WARNING! Read or take this quiz before you continue perusing this entry!!!!
I just took an online quiz called "how Vermont are you?" It says I'm 85% Vermont and that really gets my goat. Granted, it does begin with a disclaimer claiming the quiz to be Burlington-centric. But as much as I adore Btown, anyone who's from Vermont knows that Burlington is the least "Vermonty" town available. And, HELLO! A Vermont redneck, or 'rierd, is not a dirt-bag!!!! I mean, their bags may have dirt in them, but.....
The disclaimer also suggests for the offended NEKer to make their own quiz. Well, I may do that, but I feel the need to defend myself before attacking the root of the problem.
Like I said, Vt rednecks are not dirt-bags. I'm not sure what it means to be a red-neck in other parts of the country, but in Vermont, it is a title to be proud of. It indicates a first hand knowledge of the land, and your truck, which you use every day with purpose. And while there may be some vanity surrounding the afor-mentioned vehicle, it generally has a LOT more to do with it's function than it's form. And there are a hell of a lot more red-necks in Milton and Saint Albans than all the transplants in Winooski put together. No self-respecting red would live that far from good hunting ground. They've got a family to feed, and family comes first! Followed very closely by drinkin' and huntin' buddies.
Even though there was a bitter rivalry between the rednecks and the crunchies in my High School, I knew at the time that we were over-generalising each other. My friends were always a generous mixture of both. The rednecks more hippie in their knowledge of living off the land and their love of fresh herb, and the crunchies more country in their love of loud vehicles and the keg parties that were always happening in some one's back field. That was where I saw the best connection. We were all bored and loved to party. And when it came to the generous bounty of nature in that arena, we all could agree that the good lord had blessed us. (wink!)
If I really wanted gravy fries, I would ask for poutine in Quebec.
There are so many amazing Vermont beers that kick Magic Hat #9's as$, that most real Vermonters either drink Budweiser or know someone who makes better beer than that.
A better question to ask about Champ is: how did s/he survive the ice-age? Maybe I'm biased because I know the answer.
Of course you're going to swim in lake Champlain if you live in Btown. But there is some of the best, cleanest, leach and algae free swimming to be had all over the state, and most "real" Vermonters know of a few. The real question is: "how many shots does it take before you're skinny-dipping at north beach with acquaintances you've always wanted to get to know better in the middle of the night?" Or "how many Vermont waterfalls have you been to & can name off the top of your head?" Both are legitimate questions that will reveal one's true origins.
Now, on the question of tourists asking directions. This is a tricky one, because if the destination is a legitimate, economy-boosting tourist trap, most Vermonters are somewhat proud of it and want to get the tourist to go there and spend some dough. But, if the destination is considered a local treasure in danger of being overrun, a true Vermonter will either lie and say they don't know the directions, or make up a story about some strange outbreak of flesh-eating bacteria and direct them to the nearest tourist trap instead. In all instances, a real Vermonter will at the very least think "flatlander" if they don't caw it aloud with a hearty chuckle.
Now, the skateboarding question. I have a problem with this because I have personally seen all three of the answers occur, well, not the money part, but the writer so clearly has made that the highest scoring answer solely based on the nature of church street's performance crowd, that you almost have to pick that answer! When in reality, most people who skate down Church Street are trying to get away from the crowd. They are on their way to work, on the way to meet friends, or get a coffee. But, the truth of the matter is, if they didn't want people to see them, they would pick another route. If you are under age, and drunk, and have a skateboard, you might get arrested on Church street by certain police deputies. I've seen that. It made me lose what little respect I had for that group of public servants real quick. Yes. it's true. The most violent acts I've seen in Burlington were committed by the police force. And I've seen a lot of violence in such a small town. On the other hand, I've seen some awful situations that were helped greatly by the service of police.There are good cops and bad cops, it's true. The good cops are heroes. And the bad cops are worse than most "criminals", I believe. I digress.
So, there are some essential topics that have not been covered. For example: the Maple Syrup scare, when some underhanded sugarers were adding stuff to the syrup that didn't belong there. And cheese! Vote for your favorite and we can all judge each other based on our vote!!! Ice-cream, milk, favorite farmers market! Best pick your own berries, apples. Highest moose population, Vermont Accent interpretation. Vermont state car. Annual events! State rivalries! There is so much to take from for a REAL "How Vermont Are You" quiz. I'm calling for questions. When it seems complete, I promise, I will write it.
29.8.07
23.8.07
forms
I hate forms. And money. Can't we just all live and breath art? Why aren't they handing out caviar and champagne on the street corner? Red Luxury! No, f*@# the Reds. Anarchic luxury! They should GIVE me those Chloe peeptoe twist heels, because I actually APPRECIATE them. Or maybe I should GRAB them! Yeah! Stealing! Theft is the new black! Don't even bother cloaking it with terms like "confiscation" or "borrowing". No. Steal it and call yourself a sticky-fingered kleptomaniac.
It's late and I'm filling out forms. Here's some art by one of my sole beneficiaries. pigeon52.com
It's late and I'm filling out forms. Here's some art by one of my sole beneficiaries. pigeon52.com
18.8.07
Strays
There is a stray cat that lives in the front yard of my house, it's name is moo moo. A friend in passing dubbed it thus because of the kitty's striking resemblance to a cow. I buy it food and we all take turns feeding and watering moo moo. But s/he hasn't been granted house cat status. I really cannot afford to care for another cat, financially or emotionally. And neither of my room mates seem too interested in that idea, so she stays out front.
Last night, a little chihuahua came bounding up to our door. Yipping and bouncing, recently made a mother as was obvious by the swollen teats and protruding vaginal area, I was placed in a quandry. Call the pound? Go up & down the street looking for a parent? Adopt? Try to forget about her? She wasn't wearing a collar, and was very thirsty, but not hungry. I decided to just play outside with her for a while.
The main difference between a cat and a dog is that a dog needs much more care and attention. So where I feel somewhat comfortable with moo moo living on the front porch, this little yipper needed more immediate and conclusive questions and answers. Adoption is just out of the question for me at the moment. And the last time I went against my better judgement and let a dumpster cat win my heart, my sister ended up with a pet, (hence the illustrious Au Lait).
I'm of the opinion that it is generally better to adopt than to purchase, but there are certain obstacles that come with adoption. You really have no idea how traumatised the animal is, or how it will react to certain situations that it might have encountered before your time. Like with children, or large men in boots. And it takes a while for the essential nature of the creature to surface. Once it realizes that it is safe, and fed, and loved, it might begin to show it's true colors, and they may be somewhat violent, as in the case of Au Lait (And Mister, for that matter.)
It turned out that the little yipper ran over to a neighbor's house when they came out. "Is that your dog?" I called over. "No. Is it yours?" "No." Chichi didn't come back to me. I didn't really feel a connection with her, but had decided to take decisive action today if she was still hanging around.
As I was driving away this morning I saw little Chichi, trotting along at a fine clip with a young girl, and Chichi had a collar on. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Last night, a little chihuahua came bounding up to our door. Yipping and bouncing, recently made a mother as was obvious by the swollen teats and protruding vaginal area, I was placed in a quandry. Call the pound? Go up & down the street looking for a parent? Adopt? Try to forget about her? She wasn't wearing a collar, and was very thirsty, but not hungry. I decided to just play outside with her for a while.
The main difference between a cat and a dog is that a dog needs much more care and attention. So where I feel somewhat comfortable with moo moo living on the front porch, this little yipper needed more immediate and conclusive questions and answers. Adoption is just out of the question for me at the moment. And the last time I went against my better judgement and let a dumpster cat win my heart, my sister ended up with a pet, (hence the illustrious Au Lait).
I'm of the opinion that it is generally better to adopt than to purchase, but there are certain obstacles that come with adoption. You really have no idea how traumatised the animal is, or how it will react to certain situations that it might have encountered before your time. Like with children, or large men in boots. And it takes a while for the essential nature of the creature to surface. Once it realizes that it is safe, and fed, and loved, it might begin to show it's true colors, and they may be somewhat violent, as in the case of Au Lait (And Mister, for that matter.)
It turned out that the little yipper ran over to a neighbor's house when they came out. "Is that your dog?" I called over. "No. Is it yours?" "No." Chichi didn't come back to me. I didn't really feel a connection with her, but had decided to take decisive action today if she was still hanging around.
As I was driving away this morning I saw little Chichi, trotting along at a fine clip with a young girl, and Chichi had a collar on. I breathed a sigh of relief.
10.8.07
Home
When does a place become home? How many memories must you collect, local shops must you haunt, people's faces must you recognise until a geographical location earns the right to be called home?
Because I've lived in many places, and my sense of home has constantly shifted over the years, my definition of what it means has changed, moved with me.
I'm in Winter Park, Florida at the moment, visiting my Grandmother. I took the afternoon down to Park Avenue, the main drag, at the top of which looms the entrance to my Alma Mater, Rollins College. While I was there, I never considered it home, Vermont was home. But today, as I walked down the familiar street and wandered under the big old trees hanging with Spanish moss, it struck me that I've been coming here since I was little. If there is one location that has remained constant in my life, it is Winter Park.
When we were young, we came here almost yearly. I went to summer camp at Rollins. That was when Mama Sonia and Papa Roger lived on Pennsylvania Avenue, before all of the new developments. Now Uncle Jerry and Tia Maria-Luisa live in that house, and the neighborhood has sprung up with nuevo-riche mushroom-mansions.
Park Avenue is a member of a dying tribe in our country, the small-town main street. Where most of the shops are locally owned, the restaurants are small and ritzy, and everyone seems to know each other. I went into the "designer consignment" shop and the woman recognized me from the last time I was there, in February! I went into the over-priced women's clothing boutique, and as usual, everything was beautiful, cheaply made, and stained with foundation. I got an iced espresso at my favorite coffee shop, Pomello's. I walked around the campus at Rollins and noticed the changes, and that they are remodeling the oldest building. I remembered standing in the President's rose garden when I got the award for making the presidents list my first year there. That was weird. I walked back down Park avenue, drenched in sweat, and almost panicking over my body temp. Then I walked into the wine shop on a whim.
Greeted by the token blast of AC, I asked if they had a Vino Verde. The gentleman that came to my aid led me around the store, giving me all sorts of samples, talking about the wines, and helped me to pick one that I really liked. He fetched a cold bottle from the back, wrapped it in tissue, placed it in a cute little wine bag, and bade me return soon, which I most certainly will.
Driving back to the Mayflower, I veered off at Alabama Drive. The Alabama is a historical building, I believe that it used to be a hotel. Now it has been segmented into Condominiums, and my great Aunt used to live there. A rambling old monster of a building, covered in ivy, echoing days of yore, when this town really was a retreat from the cold for wealthy New Englanders. Across the road is a beautiful little park, and then there's the lake. And hidden in the trees is a little amphitheatre that many years ago, I discovered is an Echo chamber. So if you stand in the right spot facing the columns, and make sound, it is amplified in your ears as if you were in a cathedral. It is a little tradition of mine to come here when I visit, and to sing a song. Today, I made one up as I went along, and I sang about home. And I meant here, Winter Park.
For me, my sense of home is connected to the people who live there. So that, for example, no matter where my parents live, their house will always be home. Home is created by chance. I never loved Winter Park before, never allowed myself to see that a giant part of my history resides in this town. It was always for me a coincidence that I came here so often, that my family chose to live here, that I ended up at school here. I didn't choose it, therefore it was not home. But now, I think, when have I ever really chosen to live somewhere deliberately based on the virtues of the location? Never. Those choices have always been motivated by chance and/or love of a person. And sometimes I stayed, and the place became a home. And sometimes I left, and the memories are of a time of transition, not stability.
Quite often, it takes me a long time to see what's right in front of my face, to know what I really feel. And I'm glad that I'm finally able to see past the cold familiarity that covered my love for Winter Park. I value this place for the people that I love who live here, the deep rooted knowledge of a place that comes from years of returning, and for the gifts that the town has given me. And I hope that I can begin to see these things sooner in the other places that I call home, perhaps I can begin to call a place home while I'm living there, instead of ten years later.
Because I've lived in many places, and my sense of home has constantly shifted over the years, my definition of what it means has changed, moved with me.
I'm in Winter Park, Florida at the moment, visiting my Grandmother. I took the afternoon down to Park Avenue, the main drag, at the top of which looms the entrance to my Alma Mater, Rollins College. While I was there, I never considered it home, Vermont was home. But today, as I walked down the familiar street and wandered under the big old trees hanging with Spanish moss, it struck me that I've been coming here since I was little. If there is one location that has remained constant in my life, it is Winter Park.
When we were young, we came here almost yearly. I went to summer camp at Rollins. That was when Mama Sonia and Papa Roger lived on Pennsylvania Avenue, before all of the new developments. Now Uncle Jerry and Tia Maria-Luisa live in that house, and the neighborhood has sprung up with nuevo-riche mushroom-mansions.
Park Avenue is a member of a dying tribe in our country, the small-town main street. Where most of the shops are locally owned, the restaurants are small and ritzy, and everyone seems to know each other. I went into the "designer consignment" shop and the woman recognized me from the last time I was there, in February! I went into the over-priced women's clothing boutique, and as usual, everything was beautiful, cheaply made, and stained with foundation. I got an iced espresso at my favorite coffee shop, Pomello's. I walked around the campus at Rollins and noticed the changes, and that they are remodeling the oldest building. I remembered standing in the President's rose garden when I got the award for making the presidents list my first year there. That was weird. I walked back down Park avenue, drenched in sweat, and almost panicking over my body temp. Then I walked into the wine shop on a whim.
Greeted by the token blast of AC, I asked if they had a Vino Verde. The gentleman that came to my aid led me around the store, giving me all sorts of samples, talking about the wines, and helped me to pick one that I really liked. He fetched a cold bottle from the back, wrapped it in tissue, placed it in a cute little wine bag, and bade me return soon, which I most certainly will.
Driving back to the Mayflower, I veered off at Alabama Drive. The Alabama is a historical building, I believe that it used to be a hotel. Now it has been segmented into Condominiums, and my great Aunt used to live there. A rambling old monster of a building, covered in ivy, echoing days of yore, when this town really was a retreat from the cold for wealthy New Englanders. Across the road is a beautiful little park, and then there's the lake. And hidden in the trees is a little amphitheatre that many years ago, I discovered is an Echo chamber. So if you stand in the right spot facing the columns, and make sound, it is amplified in your ears as if you were in a cathedral. It is a little tradition of mine to come here when I visit, and to sing a song. Today, I made one up as I went along, and I sang about home. And I meant here, Winter Park.
For me, my sense of home is connected to the people who live there. So that, for example, no matter where my parents live, their house will always be home. Home is created by chance. I never loved Winter Park before, never allowed myself to see that a giant part of my history resides in this town. It was always for me a coincidence that I came here so often, that my family chose to live here, that I ended up at school here. I didn't choose it, therefore it was not home. But now, I think, when have I ever really chosen to live somewhere deliberately based on the virtues of the location? Never. Those choices have always been motivated by chance and/or love of a person. And sometimes I stayed, and the place became a home. And sometimes I left, and the memories are of a time of transition, not stability.
Quite often, it takes me a long time to see what's right in front of my face, to know what I really feel. And I'm glad that I'm finally able to see past the cold familiarity that covered my love for Winter Park. I value this place for the people that I love who live here, the deep rooted knowledge of a place that comes from years of returning, and for the gifts that the town has given me. And I hope that I can begin to see these things sooner in the other places that I call home, perhaps I can begin to call a place home while I'm living there, instead of ten years later.
8.8.07
Slash
Last Friday evening, I met Slash.
Many times I've wondered if there is a celebrity that I would like to meet, or ones who I would truly tremble in front of, and it's hard for me to think of one. I generally think that the whole practice of idolizing celebrities is ridiculous.
I went to a party in Hollywood with a friend of mine. I had no idea what to expect, I only knew that there would be an open bar and I didn't have to pay to get in. I almost didn't go. I was sitting at home, all dolled up, but dreading the drive, and the idea of trying to find parking on Sunset Boulevard on a Friday night alone just isn't quite a motivational factor. But my roommate lit the proverbial fire underneath my rear end. "You never go out, and this is an opportunity that won't come up again for a while." I saw the reason, hopped into Jeeves (the tried and true vw jetta), and headed for the 5.
I found parking! I found my friend! We traipsed over to the legendary House of Blues. Caroline informed me that there would be some musicians performing, but she seemed to know more about the athletes that the party was held for than the music. We got our drinks and went outside while we waited for the music to begin. And then, someone joined our group and said "Slash is upstairs and Dave Nevarro doesn't have a shirt on."
All of a sudden, my heart started beating very fast, and I could feel the blood pumping through my body. I knew that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And I quietly slipped away and went upstairs.
And there he was. Slash, someone I have idolized since 7th grade. Someone who's music has truly shaped the way I feel about Rock and Roll. The epitome of irreverent genius. Standing in front of me, having a beer. I waited until there was a crack in the conversation and went up to him. All I can say is that I made the biggest fool out of myself, and I don't care. Everything that I've always considered inappropriate and declasse about fans, the most generic compliments and gushing, I said it all. "You're my rock & roll hero! You're the best guitar player, ever! I can't believe I'm standing in front of you! Appetite For Destruction changed my life!" etc, etc, etc. I will say that he very graciously received my disgusting display, and shook my hand, and asked my name. I told him, said I couldn't wait for him to go on, retreated to the safety of the people I knew, and started screaming.
The show was amazing. It was sort of an all-star cast of Rock & Roll legends playing covers. I was up at the front, dancing and screaming all night. I suppose that my elation was partially due to the fact that I haven't been to a show since last December. That's a long time for someone who is made partially of rock and needs to replenish to survive.
Oh, my band has a name now. We are Fairview. And I can't wait to rock.
Many times I've wondered if there is a celebrity that I would like to meet, or ones who I would truly tremble in front of, and it's hard for me to think of one. I generally think that the whole practice of idolizing celebrities is ridiculous.
I went to a party in Hollywood with a friend of mine. I had no idea what to expect, I only knew that there would be an open bar and I didn't have to pay to get in. I almost didn't go. I was sitting at home, all dolled up, but dreading the drive, and the idea of trying to find parking on Sunset Boulevard on a Friday night alone just isn't quite a motivational factor. But my roommate lit the proverbial fire underneath my rear end. "You never go out, and this is an opportunity that won't come up again for a while." I saw the reason, hopped into Jeeves (the tried and true vw jetta), and headed for the 5.
I found parking! I found my friend! We traipsed over to the legendary House of Blues. Caroline informed me that there would be some musicians performing, but she seemed to know more about the athletes that the party was held for than the music. We got our drinks and went outside while we waited for the music to begin. And then, someone joined our group and said "Slash is upstairs and Dave Nevarro doesn't have a shirt on."
All of a sudden, my heart started beating very fast, and I could feel the blood pumping through my body. I knew that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And I quietly slipped away and went upstairs.
And there he was. Slash, someone I have idolized since 7th grade. Someone who's music has truly shaped the way I feel about Rock and Roll. The epitome of irreverent genius. Standing in front of me, having a beer. I waited until there was a crack in the conversation and went up to him. All I can say is that I made the biggest fool out of myself, and I don't care. Everything that I've always considered inappropriate and declasse about fans, the most generic compliments and gushing, I said it all. "You're my rock & roll hero! You're the best guitar player, ever! I can't believe I'm standing in front of you! Appetite For Destruction changed my life!" etc, etc, etc. I will say that he very graciously received my disgusting display, and shook my hand, and asked my name. I told him, said I couldn't wait for him to go on, retreated to the safety of the people I knew, and started screaming.
The show was amazing. It was sort of an all-star cast of Rock & Roll legends playing covers. I was up at the front, dancing and screaming all night. I suppose that my elation was partially due to the fact that I haven't been to a show since last December. That's a long time for someone who is made partially of rock and needs to replenish to survive.
Oh, my band has a name now. We are Fairview. And I can't wait to rock.
1.8.07
Mister
Mister has been sleeping a lot today. A few minutes ago, he was sprawled out on the wood floor in the dining room. Now, he's on the carpet next to me in my room. He really is a magnificent beast. He bathes regularly, always crosses his paws, and doesn't take cheek from anyone, including me. I've often thought about what I'll do when he dies. I told Issac that I'll have a hat made from his fur so that I can wear him in the winter. But I probably won't really do that. There is a pet cemetery in Huntington. But I probably won't do that either. The funny thing is, I don't really think that he's ever going to kick it. He may have only one tooth, but he can still leave a mark when he bites. He's very protective of our back yard. There is a spunky young Tom who likes to climb the wall and taunt my old man. In a flash, there is a swirling ball of fur and howling snarling scratching cat fury rolling across the well-manicured lawn. And Mister still always wins. As the naughty invader runs for the hills, Meow turns toward the house, mouth full of another's fur, tail puffed, thoroughly annoyed.
I am a little bit concerned about the raccoon that seems to live on the neighbor's roof. Mister had some problems with coons some time back, and it turned me into quite the cat nurse. I came to know quite a bit about dressing open wounds and forcing pills down the feline throat.
Mister is supposedly "retired". The only reason I let him out back is because it's enclosed. And because I know how much he loves being outside. For all of his dignity and refinement, he really is a wild animal at heart. I think that when he finally goes to that big backyard in the sky, I will give him a burial befitting a true warrior. A funeral pyre with catnip sprinkled around to send a sweet aroma up to the heavens, to ensure a safe and effortless journey to the other side.
Yeah right, that cat will outlive me, I'm sure of it.
I am a little bit concerned about the raccoon that seems to live on the neighbor's roof. Mister had some problems with coons some time back, and it turned me into quite the cat nurse. I came to know quite a bit about dressing open wounds and forcing pills down the feline throat.
Mister is supposedly "retired". The only reason I let him out back is because it's enclosed. And because I know how much he loves being outside. For all of his dignity and refinement, he really is a wild animal at heart. I think that when he finally goes to that big backyard in the sky, I will give him a burial befitting a true warrior. A funeral pyre with catnip sprinkled around to send a sweet aroma up to the heavens, to ensure a safe and effortless journey to the other side.
Yeah right, that cat will outlive me, I'm sure of it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
