L U N A T A L K with Eva Moon

Seven Deadly Zins

If you are fortunate enough to live in or visit Seattle or San Francisco and can scrape together the green, go see Teatro Zinzanni. I’ve been twice now. They change the show three times a year, but the basic concept is the same: “Love, Chaos & Dinner.” The current show is “Under the Gypsy Moon.” How appropriate! We were probably the only people there singing along with the gypsy songs. I give you my TZ Seven Deadly Zins, in video form. Actually, I couldn’t do justice to sloth and wrath, so I tossed in extra helpings of lust and envy:

LUST 1: Bernard Hazens

GLUTTONY: I have never had dinner served by passionately tangoing couples whose final flourish was a sweeping dip to pull the covers from our steaming plates. The food was good too.

GREED: In the lobby there’s a boutique filled with decadent playthings. I wanted it all. The whole look. But settled for a little sparkly butterfly hair clip. Purple, of course. But in my heart I wanted this:

LUST 2: Ben Wendell of Duo Madrona

ENVY 1: Blues legend Duffy Bishop. I so want to be her.

ENVY 2: But I want Elena Borodina’s body:

VANITY: I could do this. I really could. OK, well maybe not the hand balancing thing. But the diva thing. And the comedy thing. Right? Where do I sign up?

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My Big Fat Greek Easter

Our band plays monthly at a local Greek restaurant. The food is fabulous so when the owner invited us to his family’s Easter celebration, we hopped at the chance.

Laki’s house is a big, sprawling, home-grown spread that looks like a work in perpetual progress, but it’s warm, bright and comfortable. Maybe a little like being at a really good summer camp hall. It was packed with happy Greeks and friends Sunday afternoon, presided over by Georgia herself, queen and matriarch of the family. She’s retired, but still sweeps into the restaurant late on the nights we play there scooting diners out of their chairs and onto the dance floor. (And she can still bust a move or two herself. I should be so lucky when I’m in my 70s)

The tables in the big covered patio were groaning under the weight of the food: tiropita, spanakopita, dolmades, feta, olives, salads, limoni patatas, and even sushi. A guy in the corner diligently cranked out mojitos but there was plenty of wine, champagne, beer, sodas and homemade rakija (yum). The dining room off the crowded kitchen was jammed with sweets and in the backyard two whole lambs and a goat turned on spits. This is how you do it, folks.

It was JUST like the movie, except without the Greek flag garage door.

I want to give a shout out to Sparta, a big lovable chocolate lab who has a singular talent for insinuating himself between your legs from behind so you suddenly find yourself astride a large happy dog looking up at you with a wet tennisball grin. Go get it, Sparta!

Goat is not one of my favorite meats, but it takes on a certain appeal when a juicy morsel is fed directly to the lips from the fingers of tall, dark Dmetri. Mmmmm…

Yasou!

(The photo is by Kalofagas and licensed under Creative Commons - thanks!)

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Gin soaked

So our bass player turned 40 last night. Well, today, but the party was last night. He plays in at least four bands - all different styles - and everyone was there. I’ll link you to all four and allow you to imagine the mashup.

I was chatting at one point with a library science student and he commented that library parties mostly consisted of griping about library classes. He agreed that musician parties were more interesting.

But first, martinis. Martinis are excellent, but best relegated to rare indulgences, in my case. My association on the fringes of martinidom goes back to my youth, though. Grandmom loved gin - Boodles was her brand of choice. When I was pregnant, queasy and not drinking, the one thing that saved me was hours spent with her while she sipped gin and fed me the marinated olives. I doubt the surgeon general is going to endorse the practice, but it’s a wonderful cure.

Last night’s martini was large and effective and a wonderful warm up for an extraordinary jam. The bands mixing it up were:

Us (Balkanarama) playing our wild eastern european gypsy wedding/nightclub music.

The Floogies/Djangomatics strumming out the snappy gypsy jazz. On the Floogies page, try “Palm Springs Jump” and imagine a couple of clarinets and extra guitars and a raft or two of beer.

Sub Masa covering Romania.

The Supersones adding some latin spice:

And various guitar-wielding party crashers.

Shaken, not stirred.

Image by Ken30684 - Creative Commons

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Waiting for Oobleck

We have a saying up here in the northwest: Don’t like the weather? Wait ten minutes.

The Smokey Mountains in North Carolina gave us a run for the money in the weather department. In the space of four days we had snow, ice, clouds, brilliant sun, wind, rain, thunder, tornado watches and mist. Did I miss anything?

I’m back in the land of clouds, rain, hail and USB camera cables now, so I can share a few memories:

I’d happily go back. But next time I expect to see oobleck.

…Like a Startled Fawn

Ideally, a book should last as long as a flight. Air travel is so very nearly intolerable that to have to endure it straight up is beyond contemplation. I’m too cheap to pay airline prices for booze, so books it is. Tragically, the book I brought wrapped up leaving several hours of sky time dangling distressingly before me. I’d already thoroughly ridiculed the fripperies in the Sky Mall magazine on last week’s flight so I was left with the safety card and the airline magazine. There was an editorial on the last page of the magazine about traveling without luggage. This caught my eye.

I love to travel light. I never check bags. I rarely pack more than a few hours before departing and I hate to fuss about it too much. So sometimes I end up thousands of miles from home without some useful item. It’s never been fatal yet. But this was a step beyond. No luggage at all.

The writer had injured his back as a young man and decided to recuperate in some exotic local rather than at home. Doctor’s orders were to lift nothing. Nada. So he popped a passport and a few personal items into a fanny pack and boarded the plane. He had to wash things out every night, but it was worth it for the experience of feeling gloriously unfettered.

I long for that feeling. Especially after several days of triangulating the gear, supplies and desires of eleven different people into every activity. Getting out the door for a walk - normally a process requiring the grabbing of a jacket and maybe a camera on the way to the door becomes a negotiation on the level of the G20 summit.

But eventually, hats are found, snacks arranged, camera batteries charged, knee braces pulled on, goers and stayers divided, three maps consulted, GPS programmed, car seat musical chairs completed, doors closed and engine started.

At this point we have a traditional thing we say as we breath a final exhasperated sigh…

And we’re off… like a startled fawn.

(It was worth it all in the end. Pictured, right, is Whitewater Falls. The picture is from wikipedia, as I neglected to pack a camera cable.)

South and East

Let the drinking begin.

Last week it was a visit with my in-laws in Southern California, this week it’s a visit with my own family - parents, two sisters and their families - in Cashiers, North Carolina (apparently pronounced “CASHers by the locals). It hasn’t gotten off to a bad start. Last night found me ensconced cozily in a big overstuffed chair by a roaring fire watching snow falling through trees overlooking Lake Glenville. With a glass of wine in hand. It just doesn’t get a whole lot better than that. Except maybe morning finding me back in the same chair watching the sun rise into blue sky over sparkling water with coffee in hand.

The house is easily large enough to absorb all eleven of us as long as you don’t need uninterrupted access to a bathroom and the larders are crammed with every sort of edible and potable.

Once again, the sun is bright and I’m sunglassless - maintaining an unbroken record of never remembering to bring them along. It’s becoming an obsession. I’m taking pictures, but predictably do not have a cable to download them from the camera. In the mean time, here’s a link with some pictures of where we’re staying.

I predict a difficult transition back to real life, but let’s not think of that now. I’d rather think about lunch.

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Keep it Sizzlin’

Somehow I have fallen into a bacon vortex. I rarely ever eat the stuff, but no bacon product can hit the market without someone thinking of me. Usually I post out of horrified fascination, but in this case there is an odd confluence of bacon horror and sexual delight that’s so perverse it’s setting up vibrations of the magnitude that brought down the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. I give you: Baconlube.

The company’s tag line is “everything should taste like bacon” and I guess this will put it to the test. But, is that an actual slice of bacon floating in the bottle like some pork-based tequila worm?

Still, there’s a part of me that’s thinking, guys like to eat bacon. This could work for me…

(Judging by the posting date of the product announcement, I suspect some April foolery is afoot. Still…)

link

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Bang

Bangs: According to etymology scholar Robert Barnhart, the term is strictly American in origin (the Brits call it fringe)  first surfacing in 1878. It was  believed influenced by the adverbial use of bang in the meaning of abruptly, as in hair cut bang off;  some sources offer a relation to earlier bangtailed (1861) of a horse’s tail that has been cut horizontally across.

It’s only hair right? But when it comes to bangs, it’s a decision you have to live with or suffer the anguish of growing them out. My hair has gotten long - waist length - and bangless. I haven’t had a haircut in over a year. But today, on a whim, I cut bangs. What do you think?

The real danger of bangs, as anyone who’s done it knows, is the anguish of growing them out when you don’t want them anymore. You go through all the stages:

1. Denial: It won’t be so bad. I’ll just brush them to one side. It will look cute.
2. Anger: Get this goddamn hair out of my eyes!
3. Bargaining: I’ve given you gel. I’ve given you hairspray. I’ve given you bobby pins. Why won’t you stay in place?
4. Depression: I’m going to look like a frizzy-headed freak for the rest of my life. Why go on?
5. Acceptance: Hand me the scissors.

A friend of mine shaves her head every few years. She says it’s to remind herself that nothing is permanent. I don’t have quite that much courage. It doesn’t hurt that she’s tall, lean, tattooed and looks adorable with a half inch of hair.

I never knew the origin of the word. I’m so pleased to have something in common with a horse’s ass.

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