Slow Approach to the Soft Ball Line

Caramel jargon. Temperature gradient. Mercury assist. Chemistry = candy. Turns out the Oompa-Loompas were the Linus Paulings of the Chocolate Factory. Me? I just eats 'em. Candies, that is. Caramels and I have a precarious relationship. I want to steal their flavor and they want to steal my fillings, which would not be a difficult feat for the caramels (I once broke  tooth on a Snickerdoodle).

This is Erin's first attempt at candy-making. She's got cookies down to a t (or tea biscuit). When the melting sugar hits the "soft ball" temperature, the caramels are ready to cool. You spoon a sample out of the pot and drop it into a bowl of cold water. Then you fish it out with a finger and if it retains a ball-like shape, it's done cooking. Like this:

How did I help? I got the bowl. And I put the water in it. Sometimes just being there is what's important. Right? Who else is here? Not Adam & Josh -- they were out shopping. But the dogs are here. You remember the dogs. Let's go look for them.

There's Emma, looking like she was shot (as if there was a bullet sharp enough to pierce the protective layers of blubber under her mottled coat). The heat pulsing off (and out of) her body helps keep the thermostat down. This is her contribution. Thanks, Emma. No, don't get up...

Hey, call Ripley's, it's the Loch Ness Monster. More like "Lacks Sense" Monster. Or "Looks Nuts" Monster. Or "Licks Notch" Monster. And it looks like Sluggo killed Mr. Bill again. Oh, nooo!

Looks like Christmas. Smells like Christmas. And it's starting to really feel like Christmas. Imagine still getting that Christmas feeling at the ripe age of 42! Watching Christmas specials helps. I had on "Simple Gifts" earlier. My old pal (yeah, old like me) sent me a DVD of nostalgic TV rarities from the 60s and 70s. Moss Hart's recollections warmed my heart. Do the kids know who Moss Hart is? Do they even know what a DVD is anymore?

Erin's gonna dip those caramels in chocolate once they cool. A couple of you will probably get to sample them (how quaint to have a small audience). And now she's melting white chocolate for some other confectionery delight. More desserts means more coffee. I'm always wired during the holidays.

Hope you get your share of Christmas cookies and candies (or milk chocolate gelt and dreidels). Or both, if you've got a non-discriminatory sweet tooth like me.

The Saint of a Thousand Slightly Different Faces

There he is! Kris Kringle. Pere Noel. Sinterklaas. Santa Claus. Thomas Nast's illustration of Santa has become the stand-bearer of the modern representation. Nast's image was largely based on Clement Clark Moore's description in his poem "A Visit from St. Nicholas" even though Moore imagined Santa as an "elf" with eight "tiny reindeer" pulling his "miniature sled." When exactly he grew to his popular Wellesian proportions, I nae can say.

Artists embrace variations on a theme. As such, with snowflakes and fruit cakes, no two Santas are alike. This became apparent to me when Adam unleashed a tide of Yule, nay a tsunami of Yule, in the house, saturating the basement in the process. Oh, foy! (festive joy)! Holiday LPs, vintage greeting cards, plastic Noel candles, old super-hot Christmas bulbs...and everywhere, on everything -- Santa Clauses! No twins here. Few siblings. Mostly chubby guys with beards and even (God forbid) beards sans mustaches (the worst). Come on, have a look!

No mustache, really? You put all that effort into a four-foot beard and you don't top it off with a 'stache?

I had no idea Mrs. Clause was so beautiful! She isn't. Santa is having an affair with Betty Draper.

This one brings toys to the boy and girl 'squatches all over the world!

Santa? Mrs. Claus? The football coach from "Glee"? The real question is: Hot dogs and beans
for Christmas?

What do you think his breath smells like? Candy canes? I'm thinking sardines.
He's got walrus breath. I'm certain.

That branch couldn't hold up a plaster ornament, never mind a 400-pound toymaker.

Santa after his third 5-Hour Power of the evening. It's beginning to look a lot like an addiction.

He thinks he's trapped in a box, but I keep telling him there's not even any cellophane. Happi, my ass!

Der Jingle.

Santa's forearm is as black as a coal miner's lungs. Must've been a lot of naughty kids that year.
Yeah, I see that kid. Do I even need to say anything?

That's just a sampling of all the St. Nick-nacks festooning our little winter wonderland. So many Santas! And reindeer. And so many snowmen and weird little elves! And so many Baby Jesuses!

Nope. No Baby Jesus. Or Snowbaby Jesus. Which might be worse than no Baby Jesus. You know what I mean? Oh, boy, I gotta go -- there goes Linus dragging that filthy blanket into the spotlight...

Christmas in the Basement 1.0: Plastic? Fantastic!

Wait! Don't eat it -- it's fake! You shouldn't be eating holly berries anyway, knucklehead. Unless you're a dog. A dog named Jack. He's already slobbered on a vintage decoration or two. He's so dumb, he's adorable, as my pal Harry Carbohydrate used to say.

Of course, when I say fake, I don't mean fake decorations. They're real decorations. They're real old decorations. Even the dust on them is old. That's an old smell, too. There are smells down here that died out fifty years ago. The basement's a museum of extinct Christmas aromas. And this is not a complaint.

This is a complaint: Entenmann's crumb cakes are getting smaller!

No, it smells terrifically festive down here (that's what she said) and it's not even Thanksgiving yet! Take a look around -- and it's still in a state of disarray:

Ah, On-A-Lite Christmas light strings! Do they even make things in Peoria anymore? (I'm sure they do. Sorry, Peoria!)

Gene Autry sings everyone's favorite Christmas carol, "The Three Little Dwarfs." Hardrock, Coco and Joe annoy the crap out of Santa's reindeer. I believe in the second verse, a felony is committed.

Guess who? Yep, you got it. It's quite uncanny, really, the resemblance. They're so friggin' excited for Christmas. "Eeeeeeee!"

Wait until Adam brings out the other ninety percent of the Eisenhower-era decorations! Someone's plastic Christmas Past is our Christmas Yet-to-Come!

Christmas in the Basement Prelude: Have You Ever Seen a Partridge?

I'm listening to Christmas music. Specifically: The Longines Symphonette Living Music Program Proudly Presents Music for Christmas at Home (An exclusive new Treasury from The Living Music Program...the world's most beautiful and familiar music). And it's only November 13!

Why so early with the Christmas music? (What are you, the Holiday Police? Do you have a warrant? That's not a warrant -- it's a lyric sheet for "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring".)

Speaking of Christmas music (isn't that what I'm talking about?), my least favorite carol is "The Twelve Days of Christmas." I get so bored with cumulative songs. By the time we get to the seventh day of Christmas, I want to roast the French hens, throw my shoes at the turtle doves and hose down the...wait a minute -- what is a partridge anyway?

It's a bird.

Yeah, I know it's a bird, a fat pheasant full of pear juice. But do they live around here? I've never seen one. I think I saw a pheasant once, but it might've been a quail. Or a grouse. But maybe it was a partridge.

Come to think of it, have I ever seen a pear tree?

Regardless, that song is long and boring. It's like sitting through an episode of "Desperate Housewives" (except no one's a-milking those maids -- ho, ho ho!).

And, AND, by the last two days, the lyricist stopped trying. Drummers drumming? Pipers piping?

It's a stinker. The only version I can listen to without turning into a complete Scrooge is this'n:

Enough with the Dogs, Right? But, No, You Don't Get It...

We're dogsitting. Us. Erin and I. Caretakers of the hounds -- the (wolfs)bane of our existence! We're actually walking the dogs. In the morning. Can you imagine? You know us -- hopelessly selfish, helplessly lazy. But maybe not. Maybe we've been wrong about ourselves. Because there I was, six in the morning, standing on the sidewalk with a hot blue bag of concentrated stink, jerked forward by a four-footed beanbag full of gas, hair and anything that might've crawled into her gaping maw as she mouth-breathed her way through a muddy meadow of doggie dreams.

Emma. That's her on the left (and a little bit on the right). Brother Jack, his Kardashian-like wall-stare contrasting his passionate obsession with licking cabinets and sniffing kitties, sits impatiently beside her, his trembling posterior betraying his weak obedience.

Adam and Josh are on vacation for the first time in, like, forever. So, noble friends and frenters that we are, Erin and I stepped up to offer our seemingly bottomless capacity for charity. We'll walk the dogs, feed the dogs, not kick the dogs (real sonsabitches sometimes) and even, God save us, sleep with the dogs. In the same room ("Gee-dee it, Jackie! Off the bed!). They've got two cats, too. (Did I feed them yet? I'm sure I did. I'm sure they're fine.)

This is the kind of reality show that should be on TV. It would have to be on a cable station, after prime time, because of all the cursing...

TO BE CONTINUED!

Fall Leaves

The leaves whisper to the ground
but it's the
loud whisper
of kids up too late,
brothers and sisters
careless with time
conspiring in the deep woods
of their bedrooms
waiting for slumber
in no pursuit of sleep.

The leaves breeze into town
for the October Convention.
What will they wear?
Why, nothing
but the ghosts
of greens,
those blushing oranges
of dying,
that yellow promise
of spring.

The leaves are addressing you,
stamped by heels and toes,
posted by frolic,
delivered by
predictable mystery
to our lush
already
yesterdays.

Another Busy Day for the Cut-Out Witch*

There she is, the cut-out witch! Cute as a pun'kin! With a ragged cat named Licorice, maybe. Or Lucifer, probably. It's Halloween time! The weather autumnal, orange flotsam skittering up the streets. The breeze carries hints of cinnamon, pumpkin spice and wet leaves. Obviously, we have the windows closed in the basement where there's more than a hint of non-cinnamon scented cat breath. So we're upstairs. And Erin's making soup! (Hey, 'member the Sellwood Kitchen?)

Josh is working and Adam's out, so Erin and I are utilizing the upstairs kitchen and living room. But, no, we're not alone. Look...dogs! It's Jack, not listening, and Emma, doing her best impression of a sawmill. And there's cats here, too. Like this musical kitty, strumming Roy Clark's "Spooky Movie" (with a nod to Lucy Starcrest)...

 And this shark-eyed creeper plastered on the fridge. Yikes!

While the house isn't as enveloped in Halloween swag as it will be in Christmas props in a month, Adam nevertheless has decorated with sufficient spirit. As usual, all decorations are vintage (which around here means just slightly older than me).

I think I might go as that scarecrow for Halloween. All I'll need to do is grow out my hair. Ok, I might have to wait till next year...

Have you ever seen such a pleasant grin on a witch? She looks like she watching someone enjoy a piece of her pumpkin cheesecake, the pride of her recipe box! She's not too bad-looking of a broad. And her hair looks not so much green as streaked with copper highlights. I bet all the warlocks elbow up to the cauldron when she's mixing the brew.

 

The title of this illustration is "Witch Way to Willamette Street?" Does the owl know? Maybe, but he's too busy trying to act like a pine cone. He's high-pitch mumbling to himself, "Keep going, you creepy broad, I'm lousy with directions."

He's afraid she will put him in a pouch with a newt and a bat. That's no way to spend Halloween. No way to spend Halloween, at all.

*from one of my favorite Guided by Voices songs, "Cut Out Witch"

The Color of Autumn Will Always Be Orange

Listening to Duke Ellington perform "Jack the Bear" on Comcast's Music Choice channel (Singers & Swing, specifically). Hey, isn't "Jack the Bear" the name of that Danny DeVito movie? Remember that? I do. Didn't see it, but I remember. Also, didn't really hear the song, had it on mute while Erin was on the phone.

What I'm trying to say is it's Autumn! Not the first day of Autumn, but it's the first day of October, Autumn's favorite month. Is it always capitalized? Autumn, that is. Probably not. So, it's October and autumn. Or fall. Autumn's a touch pretentious, but so am I. It's our first autumn in the basement. And we've got the pumpkin spice oil wafting through the underground. Glorious! Jazz and pumpkins and fall. Is it Halloween yet? (No, you idiot, I just said it's the first day of October not the last.)

I've been busy slogging through Facebook, Google +, Twitter and Six Minute Story lately and have once again neglected Basementing, which was supposed to be my main focus, writing-wise, when we moved down here. Alas...

But here we are, thanks (in no small measure) to the prodding of Sherry C., the voice of our fan base (and possibly the only member of said fan base). ("Base" implies something large enough to land a helicopter on, or at least a large pigeon.)

It's Saturday night. Just Erin and me. The boys are out. The dogs are here. Say hello, Jack. No, go away, ugh, what do you want? How will licking my face help you? Get down!

8:40. Hey, Erin, let's stay up to watch SNL (this will not happen).

We're thinking of starting a vlog (how are we supposed to pronounce this?), a video blog. Might be fun. Sort of a Kardashian-like view of life here in the basement. We'll see. No, the Kardashians are stupid, but as a mocking springboard (let's say "mockingboard"), it might be fun. If you somehow don't know what a Kardashian is, I applaud you.

Next: Mike drinks a pumpkin spice latte and tell you how his tummy feels.

Basement Blather 1.0: I Always Like to Begin with a Picture

I write a lot of stuff after looking at pictures. The image is a trigger for the word. Indeed the image articulates the sentiment more clearly than the word. The word obscures and manipulates. But I'm hooked on words. If the "Word" is a virus, as Burroughs writes (wait a minute...), then I am infected. Logosexual, you could say (but I wouldn't recommend it; first of all, they'll look at you funny, and secondly, I just coined the phrase* and don't even know what it means).

(*Sonofagun! Beaten to the punch!)

Anyway, that's the thing about words -- no one really knows what you're talking about. Here's a photo of a rose. Hey, it's a rose! But if I say "rose", I could mean a buncha things.

Is this the "City of Roses"...

...or this?

That's the joke. Anyway, what was I getting at? Nothing I suppose since I use words for the most part and I think it's been scientifically established here, today, that nothing can be said with words.

Henceforth, future "Basementing" posts will be in the form of rebuses.

Out of the Basement, Endlessly Rockaway

"Get out of town, think I'll get out of town." - Neil Young, "On the Beach"

Born in the Borough of Queens, New York, I found myself 42 years later (to the very day!) on the coast of Oregon. Lord of the Sand Fleas. King Inept-une (that's a good one, huh?). A child of Apollo 11, I frolic in my own Sea of Tranquility.

All right, enough with the poetry. The ceilings are low in the Basement. Only when we emerge into the broad expanse of the out-of-doors do we realize what a stretching our limbs need. And we stretched them!

Erin and I, with family in tow (we didn't literally tow them -- cripes, we'd packed enough food to stuff one of them giant crabs from "Mysterious Island"), settled into the beach house and immediately set out for the sand-whipped stretches of Rockaway Beach.

The beach house had a basement. You know, just in case the light grew too bright for our bathypelagic conditioning.

Before dawn, we met the low tide and cleaned the beach of sand dollars. A rival gang of seagulls glided at a distance. We accepted the sunrise-blindness in favor of the warmth. I wore my sneakers to the beach, delicately trodding the sand so as not to scuff or soak them. And forget about my dungaree cuffs! So, as tide encroached, I found myself trapped between the ocean and a thin stream. Luckily, Erin was beside me, smartly shod in her flip-flops. She gave me a piggy-back ride to the other side. It was then I reflected on that poem, "Footprints."

Onward and outward to other nearby beaches with tide pools full of starfish and anemones. Here we see a starfish tapping an anemone on the jaw. They're best friends!

We spelunked at Hug Point! That's the filthiest thing I've ever written. No, really, we explored a cave there. Not so much a cave but a crevice. Or crevasse. Or big crack in a cliff. Whatever. Who am I, Loren Eiseley?

Anyway, a good time was had by all! Brilliant weather (well, it was a bit cold and windy at times, so brilliant is a flat-out lie), great food (no denying it) and terrific company (Erin's parents, brother, fiancee, niece, and my mom).

Now back to the pleasant depths of the Basement. Away from the sea creatures and back to the crotch-sniffers and couch-scratchers.

BONUS PHOTO: Here I am jumping over a salt water stream that was not too wide for me to cross! "Ain't no river wide enough..." (except for, you know, that one I mentioned earlier).

The Garage Sale: June 24-June 26!

What about Day 1? That was yesterday, and yesterday is over, pal! And really the bargains don't happen til tomorrow (Day 3), by which I mean Sunday, in case you're reading this Sunday (in case I don't finish writing this til Sunday). Half-price Sunday at the ol' Garage Sale. GAH-ridge Sale, sez da Brits. Grodge, sesame.

You like antique furniture? Whaddya? Too modern? Looka dese treshuhs:

The Oregonian, Sunday, May 27, 1951 - "Gaunt, fiery" De Valera stages a comeback!

Terrific progress in the field of handicraft weaving!

Hip end tables - try to find a better price! Go on, try, you big shot!

Friday was a success. The early birds were here at 9 (hey, gramps, the ad said 10 -- who cares if you ate your eggamuffin too early?). No complaints, though, we (Adam & Josh, not Erin & me) sold a bunch.

Today,  hot Saturday, the sun ever so buoyant, we saw fewer customers, but had a swell time basting on the driveway. I went undercover as a customer:

And tried a little creative marketing on some items:

No, I DON'T think it's "too soon."

Look what else we got!

 

Start a wolf pack of your own! Come on down to the Basement Gang's Antique & the Such As Garage Sale! It's half-price Sunday!

I See The Sun Between the Leaves

So by now, the gloom cannot be beared. It's unbearable, this unbearable gloom. Beared. "Christ, you look like you been beared." What would that mean? It would mean you look like hell. But we, shufflers through the gloom, rain-logged, backs bowed, don't look like hell. We look like Limbo, we look lost. And we have lost things. Our patience, our lust for life, our good nature. We've lost our good nature because we've lost our Good Nature. The sky weeps, the wind moans. This has been the long winter, the winters of the Northwest, cold, but not freezing, and wet, without snow.

We are exiting spring, but our hearts have slept through it. I can't see summer through the sheets of rain. It's up ahead! What but of it? Didn't we hope the same for spring? Spring hopes eternal, waits in vain, in rain.

But the summer must come. The gloom can no longer be beared! Beared? No, wait, it's borne, not beared! The gloom cannot be borne!

Hurry up, summer, true summer!

A Monday Evening

I'm loading "Where the Action Is! Los Angeles Nuggets 1965-1968" into iTunes.

Erin's cutting up New York magazines for a collage.

Adam's previewing Lady Gaga's new album on his smart phone.

Josh is manning the remotes, time-traveling through commercials.

We're all watching TV. "Parks & Recreation", then "The Office." Oh, and "Modern Family."

Earlier, Adam made sweet & sour chicken, and we ate it.

Adam & Josh have gone to bed. Erin & I are watching "Glee."

I'm drinking green tree.

Simba just walked into the living room. Now he's roaming, maybe stalking. Lazy stalking. Not even -- he's just walking. He stops at the bathroom door which we keep closed. He wants to get in there and climb into the basket of towels and cover the towels in long orange fluff.

Nala, too, has ventured out of the bedroom, making an appearance only slightly less rare than Garbo.

Good, Mike, keeping making those Greta Garbo references.

Basementing!