“What did you do yesterday?”
“Well, I woke up and had coffee then we all rode to the studio for Nutcracker rehearsal.”
“How’s that going?”
“I wish we had one more week, but I’m sure it’ll come together.”
“Are you in it?”
“I’m playing Herr Stahlbaum, Clara’s father.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“Do you have any lines?”
“It’s ballet! There are no lines. Just acting and dancing.”
“Well, do you have to dance?”
“Yes, but not ballet. There are two dances in the party scene that I have to dance with Frau Stahlbaum. I keep getting off count in both. And the two of us are front and center.”
“Is it fun?”
“Sure. My favorite stuff is the acting. Large, expressive gestures.”
“What else did you do yesterday?”
“In the evening I went to the Bills game with a friend from New York.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah, and we had box seats, courtesy of Seneca Niagara Casino. My friend’s a regular at some of the Connecticut Indian casinos, and some of the staff he knows through Mohegan Sun transferred to Seneca Niagara. They get these promos, and have an entire box at the eastern end zone of Ralph Wilson. Not the choicest view, but still, nicer than sitting outside. And they have this whole spread of great bad-food classics. Chicken wings, nachos, deep-fried cheese-stuffed shrimp.”
“Um…there’s a reason that cows are on land and shellfish are in the oceans.”
“I know.”
“Who’d the Bills play?”
“The Patriots. The undefeated Patriots. My biggest thrill—other than the private Escalade that got me there and back—was seeing Tom Brady in person. Even from a distance.”
“Hmmm.”
“It’s crazy how rowdy the Bills fans were. It was like the mother of all keggers. There was even a fight in the box, believe it or not!”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope. Imagine. ‘Dude. I went to the Bills game and got thrown out of a luxury box.’ Nice story for your friends and family.”
“That game was a blowout.”
“I know. The funny thing was that the guy sitting next to me somehow decided I was the Bills expert in the house and kept asking me questions.”
“Did you know the answers?”
“That’s the scary part. I did.”
“Hmmm. Maybe you are a Buffalonian.”
“Buffalo Bills and the Indian: A Farce, by God…”
Monday, November 19, 2007
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Beautiful Letters
A week of literature and irony here in Buffalo. Not to mention the first lake effect snow of the season.
On Wednesday I went to a reading of two poets at Buffalo State. The reading was part of the college’s Rooftop Poetry Club, which I recently joined. The featured readers were two women and at the end there was an open reading. Another open reading on politics and poetry was scheduled for the following afternoon and I decided to attend and read something myself. I dug out an older, previously published poem written about two Latina maids in Malibu who were left behind during a wildfire. Not an overtly political poem per se, but I’d been thinking about the recent fires in Southern California and newstories about the number of “illegals” who were caught hiding in the brush by the blazes, about the fact that Bush responded so quickly in an area where the demographic is nearly the observe of the one affected in New Orleans, about the fact that after the election of Schwarzenegger to the governorship there was discussion of introducing an amendment to the constitutional requirement that the president be someone native-born, about the recent controversy here in New York and the western part of the state in particular over immigrants and drivers’ licenses. These historical ironies politicized the poem, so I read it, followed by a poem called “I Am Your Waiter Tonight and My Name Is Dmitri” from the new collection Time and Materials by Robert Hass. He was scheduled to read the following night at UB, and I’d forgotten that he spent so much time in Buffalo. The poem even mentions Buffalo, but I read it because it was slyly political, because there was a serendipitous correspondence between his poem and mine, because it mentions restaurant work (I was a waiter for too many years), and because Mr. Hass and his work have become a model for what I aspire to in my own poetry. That hasn't always been the case, but I knew him when I was a student at Berkeley. One evening right after I’d graduated and was applying to MFA programs, including the famous one at Iowa, Mr. Hass and his wife Brenda Hillman and the writer Frank Conroy came into the Zuni Café on Market Street, where I was then working. I didn’t know what Conroy, the director of the Iowa program, looked like, and when I mentioned to Mr. Hass that I’d just applied there, he said, “Well, let me introduce you to Frank Conroy.” I didn’t get into Iowa and ended up at Columbia instead.
Later that same night, after the political poetry event, I went to the Orhan Pamuk reading sponsored by Just Buffalo. Pamuk was delightful, more winsome than I’d expected him to be. He read an essay from Other Colors on the art and nature of the novel, and was captivating. The following night I went to the Hass reading. It was a sublime event: I forget how he was once seen as a kind of nature writer, but as I overheard someone at the reading mention, there can often be an implicit ecological agenda in American nature writing. (Sometimes not so implicit.) Hass’s more personal and political work have captured some part of my spirit; his poem “My Mother’s Nipples” is one of the most beautiful long haibun (a poetic form that interests me lately) I have ever read. He read “I Am Your Waiter…” as well, and I was amused to see that the challenges of its digressive structure made his reading of it something of a high-wire act. Mine was more low-wire. Afterward I said hello and reminded him of that encounter at Zuni Café. But believe it or not, my first meeting with him dates back to the early Eighties, at a workshop at Foothill College. So here I am, listening to him once again, but taking—and able to take—deeper inspiration and (moral, political, personal, spiritual) stimulation from his work. Here, so far, as he inscribed in my copy of his book, “away from Market Street and Zuni Café…”
On Wednesday I went to a reading of two poets at Buffalo State. The reading was part of the college’s Rooftop Poetry Club, which I recently joined. The featured readers were two women and at the end there was an open reading. Another open reading on politics and poetry was scheduled for the following afternoon and I decided to attend and read something myself. I dug out an older, previously published poem written about two Latina maids in Malibu who were left behind during a wildfire. Not an overtly political poem per se, but I’d been thinking about the recent fires in Southern California and newstories about the number of “illegals” who were caught hiding in the brush by the blazes, about the fact that Bush responded so quickly in an area where the demographic is nearly the observe of the one affected in New Orleans, about the fact that after the election of Schwarzenegger to the governorship there was discussion of introducing an amendment to the constitutional requirement that the president be someone native-born, about the recent controversy here in New York and the western part of the state in particular over immigrants and drivers’ licenses. These historical ironies politicized the poem, so I read it, followed by a poem called “I Am Your Waiter Tonight and My Name Is Dmitri” from the new collection Time and Materials by Robert Hass. He was scheduled to read the following night at UB, and I’d forgotten that he spent so much time in Buffalo. The poem even mentions Buffalo, but I read it because it was slyly political, because there was a serendipitous correspondence between his poem and mine, because it mentions restaurant work (I was a waiter for too many years), and because Mr. Hass and his work have become a model for what I aspire to in my own poetry. That hasn't always been the case, but I knew him when I was a student at Berkeley. One evening right after I’d graduated and was applying to MFA programs, including the famous one at Iowa, Mr. Hass and his wife Brenda Hillman and the writer Frank Conroy came into the Zuni Café on Market Street, where I was then working. I didn’t know what Conroy, the director of the Iowa program, looked like, and when I mentioned to Mr. Hass that I’d just applied there, he said, “Well, let me introduce you to Frank Conroy.” I didn’t get into Iowa and ended up at Columbia instead.
Later that same night, after the political poetry event, I went to the Orhan Pamuk reading sponsored by Just Buffalo. Pamuk was delightful, more winsome than I’d expected him to be. He read an essay from Other Colors on the art and nature of the novel, and was captivating. The following night I went to the Hass reading. It was a sublime event: I forget how he was once seen as a kind of nature writer, but as I overheard someone at the reading mention, there can often be an implicit ecological agenda in American nature writing. (Sometimes not so implicit.) Hass’s more personal and political work have captured some part of my spirit; his poem “My Mother’s Nipples” is one of the most beautiful long haibun (a poetic form that interests me lately) I have ever read. He read “I Am Your Waiter…” as well, and I was amused to see that the challenges of its digressive structure made his reading of it something of a high-wire act. Mine was more low-wire. Afterward I said hello and reminded him of that encounter at Zuni Café. But believe it or not, my first meeting with him dates back to the early Eighties, at a workshop at Foothill College. So here I am, listening to him once again, but taking—and able to take—deeper inspiration and (moral, political, personal, spiritual) stimulation from his work. Here, so far, as he inscribed in my copy of his book, “away from Market Street and Zuni Café…”
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Eastern Standard Randomness
After a long summer and the warmest October in Western New York in over 130 years, fall has finally, permanently arrived. The first “killing frost” of the year occurred the other night, and the leaves are quickly dropping. Last night we were all sitting at the table eating an early dinner—-though 6 pm no longer seems so early to me—-and three fawns wandered through the backyard. “They’re females,” said Bill. “How can you tell?” asked Susie. “No antlers,” he replied.
I’ve taken responsibility for cooking on Saturday nights, and had been craving pork, bitter greens, and cannellini beans (you can take the boy out of the restaurant industry…). I couldn’t find a reasonable cut of pork with the bone in that would feed six, so I tried this chicken saute with forty cloves of garlic instead. And we didn’t have any butter or white wine. Don’t tell Julia, but I used olive oil and a little bit of “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” (which frankly I should be using more of, period) and substituted lemon juice and white wine vinegar for the wine. What you really need is simply an acid, and I’ve had chicken with vinegar sauces before. The beans were canned cannellinis—-they were on sale at Wegmans, 69 cents a can—-but I cooked them with half a pound of bacon, red onion, celery, and oregano. I let them cook a long time and they were creamy and rich. The chicken turned out just fine, and what with the steamed carrots and the sautéed escarole, we had a nice dinner that had sweet, salty, sour, and bitter. All fairly inexpensive and easy. Then we had some leftover apple pie with ice cream and sat on the couch nodding off for a while. The girls were hyped up from the sugar, however, so we piled in the van and drove to Target.
Saturday night at Target in the ‘burbs: I couldn’t believe how busy it was! It almost seemed to be the place to be. I do like Target for various things, including clothes, but I hate, hate, hate shopping; my dream would be to have a “uniform” I wore every day in which I always looked good, something classic, like the late designer Perry Ellis’ everyday blue shirt and khakis (the ones he wore; not the ones he designed). Then I wouldn’t have to think about what to wear at all. I especially didn’t feel up to shopping for clothes after that big dinner, but my brother is kind of a shopaholic. He’s always online, checking out new cars, new computers, new whatever. I like to have a clear idea of what it is I’m looking for, get in, get it, and get out. I did pick up a few basics, but I am overdue for some new clothes. Before I left Manhattan I wore all my clothes one last time and then threw them in the trash. They weren’t really in proper condition to donate to charity.
Speaking of restaurants, and maybe holiday crunches, a friend who used to work in restaurants used to laugh about Tea Hell—-that was when you worked as a waiter in a place where you prepared your own pots of tea. If you found yourself with multiple orders from multiple tables, that was Tea Hell. We’re approaching Nutcracker Hell—-which for some may be a redundancy. The next four weeks are going to be busy. We do have a nice break at Thanksgiving, but that’s only a break from classes and rehearsals. By them I’m sure my brother, sister-in-law and I will be running around in circles. Or maybe not. Bill likes to work under the pressures of self-induced procrastination, and Susie is methodical like me. As long as we get all the candy-fundraiser-orders in, and the fleecewear preorders in, and the patron ad forms in…
I’ve taken responsibility for cooking on Saturday nights, and had been craving pork, bitter greens, and cannellini beans (you can take the boy out of the restaurant industry…). I couldn’t find a reasonable cut of pork with the bone in that would feed six, so I tried this chicken saute with forty cloves of garlic instead. And we didn’t have any butter or white wine. Don’t tell Julia, but I used olive oil and a little bit of “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” (which frankly I should be using more of, period) and substituted lemon juice and white wine vinegar for the wine. What you really need is simply an acid, and I’ve had chicken with vinegar sauces before. The beans were canned cannellinis—-they were on sale at Wegmans, 69 cents a can—-but I cooked them with half a pound of bacon, red onion, celery, and oregano. I let them cook a long time and they were creamy and rich. The chicken turned out just fine, and what with the steamed carrots and the sautéed escarole, we had a nice dinner that had sweet, salty, sour, and bitter. All fairly inexpensive and easy. Then we had some leftover apple pie with ice cream and sat on the couch nodding off for a while. The girls were hyped up from the sugar, however, so we piled in the van and drove to Target.
Saturday night at Target in the ‘burbs: I couldn’t believe how busy it was! It almost seemed to be the place to be. I do like Target for various things, including clothes, but I hate, hate, hate shopping; my dream would be to have a “uniform” I wore every day in which I always looked good, something classic, like the late designer Perry Ellis’ everyday blue shirt and khakis (the ones he wore; not the ones he designed). Then I wouldn’t have to think about what to wear at all. I especially didn’t feel up to shopping for clothes after that big dinner, but my brother is kind of a shopaholic. He’s always online, checking out new cars, new computers, new whatever. I like to have a clear idea of what it is I’m looking for, get in, get it, and get out. I did pick up a few basics, but I am overdue for some new clothes. Before I left Manhattan I wore all my clothes one last time and then threw them in the trash. They weren’t really in proper condition to donate to charity.
Speaking of restaurants, and maybe holiday crunches, a friend who used to work in restaurants used to laugh about Tea Hell—-that was when you worked as a waiter in a place where you prepared your own pots of tea. If you found yourself with multiple orders from multiple tables, that was Tea Hell. We’re approaching Nutcracker Hell—-which for some may be a redundancy. The next four weeks are going to be busy. We do have a nice break at Thanksgiving, but that’s only a break from classes and rehearsals. By them I’m sure my brother, sister-in-law and I will be running around in circles. Or maybe not. Bill likes to work under the pressures of self-induced procrastination, and Susie is methodical like me. As long as we get all the candy-fundraiser-orders in, and the fleecewear preorders in, and the patron ad forms in…
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