the young boy ran to where Cherie and I were sitting. He stood in front of us and smiled. Then he waved. He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t have to. We understood. It was a wave from Russia – with love.
Hopefully Inevitable: Growth as a Writer
“Revision is real writing.”
And resistance to that was part of my approach as I began a critical view of my novel – my first one, where I was so happy with myself that I’d actually written a novel and my second, which I took to a writing workshop for a submersion with other writers for a week into a world where that lead sentence above was carved into stone for everyone in the class. Still, I ignored it.
Now, however, I’m revising my first novel. Why? Because, ahem, “revision is real writing.” I finally let go of the original story, which in retrospect was (as someone in the writing workshop pointed out to me about my second novel) what writers would actually refer to as a “draft.” I’m doing the hard work now of thinking through the characters before going forward with the new story. It’s not easy. Writing is a lonely life. Just me and the keyboard. But it’s what I want to do.
In revising, wholesale changes occur. Dates change, characters grow and take on new names, characters’ motivations are made more solid and more interesting.
Growth is important. I’ve learned that, in writing, revising is even more important.
Abbey Road Photo: The Man in the Background
I read the news today…about a new photo that surfaced in the Beatles famous Abbey Road album cover shoot. The Beatles are walking in the opposite direction in the new photo. And Paul is wearing sandals instead of being barefoot. It’s all very interesting. To me, however, here’s the most interesting thing: the man in the background is still there, just like in the photo that eventually became the cover shot. And I knew him.
It was back in the mid-1970s and I lived in Austin, Texas, as I do today. The group of friends I hung out with included a guy named Robert – and I’m sorry I can’t remember his last name now. He was a few years older than me. One day he told me that he was on the cover of Abbey Road. Now that’s just something you didn’t hear all the time.
He then pulled his wallet out and showed me a photograph of himself in London on Abbey Road. The setting is the same, except the Beatles aren’t walking across the street. He said he was in London at that time and saw the shoot going on as he was standing on the sidewalk that day. Later when the album came out and he realized he was in the photo, he put on the same clothes he was wearing that day and had a friend go back to the location and shoot a picture of him – for posterity, right?
It was pretty amazing. It’s him in the photo. The photo he pulled out of his wallet way back in the ‘70s was worn and faded and crinkled (he had been carrying it around for about six or seven years by then), but when you looked at it and you looked at him, you had to say, “Wow, that is you all right.”
He passed away several years ago, but every time I see the Abbey Road cover I always think of him. So today when news came out that there was an exciting new photo of the Beatles walking the wrong way as depicted in their iconic cover shot, I looked at it immediately. Yep, there’s Robert (no, he’s not the famous “Dr. Robert” from the Beatles song). But in this shot there’s no black London taxi near him. That must’ve pulled up at a different time because he is standing near the taxi on the cover photo. He was in the right time at the right place.
Limeade Crisis Fades, Reappears
Austin, TX – When we last reported, yes, a shortage of frozen limeade was in effect – meaning those nice little frozen concoctions, as Jimmy Buffet sang, were tough to come by without that key ingredient, frozen limeade. There’s plenty of tequila. Don’t worry about that. It seemed like that – for now at least – the crisis had eased…until Cinco de Mayo last Saturday.
Cinco de Mayo is perhaps the most celebrated misunderstood holiday ever. Why? People think it’s Mexico’s Independence Day. Wrong. It’s a David and Goliath type thing. The Battle of Puebla in 1862 is remembered on May 5 each year because it was that battle that resulted in a vastly outnumbered group of Mexicans fighting, stopping (temporarily) a much larger French Army force on its way to Mexico City. Underdogs. Against all odds. You get the picture. I’ll drink to that, and millions of other people join me each year – on Cinco de Mayo.
Chris called and invited Cherie and me over for fajitas Saturday night. “And bring some frozen limeade,” he said. When we arrived at his place, he told us that he had gone to the store to buy some limeade frozen concentrate and there was none. The store manager told him people had been coming in the previous day and buying cases (24 cans to a case) in preparation for Cinco de Mayo. We handed over our requested delivery (we had some on hand only because we stocked up the last time we couldn’t find any) and moments later were – yep, celebrating Cinco de Mayo.
Limeade: it’s getting harder to find all the time. People buying 24 cans at a time? Really?
Stock up wherever you are. The crisis continues.
Best Beaches: Waikiki, Oahu
Honolulu, Hawaii – With Diamond Head sitting quietly in the distance and with the spirit of Duke Kahanamoku always present, Waikiki Beach is one place where your feet should be – at least once in your life.
Eternally famous in films and books and songs, Waikiki withstands the hustle and bustle of downtown Honolulu, which is literally a stone’s throw away. Stroll the shops, sample a Mai Tai in a hotel lobby bar, and then simply cross the street and you’re on the beach at Waikiki. People from all over the world spread their towels and enjoy the beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean lapsing up to the shore. Surfers bob up and down, waiting for a gentle wave – practically the only kind you’ll find at Waikiki. Serious boarders head out to the North Shore or Pipeline or any of the dozens of beaches further away from Honolulu to catch the real waves.
Meanwhile back at Waikiki, more Mai Tais are prepared, more burgers are cooked at Duke’s – a fabulous bar and restaurant overlooking the central part of the beach where the Waikiki Beach Boys – a service group – will take you out in their outrigger canoes. Or give you a surfing lesson, teach you how to paddle board, orprovide you with their other services that include burial at sea.
But it’s too soon for that. Burial at sea? Maybe later. Right now, wade into the Pacific. You’re already here at one of the best beaches in the world: Waikiki.
Greetings from Asbury Park: On the Boardwalk
Asbury Park, NJ – Cherie and I tripped through here last summer. She’s a Jersey girl. Used to pay fifty cents to see Springsteen and the E Street Band at the Stone Pony before they made it big. For me, finally making it to Asbury Park was many moons too late. Still, I had to smile walking along the boardwalk. All of those lyrics by Springsteen came back to me. “Kids huddled on the beach in the mist…”
Out on the beach a few families hung out, a rocky pier jutted out about 50 yards into the cold blue Atlantic, and a lifeguard stood nearby. At the end of the boardwalk was a long, red-brick building stretching from Ocean Avenue to the edge of the shore – the Asbury Park Convention Hall. We walked inside: shops, a concert hall, posters announcing the coming concert featuring the Turtles and other ‘60s rock groups, and a restaurant and bar.
A crowd gathered on the boardwalk to watch guys pound a sledgehammer and try to ring the bell at the top of the tall mark. Moan and groans. Nobody was coming close to reaching the top.
The Stone Pony faces the beach in Asbury Park, NJ. A little bar in a little Jersey beach town. So simple, so beautiful. This is where it all began for Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band a long time ago. The great Clarence Clemons, the band’s saxophonist, had died two weeks before. Pictures and posters and flowers lined the beach side wall of the Stone Pony on that cloudy Sunday afternoon in July. The Big Man, the big smile, the big sound – gone.
Further down the boardwalk stood a fortune-teller’s shop. “You know the cops finally busted Madam Marie for telling fortunes better than they do…” I wish I had been here forty years ago.
Crisis: Limeade Discontinued
Austin, TX – It can’t be real. HEB, the largest grocer in the Central Texas area, has discontinued selling frozen limeade concentrate, the primary ingredient (well, there’s tequila too) in frozen margaritas.
I first noticed no limeade concentrate last Sunday on a casual trip to the grocery store. The shelves were completely empty of the familiar green and black cans – no HEB brand, no Minute Maid brand, no limeade period. Today, Tuesday, Cherie and I happened to be in a different area of town and stopped in to pick up the key ingredient. Nothing.
We drove to another part of town, to a different HEB. Nothing. (Sure, a couple of cans of largely ignored Bacardi “margarita” concentrate sat there freezing). Cherie asked the store rep at the checkout area about the so-called missing limeade. “So, you’re just not carrying limeade or what?” she asked. That got the attention of the four store “associates” who were going over next week’s work shifts. Justin, with red shirt and name tag, took the lead for the group and said he would call his “grocery manager.” We waited, casually commenting that a shortage of limeade at various HEBs didn’t make sense because it’s, well, the key ingredient. It’s Austin. It’s getting hot. Silence.
Justin got off the phone and reported that the product has been discontinued. “This is usually because of poor sales,” explained Justin, who apparently has never had a frozen margarita in his life, much less made one in a blender.
A quick Google of the local Wal-Mart brought a sigh of relief. They have 12-ounce cans of Minute Maid Frozen Limeade Concentrate. I should have my trailer over there tomorrow morning, when I will offload a Bobcat and remove the pallets Wal-Mart has into safe keeping here in my freezer. Crisis over.
Got ice?
2012 Houston Astros: The Eve of Destruction
Last year, the Astros took it on the chin – over and over and over again. This year? A left hook is going to kill them. KO. Down goes Houston. No matter how you look at it, for the Astros it’s over.
Literally over. Their farewell tour around the National League will be bittersweet. Forced (some say extorted) into moving to the American League West in 2013 by Commissioner Bud Selig is just another punch to the gut before they hit the canvas (read: last place in the AL West) for a long, long time. No way they’ll keep up with the Rangers, the Angels, or even the A’s and Mariners. And not just in 2013. Try the next seven to ten years.
So it’s good-bye rivals from over the years. Cubs – we were just about always better than they were. Braves – they brought a lot of misery over the years. Dodgers – think back to the rivalry we had with them in the early 80s. Gone. Mets? Anybody remember 1986? St. Louis – don’t get me started. Frustration everywhere you look.
The 2012 Astros? Maybe three proven major leaguers in the whole line-up. Lee ($100 million), Wandy (gone by August) and Brett Meyers (relegated to the bullpen – our ace?) – and then there’s the rest of the starters, all youngsters. Good luck. Play hard. And get ready for Late Night from the West Coast, it’s Houston vs zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Hags Rags 