Ramones Musings

I just finished reading an article about the death of Tommy Ramone in "Slate."  Since before I could drive a car, I've loved what I see as the authenticity of punk.  The DIY aesthetic.  The political frenzy or absurdity of punk lyrics...  The way the music fills me with emotion and consumes me.  The way the music makes me think.

 While praising The Ramones, though, the article raises the question of: why should The Ramones be equated with authenticity?  The author notes the band's decision for its members to adopt the same leather jackets, ripped and faded jeans, haircuts and last names.  As the legend goes, the Ramones never read sheet music, but still delivered bullet-speed bounce in their music.

The Ramones seem so cool, so it's easy to overlook their gimmick.  I haven't dwelled much on the meaning of their packaging. I hate to hear that Dee Dee Ramone complained before his death that the other members forced him to get a "Ramones" hairstyle as a prerequisite to joining the band.   I've made fun of pop music that focuses more on physical appeal and publicity stunts than on musical integrity... Et tu, my Beloved Punk?  No, at least not entirely.  The main selling point of The Ramones is their music. Unlike whatever comes out of an overly choreographed boy band, the music of The Ramones breaks ground. The music of The Ramones demands the listener's attention.  The music of The Ramones is Spontaneous and Sassy. That's how the music makes me feel.  Plus, they aren't about pandering.

The Ramones took a comic-book approach to a lot of things.  Their irreverence is all in good fun as they request sedation or that brats get beaten with baseball bats.  The band starred in the movie "Rock-and-Roll High School," in which their music makes mice explode and they glorify pizza.  Maybe The Ramones looked at a band seeking musical authenticity like the Monty Python cast seeking the Holy Grail, spoof the quest The Ramones recognized that playing publicly means a band is playing for an audience. Being self-aware isn't a sin.

The Slate writer brushes off calling The Ramones "performance artists" at the same time that he talks about the "unity" of the Ramone's image and their "monolithic, unified roar." You know, maybe they were performance artists.  I mean, performance art is simply creating interdisciplinary art while being aware of your audience. Potentially, you can even shock your audience members into reassessing their concepts of art.  So, what does it mean for a band to plan an image?   A band considering different dimensions of its performance isn't always just punk for profit.

Discuss.

Entry Mainly to Share a Seitan Recipe

A few friends came over to my house for a potluck on Sunday.  I committed to making a ton of food, despite also committing to attend the Positive Force Book Club.  In the morning, I multi-tasked, peeling and chopping potatoes while watching "House of Cards."  (Good show.)  I got to the book club ten minutes late.  There, we all agreed that people have other motivations beyond financial gain.  Then, I sped home.

I made chicken-style seitan the day before to use in Vegan Chicken Marsala.  I also made shepherd's pie using a recipe from "Moosewood Restaurant's Low-Fat Favorites."

Chicken Seitan:
Dough
       * 1 cup Vital Wheat Gluten
       * 1 cup Imagine "No-Chicken" Broth
       * 1 1/2 Tbsp Soy or Almond Cream
Broth
       * 1 carton Imagine "No-Chicken" Broth
       * 1 cup Soy or Almond Cream
       * 6 ounces of mushrooms (shiitake and white button)
       * 1 2/3 tsp Onion Powder
       * 1 tsp Garlic Powder
       * 2 Bay Leaves
       * 1/2 tsp Cayenne
       *  Pinch of pepper        

Combine the broth ingredients in a large pot and place on the stove.  While the broth is heating up, combine the dough ingredients.  Knead.  Form the mixture into a ball and squeeze out the excess liquid.  Flatten the ball on a cutting board and cut into 6 pieces.  Drop each piece into the pot of boiling broth.  Simmer for an hour.  RESERVE THE COOKING LIQUID.  After letting the broth and the chicken cutlets cool, it's great idea to return the cutlets to the broth until you fry them up.

My knife was flying as I chopped vegetables for the shepherd's pie and the Seitan Marsala after book club.  I bought a ton of portobella mushrooms, which I used in the gravy for the pie and the sauce for the chicken.
Everything came together, though.  

Throughout the day, an evolving number of people planned to attend.  Up and down.   Everything came together, though.  Highlights, in my opinion.  My friend Gray made an incredible glass noodle dish with an assortment of toppings.  My friend Jill made a perfect cabbage salad.  My friend Marike made an authentic semolina cake, which she iced with a nougat topping that she got from Germany.  My friend Laura made incredible spring rolls.  Pat's almond-milk lattes were so popular that he basically served as an ad in the kitchen for a Nespresso Aeroccino Frother.  So many dishes, only so much room in my stomach... 

Two, Shallow Hipsters in NYC

I went to New York City last weekend and thoroughly appreciated its energy, feel and food.  Fortunately, I navigated the slushy sidewalks without slipping.  Unfortunately, water seeped through my boots and soaked my socks.  When I saw a sock shop near St. Mark's, I shot inside.  Socks of all lengths, with all sorts of designs, made of all sorts of materials crowded the wall of a room a little bigger than a nice walk-in closet.

Here's the overheard conversation between two guys working there. (A snug fit for all three of us inside of the closet-shop).
My back is to them as I look at socks.  The room is so narrow that I can't sit on the ground to try on socks without hitting either the wall of socks or the glass case with the register on top.  I'm 5'3."
Guy at the register:  "Those Russian women look beautiful at first, but then they open their mouths and are all racist and stuff."
Guy 2:  "Yeah.  They suck.  They stereotype everyone else."
Register Guy:  "They seem like they hate everyone who isn't Russian."
Guy 2:  "It's stupid.  I just like American women."
I turn around and give them a dirty look for discounting a country.  They stop talking while I face them as if I need to read their lips to follow their words.   I turn to browse the socks again.  Register Guy accepts and expands on Guy 2's rejection of women anywhere outside of America.
Register Guy:  "Well, just make sure they're real American women.  Some women around here aren't American."
Guy 2:  "That's true.  You think they're American and, then, they start talking."
Register Guy:  "Remember, though, that there are racist, backwards women in other parts of the country.  Like in Kansas or somewhere like Kansas.  We just see liberal American women around here and don't see women like those women in Kansas."
Guy 2:  "You're right.  That's -"
I turn to face the two guys again, causing Guy 2 to stop mid-sentence.  He tilts his head toward the
ceiling in the opposite direction of the register.  The guy at the register suddenly looks like he's half asleep and moves his fingers around on the counter.  I announce that I have a pair of socks to get his attention.  He looks my way and widens his eyes as if surprised.

Yes, I bought a pair of Wolverine socks despite their crazy xenophobic exchange.  I really needed something warm on my feet...  I'm sure the store owner isn't a hater...  just a person with a dream of providing public access to inexpensive, nice socks.  I feel guilty that I didn't promptly exit the store as  they belittled continents, but my feet were so cold.  I thought about pretending to have a Russian accent as I checked out.   I wonder whether they began whittling down neighborhoods in New York in which women were acceptable or not after I left.

Brunch and Stephen King

My friend Laura moved to DC from North Carolina in October.  Some of her friends came to visit her this last weekend and, so that they could meet her DC friends, she hosted a vegan brunch.  Tofu scramble, roasted veggies, muffins and cinnamon rolls from Sticky Fingers, lemon-blueberry muffins made by Fran, two kinds of empanadas made by Frank (using his grandfather's recipe for the dough), chocolate brownies with walnuts made by me and an untouched bag of hot chocolate brought by me...  (I offered to make the hot chocolate, but couldn't even convince a single person to mix the hot chocolate into their coffee. The cocoa powder just sat in the bag, unappreciated and neglected.)
Anyway, I saw a post today about how Bill Murray performs acts of random friendliness.  He apparently has crashed parties before in order to clean the dirty dishes.  He joins into fun activities with people he doesn't know.  He's so recognizable...  People love him.  I brought up another mysterious, recognizable guy during brunch yesterday: Stephen King.  Unlike with Bill Murray, I bet an average person would be spooked if Stephen King appeared in their house and headed toward a stack of dirty dishes in their kitchen.  I'm listening to the audio book "Doctor Sleep," which is a sequel to "The Shining."  So, the first shock of the book is that almost 40 years after the original, the sequel is published.  King has written something like 55 books.  And most of them are lengthy.   Still, what did happen to Danny Torrance?  Why not follow up on him as he becomes a middle-aged man?  Who didn't feel sorry for that little boy being stalked by ghosts and almost killed by his drunken dad?   "The Shining" is packed with crescendos and gruesome images that are guaranteed to haunt your dreams.   Meanwhile, "Doctor Sleep" is more laid back, offering an adagio tempo of little incident building upon little incident.

Danny Torrance tries to forget the trauma of the ghosts of the Overlook Hotel by drinking alcohol, which blurs his identity, talents, and passion.  He recovers and joins AA.  He's left with the frailties of an addict and the power of a psychic.  He was mentored as a child and now he's trying to mentor a young girl.  Ghosts wanted to use him as a child; now, some e.s.p.-sucking, soul-draining creatures want to use the young girl.  Danny and the girl aren't in direct contact, though, for the majority of the book.  The plot drifts just like a book review that provides an overview of potluck contributions and Bill Murray rumors instead of just sticking to impressions of a book.  "Doctor Sleep" reminds the reader of chilling moments from "The Shining," literally:  “The Overlook was still not done with him. Written on the mirror, not in lipstick but in blood, was a single word:  REDRUM.”   The villains in "Doctor Sleep" seem too petty, too average, and too weak.  Still, I liked the nostalgia to a certain extent and King is good at writing about psychics and power-hungry, supernatural conspirators.  I've always like Danny Torrance.
The color is off in this brunch picture, but it's the only one that I took. 

TSA Bullying

I flew from Washington, DC to Dallas, Texas to visit my family for Christmas, which also is my sister's birthday.  She has three kids.  The holiday mostly involved assembling Lego's, eating cookies, and sewing an American Girl Crafts teddy bear.  Bonus: I was thrilled to play with my parents' West Highland Terrier puppy, who was tiny, sweet, friendly, and teething.  And my family packed in the seasonal activities, such as looking at Christmas lights and attending "The Nutcracker."

The worst seasonal activity, of course, is killing time in the holiday rush at the airport.  I left my parents' house with the sunrise on Saturday.  I divided wrapped latte mugs from my mom and other difficult-to-transport gifts between a carry-on bag and a check-in bag.  My dad dropped me off at Dallas Love Field Airport at 6:45 a.m. for my 8:05 a.m. flight.  I waited in line to check in my bag for almost 30 minutes, trying to convince myself that I wasn't impatient as I stood there.  Finally, I escaped that line to wait in another line at the security checkpoint.  I debated with myself as to whether it was cliche or pretentious for me to dwell on how those snaking, twisting, circling lines would belong in a modern adaptation of Dante's "Inferno."

BUT, then, something unexpected happened, interrupting my reverie.  A TSA agent swabbed my hand and accused me of being a terrorist.  I'd put lotion on my face and hands as part of my morning routine after washing my face.  Somehow, my hand tested positive for a chemical (the agent didn't tell me what chemical), requiring further analysis.  This TSA agent, according to his badge, Agent Brown,  speculated that the chemical was related to bomb making.  He pushed me around and shouted at me, treating me as his prisoner, in front of all of the other people waiting in line.  The other airline customers didn't have anything better to do, so they all stared at us.  Agent Brown took me to an empty area, where he continued to bark nonsensically at me, finally directing me to take off my boots and sit.  I asked him where my carry-on bag was at one point.  With a tilt of his head and a sneer, he hissed that he had my bag right there and the bag was the least of my concerns.  I couldn't see my bag.  I confess that I showed my irritation: "You've to got to be kidding. Are you going to make me miss my plane? Because you aren't an airline employee, can you help me get on another flight or how does that work? Usually airlines give vouchers when they cause you to miss a flight." With wide eyes, he yelled: "Keep your hands where I can see them Terrorist and shut up."

Agent Brown then lead me drill-sergeant-style in front of him.   He puffed out his chest; he had me - 5'3" and under 100 pounds - under his authority.   He took me into a private room and deposited me with two other TSA ladies.  In my fear about missing my flight, I disregarded that bullies like to exert control.  The one agent started telling me how she was going to do a special pat down.  I interrupted her, saying that I knew she was going to be invasive but to just do whatever would make the search go faster.  My focus on getting to my plane enraged her, inspiring her to yell about how she had to tell me what she was going to do and I couldn't interrupt her and some other unhinged nonsense...  Maybe she felt like my concern for speed over privacy made me seem like I felt too in control?  I decided to shut up like Agent Brown had ordered.  The lady TSA agent forcefully stuck her hand inside of my bra.  She even inserted her finger in the middle part of the bra between the cups and yanked it forward a few times.  The other lady TSA agent searched my carry-on bag.  She was polite and respectful.  When she found the wasabi peanuts that I'd bought at Central Market, a great Texas grocery store chain, she commented that they taste great.  I responded that the peanuts are much better than the peas.  I told her that I like the crunchy coating on the peanuts.  The touchy TSA agent looked irritated with the peanuts versus peas conversation and left to see how the chemical analysis was going.  While she was gone, the bag-searching agent apologized for her co-worker's yelling.  The apologetic agent called her co-worker "unprofessional" and her co-worker's demeanor "uncalled for."

Finally, the test results came back, resulting in an apology to me for the delay.  The TSA agent had tossed even the fragile latte mugs from my mom haphazardly back into my bag.  I didn't have the time, though, to organize my belongings. I at least tucked one mug in a t-shirt and hoped for the best.  Immediately after TSA cleared me, I ran to my gate.  My boarding group had just started filing on to the plane when I got there.  So, yes, I made my flight.

I want to pass along this warning:  lotions and soap can result in a preliminary positive to the stupid chemical swab that TSA is randomly performing on passengers.  TSA will eventually catch the mistake, though.  Regardless, for now, I'll avoid soap and lotion if I'm flying.  

P.S.  The first question my mom asked me when I told her about the TSA incident:  "Did the mugs make it?"  My mom's mugs didn't break.