The Transporter Couch

I was told that when cats “clean their ears,” in other words paw at them, that the weather was going to change. That they have pockets, perhaps, or chambers or something that harbor air or fluid (I guess air is a fluid, actually) that responds to the changes in barometric pressure and annoys them, which is why they are the mythical indicators of the change in weather. If this is true, and there’s no reason for me to utterly doubt it though I do question the source just a twinkle, then my poor cat must be in hell. The pressure rises and falls 19 times a day here (in central Texas) and lately it’s been humid atop all that so not only is Aretha in hell, she’s in hell and moist. Go with that where you will. In all events it’s a dangerous combination.

I ate a Wonder-Roast chicken last night. Not the whole entire thing but MOST of it. It just looked and smelled so good in that little display thingy. It isn’t a Wonder Roast for real, but the local supermarket’s knock-off. And they do a pretty good job but the skin isn’t as crisp as I’d like it. It was good! I ate that and some leftover rice and a pineapple. Eclectic! Yay! What remains of the chicken is a carcass and it will make good soup. But last time I used a fowl carcass to make soup, …… well actually I made a good stock that served me well. Turkey. But this chicken probably doesn’t deserve to be made a part of anything spectacular.

I remember reading a story, possibly in Larousse Gastronomique but I don’t recall, about a cook who had a dozen men show up at his door demanding food and all he had was ONE cow and maybe some carrots or something and he made them a regal meal from soup to dessert. (No nuts) I don’t know if it was a true story or just a tale, but it’s been my beacon when I have a fridge full of leftovers.

Maybe now is as good a time as any to discuss Twice Cooked Adventure Chicken. Not every Friday, but many Fridays, Art and I would get our weekend off to a great start by drinking too much and a component to the kickoff was “Twice Cooked Adventure Chicken.” It wasn’t, as you might think, leftover chicken reheated in an adventurous way. It was always fresh (or freshly purchased) chicken breasts that got cooked in an adventurous way, and twice to afford us more time to drink.

And by “adventurous” I mean that the seasonings were always changing and the coatings were always changing and the experience wasn’t one of cooking to perfection but more like cooking as an opportunity to bond. And as we all know, bonding can be dicey. But it can be beautiful.

We’re grown up and respectable now and we use credit cards and dine out and drink better gin and travel the world and have in-laws in addition to our out-laws and the days of Dark Eyes and Twice Cooked Adventure Chicken are but charming, foggy memories. Is there a lesson here? Probably. But I’m just going to make do with the memory.

Back in the day, Art and I would make up songs. We would sort of sample the music and rythms but would supply our own lyrics. We appropriated a song from Le Trim called, I think, “We Like The Cars,” that we switched around somehow that I can’t really recall, but one line was, “we like the girls, the girls that go ‘here’s your martini, sir.’ ” At that time (in our lives) we would sometimes go to La Posada and have a drink or two and there was this very very very pretty, very solicitous blonde cocktail waitress named Jody and she made us feel very special. I totally, completely and absolutely would love to know what ever became of her. She was beautiful and kind and attractive but by NO means trashy, and she made us feel good.

La Posada is a 5 star hotel in Santa Fe, NM, and the lounge is a series of rooms that were once parlours in a beautiful old house on Palace Avenue. I don’t even care to speculate how much money we spent in there over the years. But the furniture was comfortable, antique but sturdy, the cielings were high and handsome and the walls were covered with old-fashioned style paintings. The floor, as I recall, was covered in thickly padded red carpet. One night, after my “French” professor told me I’d better buckle down and learn French or I’d fail the test a second time and that that would bode ill, I took over a space there and turned on a lamp and drank coffee and “learned” french. Two days later, we had a test and I passed it. In class the following day, a Friday … and this is a really weird memory but for some reason we were passing around a crown of ivy or something and everyone would wear it for 20 seconds and talk about why she or he should be lauded. I put it on when it got to me (and no this wasn’t a regular new-age healing sort of thingl it was just a goofy afternoon) and I said, “I passed the French test!” And everyone clapped. Then the professor, David Bolotin, said, “Yes, Mr. Walker I think you deserve the accolade. Of course, you didn’t pass the first time.” And the whole room looked at him like, “what a dicky thing to say” and Tim Graham, not a tight friend but a really nice guy, just said to the room in general, “He giveth, and he taketh away.”

Returning to the main thread of this essay, Art and I would sometimes just plain MAKE UP songs. We would be sitting on the transporter couch, or riding in the car, and would make up crazy stuff. “Dormonica” numbers among them. Dormonica was our pretend housekeeper and

She could make a martini; she could make a Manhattan;
She could make you some boxers out of busy plaid satin.

I can’t remember other stanzas, but the refrain was,

Dormonica, Dormonica, don’t ask to get paid;
Dormonica, Dormonica, you’re just our maid!

In retrospect, it was BEYOND tacky. But it was fun and you know, helped us stretch our minds.

And one day, we were riding in the car (the old green truck, actually) on our way to seminar, and Art just started singing, “I saw your god ……. drowning kittens……..” to no tune in particular. Maybe “I left my heart in San Francisco.” It was funny and, obviously, memorable! It came to me today. I was riding in the car…. Hilda and I had gone to Wal Mart to buy sodas for the restaurant and it was a quiet moment. There was music on, Ulrich Schnauss, but it was very subdued. We had stopped at a light and we’re very close and comfortable being together and not talking, and I started singing, softly, “I saw your god ….. drowning kittens……” Hilda just looked at me and started laughing ….. She laughed so hard she sat through a long green light. People honked but she wouldn’t budge because she was laughing so hard she couldn’t open her eyes.

That’s all.

Art is my partner in crime in this blog. It was he who put the bee in my bonnet and he who encouraged me to get into it. In some sense I owe him my life.

I met him in college. At St. John’s there are “core” groups. Classes are very small but in any given semester you will have four or five people who are in all your classes. Art was in my freshman core group. We didn’t click at first because I was kind of preppy and he was an anarchist. Yay! Then one day a couple of weeks into school, actually it was at night, I walked into the Peterson Student Center, sort of heading to my mailbox, and he was sitting on this bench, and I said hi and he said hi, and…….. I sat down and we talked for three hours.

How does that happen? We had nothing in common except that we were both prone to sarcasm. We’d come from completely different parts of the country, had had completely different upbringings. I disparaged his politics and he disparaged my pretentions. But by and by he taught me some things about politics and the ways of the world, and I taught him how to make a martini, and we’re best friends. I was his best man. Twice. Maybe one day he’ll get to be mine. Should it ever come to that, he’ll certainly be offered the job.

In a way it’s kind of weird. Art is married and has kids and respectability and while he PROBABLY doesn’t vote Republican, he does vote and he’s established and stable. I, on the other hand, well I DO vote but I’m sort of an anarchist. Interesting how things change.

oh….. my sister’s husband is named Shawn. This is NOT about him.

I had a relationship with this guy named Shawn Sutherland. Actually, to be completely honest, his name was Cleveland but he didn’t like that or any of the derivations so he went by Shawn, his middle name.

Shawn’s name came up because I wasn answering a questionairre about “whom do you most miss.” I most miss Shawn and I elaborated a little on that. But I really don’t think I did him justice. He’s departted this world, not according to plan, and doesn’t care about justice, but I continue to reside here and…. well ….. I’m a writer and I’m itchy to say something.

A couple of things, really.

First, you never met a handsomer man. tallish guy with clean cut appearance and even features and and easy smile ….. He was me with blond hair and he was taller.

He was a truck driver. His route took him from Portland to Newark and back again, but every three weeks or so he would swing throug San Antonio. And that’s when we would meet.

He would say goofy shit like, “I took some pitchers in Montana.” And I would correct his locution and he secretly enjoyed it. Though on the face of it he didn’t enjoy it.

I still can’t talk about Shawn without getting sad and emotional. I think about what a waste of time Sex in the City is. For starters it’s about women and I’m a man. But it’s …… shallow, not heeartless but shallow ….. and while its amusing it tackles things on the surface. Even Ally McBeall dug deeper. (Thought look where THAT went)

ShAwn was a beautifil man. He was big. He was dumb enough to love me. He was a rodeo star. He was a truck driver. He was horny. He had substance and ambition and dreams.

I never knew either of my grandfathers. My dad’s mom passed away when I was more or less a kid. My mom’s mom was pretty largely in my life. She died.
Shawn died.
My grandmother died …… because it was time for her to die. She was 974 years old and frankly she had given up on life. Shawn’s story is different. Except, the ending is the same. He’s dead.

OK, I’m ready to conclude my essay on David.

First let me describe him. He’s 5′8″, of latino heritage, well built, handsome, prone to hairiness. Dark hair, brown eyes, a rather chiseled face. OK thus that.

David is a dreamer. I mean, he works and makes money but his mind is always on a dream. His outlet is music. He doesn’t perform but he compiles albums and I am lucky be the recipient of many of them.

His mind is always on a dream. And while that proves frustrating, sometimes, most of the time it’s a source, the well from which we ladle hope into chalices.

Thank you, David

David is one of my best friends. He’s beautiful and thoughtful and kind and honest and hard-working. His life is one of trial and toil. He’s always a little bit lost. Which is part of why I love him. I love him for several reasons, largely because he’s generous and he loves me. But there’s this facet of vulnerability that he only shows to me, well maybe to others but he doesn’t show it on purpose and he only shows to his friends.

I can’t really talk about David right now because I’m still figuring out what to do with him and that process doesn’t look good on a page.

Frank, whose actual name is Herschel Frank Connaly IV, was my BEST friend in my youth. We hung out together. We did everything together. He and I got drunk and stoned and accidentally drove onto an airfield and were …. reprimanded, but let go. He liked me. I liked him. He had a twin sister who was always steading his thunder. His dad I never knew. His mom was sort of offical and controlling but not without a sense of humor. His stepfather was a minister and he, too, was not without a sense of humor. He bore influence in my life.

Frank got married in ….. let’s say 1990. It didn’t last. It wasn’t going to. I could see it. When people marry under pressure it’s …just a waste of time, money and energy. It was a NICE wedding though! And a really nice party.

Frank went on to be an architect and I guess at some point he just grew weary of me. We drifted apart. Then his life fell apart (just as mine was taking shape) and we didn’t have much to talk about.

But I love you, Frank! When I was 17 years old you were the most important person in my life. I just want that on the record. I later had to learn the *I* am the most important person in my life but you helped me through some shit and stood by me. Thank you.