December, 2012 Archives

Sans Seraph

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December 24th, 2012

photo by Rodney Curtis Sunshine doesn’t visit as much during these shorter, darker days. Surely that’s the ancient reason for holiday lights and decorations. But the sun briefly peeks out from the December gray, casting colorful and symbolic shadows. Our shadowy angel, hidden from the inside, suddenly appears on the shade. Clandestine angels — showing […]

http://www.readthespirit.com/rodney-curtis/wp-content/uploads/sites/14/2013/03/wpid-rcShadedAngel.jpgphoto by Rodney Curtis

Sunshine doesn’t visit as much during these shorter, darker days. Surely that’s the ancient reason for holiday lights and decorations. But the sun briefly peeks out from the December gray, casting colorful and symbolic shadows.

Our shadowy angel, hidden from the inside, suddenly appears on the shade. Clandestine angels — showing up unexpectedly — is the stuff of literature, popular culture, religion and mysticism.

It’s also the stuff of smiles and artful reflection. Our window treatment becomes old parchment. The stained glass angel momentarily stains our paper shutters with spilled watercolor.

The sun evaporates; the angel vanishes and we peer into the blinds, searching for her shape and color.

She hides, we seek.

Apocalypse Now?

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December 18th, 2012

What can I say? I’m taking this whole end-of-the-world thing seriously. If Mother Earth does a pole dance and sticks the North Pole where the sun don’t shine, then I want to take this opportunity and wish you all a merry end of the world. And a happy New Year. Yeah, I got burned on […]

http://www.readthespirit.com/rodney-curtis/wp-content/uploads/sites/14/2013/03/wpid-rcMayanApocalypse.jpg

What can I say? I’m taking this whole end-of-the-world thing seriously. If Mother Earth does a pole dance and sticks the North Pole where the sun don’t shine, then I want to take this opportunity and wish you all a merry end of the world.

And a happy New Year.

Yeah, I got burned on the whole Y2K thing (anyone need 1,000 pounds of frozen SPAM?). But this one could be the biggie. We’re toast if Nibiru suddenly slams into our world or all the planets align so rare as predicted by Olivia Newton John as early as 1980.

Never mind that NASA, anthropologists, historians and Joe Biden all think the Mayan Apocalypse is utter malarkey. I know a guy on facebook who knows a guy who … well, you get the picture; you can never be too safe.

Consider the facts. Our dear friends Elli and Deb, who are very well informed, named their first born — wait for it — Maya. Robert Duvall starred in Apocalypse Now and was also in the movie Deep Impact. What was Deep Impact about? You got it, the end of the earth due to a celestial cataclysmic event. Don’t believe me? Look it up.

Also, the final episode of the final season of Jersey Shore airs Thursday night, just minutes before midnight, moments before the solstice.

I’ll leave you to connect the dots.

Look, I know what you’re thinking; just because the Mayan calendar ends, can’t they log onto Amazon and order a new one, maybe with a kitty cat theme? NO! Come on people, wake up, the Amazon is in South America and the Mayans lived in Mexico and Central America. This is what bothers me about North Americans.

Since the world may — sorry, WILL end — I want to come clean on a few things. I feel like a heel, but I never really liked Parks and Recreation. There, I said it. I tried, honestly, but I couldn’t ever muster enough enthusiasm. Also, what’s the deal with hummus? Everyone seems to love hummus. It tastes like nursery school paste mixed with dirt to me. Yes, I still find Madonna kind of hot and even though I played in a couple jazz bands in my distant past, I just simply don’t “get” jazz.

Wow, that’s actually a big weight off my shoulders. I think I can enter the next baktun or grand cycle with a clear conscience now.

By the way, here are a few interesting facts I learned while researching this studied and learned article.

FAMOUS MAYANS INCLUDE:
Maya Angelou
Maya Rudolph
Maya Sharona
Maya Fair Lady
Maya Big Fat Greek Wedding

Domestic God

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December 6th, 2012

 Click here for the exclusive Vacuuming Bernie video. I think somewhere between fixing dinner, washing the dishes and taking out the trash it hit me. Or maybe it was while I was simultaneously baking blueberry muffins from scratch, vacuuming the carpet and brushing my dog I fully realized it; I’m a house husband. There I […]

How to vacuum your dog

My dog Bernie decided it was either to get vacuumed than to move.

 Click here for the exclusive Vacuuming Bernie video.

I think somewhere between fixing dinner, washing the dishes and taking out the trash it hit me. Or maybe it was while I was simultaneously baking blueberry muffins from scratch, vacuuming the carpet and brushing my dog I fully realized it; I’m a house husband. There I was in sweatpants and sweatshirt scurrying about preparing for my wife’s return from work and our friend Helen’s arrival.

I momentarily thought of those horribly sexist ads from back when I was a kid. The exhausted wives try to clean ovens while their dogs chase chuck wagons around the kitchen. I had to brush away those images; reverie was a luxury when the beds needed making. Calgon take me away.

Marci brings home the bacon and I fry it up in the pan (then deal with the congealed bacon grease and try to erase the lingering smell of burnt fat).

I like the role of domestic goddess, er, god. I’ve always loved to cook, so pulling my fair share while my wife’s laboring in the trenches (in this instance, photographing a scantily clad woman for a boudoir session) just makes sense. Granted, I would’ve enjoyed switching duties this one time, but what self-respecting naked lady wants to have her dog vacuumed?

Having the time to get stuff done around the house is a luxury I’ve never really had. I’m enjoying it to the fullest now, though. Yes, there are little annoying bits that bother me. But they’re far easier to handle than in some of my old jobs.

I find myself getting miffed when I fold the laundry and it doesn’t get properly put away. But that’s nothing compared to when newspaper readers used to phone my desk and tell me about the egg they cracked open that didn’t have a yolk or the pattern made by their snow blower that looked exactly like Vincent Van Gogh. I’m not kidding about those phone calls. I actually ended up driving to their houses and taking weird, funky photos and turning them into something they really weren’t, stories.

Not everyone in the house is happy with my role. One of our dogs tolerates the vacuum, the other has to be locked in the basement because he believes Satan or worse, Grover Norquist, lives inside the Kenmore. And unlike my family who I think appreciate my chores, the dogs have a great passive-aggressive way of telling me they need more water. They lift up their plastic bowls and drop them on the tile floor as if to say “If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, we’d prefer not to die of dehydration.” I should try that with the dirty dishes my family leaves on my clean countertops.

Life is good, as my t-shirt says. Eventually I’ll have a job that requires my full focus and pulls me away from re-organizing the hat/glove/scarf container. But until then I’ll concern myself with the important things, like taking a page out of my dog’s notebook and figuring out a way to secretly get my family to push their chairs back under the table when they’re done with dinner, or closing kitchen cabinet doors that they impossibly walk away from or, for the love of God, not leaving knitting needles on the sofa just waiting to skewer this sometime couch potato.

I’ve come a long way, baby.