Ross E. Lockhart's Blog, page 92
November 26, 2010
Randy's Pot Pies
Randy made pot pies for dinner tonight. Sure, they're not your traditional Thanksgiving fare, but we're doing that tomorrow night at Janine's house. A good reason for family to gather and feast, in both cases. Here's a glimpse behind the scenes...
Randy readies his herbs for chopping.
Before the top crust goes on: fresh vegetables and a Béchamel sauce
The photographer tips his hand.
Randy readies his top crust.
And the top crust goes on. Rustico style.
Fresh out of the oven. One vegetarian, the other chicken.
"Can I have a slice of pie?" asks Charlie. "Please oh please oh please."
Randy readies his herbs for chopping.
Before the top crust goes on: fresh vegetables and a Béchamel sauce
The photographer tips his hand.
Randy readies his top crust.
And the top crust goes on. Rustico style.
Fresh out of the oven. One vegetarian, the other chicken.
"Can I have a slice of pie?" asks Charlie. "Please oh please oh please."
November 25, 2010
The Green-Eyed Beast Called Love
(It's story time, kiddos...)
On Thursday night, we head up to Orange County, to a club called the Mise en Scène, to catch a solo show by an old friend of Terrri named Victor E. He's one of those experimental guys, paunchy in jeans and a Destined to Fail T-shirt. Black, of course. His long hair is thinning, losing the battle with his bald spot, like Friar fucking Tuck.
Victor has a technician's approach to music theory, a mad scientist murmuring over guitar pedals instead of test tubes. For nearly an hour, he tortures an instrument that looks like a cross between a Gibson SG and a ShopVac, persuading from it an anguished array of howls, shrieks, and groans.
A few minutes after he abandons the whimpering instrument, stalking offstage in cacophonic abandon, the house DJ cuts the sound, throwing on some generic beatbox twelve-inch dance record, a panacea for the soon-gyrating crowd. Terrri leads us toward the back of the club, through a pair of leather-padded doors marked private, where Victor is standing beside a corner booth. "Glad you made it," he says. "Damn it's good to see you, Ter."
We press around the tiny table in the nightclub's offset private lounge. Victor scoots in, takes the middle, then Terrri slides across the red vinyl, right up next to him, throwing her right arm around his shoulders and embracing him, hard. He grins, a gawkish, yellowed smile. I push in next to Terrri, sitting on the outside, then press my hand against her knee, giving it a slight squeeze. She reaches down with her left hand, taps the back of mine twice, gives it a light scratch with her painted fingernails, then wraps her fingers around mine and squeezes tight. Across from me, guarding the other end of the upholstered horseshoe, Johnny Rainbow, on the inside next to Victor, compulsively taps his pack of Lucky Strikes against the table's faux-marble surface. Maxxy Blue, gingerly seated on the cushion's edge, adjusts his makeup in a tiger-striped light-up compact.
"Fuckin'-A, Vic," purrs Terrri. "What do you call that thing?"
Victor grins wider, brushes his meaty right hand through his stringy blonde hair. His gray eyes sparkle with pride. "I'm calling it an Agit-Aur. Half pure agitation, half beat-up guitar. I cobbled it together from the remains of the Adrenelator, took me weeks to figure out how to make it squawk like that. You dig it?"
"Fucking sublime," says Terrri.
Across the table, Johnny Rainbow nods in agreement while lighting his cigarette, packed to the point that its leading half inch is but a hollow paper tube. "Impressive," he says. "You rocked it."
"It was crunchy, meaty-good," says Maxxy, glancing back over his shoulder before turning back to his compact.
Victor throws his head back and laughs. "Yeah, good shit," I start to say, trailing off when I realize that the conversation's moved on without me.
Victor has turned, his left hand rests next to Terrri's cheek, touching close. "Christ," he says. "It's been too fucking long."
Terrri bats her eyelashes, mock-demurely, overstated and dramatic, then sighs, genuine. "Yeah," she says. "It's good to see you, too."
A waitress presses through the door, and for a moment a burst from the club's electro-pop fill music intrudes upon our scene. Maxxy clicks his compact shut, and announces, "I'm going to go out there and dance, dance, dance." He stands up, makes an unnecessary show of smoothing out his leather miniskirt, and disappears through the door back into the noisy club. The waitress, attractive from across the room but worn and weather-beaten beneath her caked-on makeup, approaches our table and takes our order: a pitcher of Newcastle, a tray of assorted appetizers, and a bottle of Buckler for Victor. Once she, too, has vanished back into the world of noise, Victor leans back, looks at Terrri, and says, "So, what brings you up the river to Hell-A, anyway?"
Terrri drums her fingernails against the tabletop. "What, Colonel Kurtz," she says. "Can't I just make a social call? Check up on an old friend?"
"We both know you're not like that," says Victor. "You're only here because you want something."
Terrri sighs, glances down at the table, then over at Johnny Rainbow. Johnny holds out the pack of cigarettes, which Terrri takes. She plucks one from the pack, hands the pack back to Johnny, then places the cigarette between her lips. I start to reach for my lighter, but Victor is quicker, producing a book of paper matches, striking one, and lighting Terrri's cigarette. Johnny tucks the pack back into his shirt pocket. "Okay," she says. "To business it is."
Terrri takes a long drag from her cigarette, exhales a plume of smoke into the air, then holds it out to me without looking over. I take it. "Vic," she says. "We're about three-quarters of the way into recording the new record out at Southern Cross. Johnny's written cello parts on two songs. Billy Markus from the label brought in some skeezy little chick that he's probably fucking to play 'em, but she was terrible, no tone at all, big waste of time and money. We could overdub them with synth, but I was hoping to talk you into coming down and re-tracking the parts. We're already over budget, so it'll only be scale, but you'll get full credit in the liner notes." She touches his shoulder gently with her right hand. "Please, for me?"
Victor crosses his arms in front of his chest, pushing his already pronounced biceps forward, then bites his lower lip as if thinking. "Who's running the boards?" he asks.
"Denny Lane," she answers.
"He's good," volunteers Johnny. I nod, even though I think the guy's an unbearable asshole.
"Yeah," says Victor. "I know him. He's got a rep, but I don't have any problems with the guy."
The waitress presses back through the noisy door, bearing tray and pitcher. She sets down the pitcher, platter of miscellaneous appetizers, five plates, four glasses, stack of napkins, and Victor's Buckler. "Need anything else, hon?" she asks, of nobody in particular.
"No, thanks, we're good," says Johnny. He picks up a steaming deep-fried cheese stick, swirls it about in something vaguely resembling ranch dressing, then chomps into it. Johnny exhales sharply. "Fuck, that's hot!" he exclaims, grabbing a glass, half-filling it from the pitcher, and quickly tossing it back. Terrri looks up at the waitress and smiles, rolls her eyes, then turns her attention back to Victor.
"Suit yourselves," says the waitress, before vanishing through the door. I fill a glass for myself, one for Terrri, and top up Johnny's. Johnny quickly picks his up, drinking to soothe his scorched tongue.
Terrri touches Victor's shoulder again. "So, you'll do it?" she asks.
"When would you want me?" he responds, taking a swig from his bottle.
"Next week?"
"Too soon," replies Victor. "Caff's got doctor's appointments like every single day. I could probably squeeze in a day or two week after, get the nurse to watch her. I'd need to check."
Terrri picks up her beer and takes a swig, then sets the lipstick-marked glass down. "Shit," she says, looking down at the table. "I'm sorry. I'm just so caught up in my own shit right now. I really should have asked how she's doing earlier."
Victor reaches out with his left hand, takes Terrri's chin in it, forcing eye contact. The silver ring on his finger glints in spite of the lounge's low light. "She's good," he says, letting go. "At least as good as can be expected. The new meds seem to be helping, taking the edge off her pain. Some days are good, some are bad."
Victor brushes the back of his hand against the corner of his right eye. "You know, she got me through my worst, got me clean, got me my life, my music back." He takes another swig of the Buckler. "It's the least I can do, 'for better or worse,' you know."
Johnny gets up from the table. "I need to hit the head," he announces before briskly crossing the lounge and exiting through the door.
Terrri reaches back, takes my hand in hers, squeezes it tight. "She loves you, Vic," she says. "You know she does."
"Yeah, I know," he says, brushing his hand against his eyes again. "It's just rough. You knew her, so adventurous, so alive. Now it wears her out just moving from the bed to the couch." He drives his fist into the tabletop. "Christ, they can't even figure out what's wrong with her."
Terrri lets go of my hand, reaches forward, touches Victor's shoulder. "She loves you, Vic," she repeats. "You know she does." I run my hand up Terrri's back to her neck, feeling her long hair brush my hand as I ascend.
When I touch her neck, she looks back, shooting me a gelicidal glance, so I let go, reach for my glass, and drain it. "I'm going to go find Johnny and Maxxy," I announce, then head out, alone, into the noise and commotion of the club.
***
We drive almost all the way back to Garageland without talking, without radio, Johnny Rainbow behind the wheel of the van, Terrri staring out the passenger window, and me squeezed in between them. Behind us, Maxxy Blue sleeps, stretched out on the back seat, occasionally interrupting the silence with his murmuring and snores. Finally, Terrri speaks. "Christ, that was depressing," she says.
"Yeah," agrees Johnny. "But at least he's going to do it."
"So it was worth the trip," I volunteer.
"I guess," says Terrri. She takes my hand in hers, holds it tight. "I'd just hate to be in his spot." She frowns, looks down, then looks up again, smiling. "Hope I die before I get old," she says. Around us, the lights of the freeway fall past, disappearing into the distance, alone and uncaring.
"The Green-Eyed Beast Called Love," copyright 2010 by Ross E. Lockhart. Want a little more of Terrri Terrrors and Robbie Snow? Check out "Like a Leper Messiah" over at Diet Soap.
On Thursday night, we head up to Orange County, to a club called the Mise en Scène, to catch a solo show by an old friend of Terrri named Victor E. He's one of those experimental guys, paunchy in jeans and a Destined to Fail T-shirt. Black, of course. His long hair is thinning, losing the battle with his bald spot, like Friar fucking Tuck.
Victor has a technician's approach to music theory, a mad scientist murmuring over guitar pedals instead of test tubes. For nearly an hour, he tortures an instrument that looks like a cross between a Gibson SG and a ShopVac, persuading from it an anguished array of howls, shrieks, and groans.
A few minutes after he abandons the whimpering instrument, stalking offstage in cacophonic abandon, the house DJ cuts the sound, throwing on some generic beatbox twelve-inch dance record, a panacea for the soon-gyrating crowd. Terrri leads us toward the back of the club, through a pair of leather-padded doors marked private, where Victor is standing beside a corner booth. "Glad you made it," he says. "Damn it's good to see you, Ter."
We press around the tiny table in the nightclub's offset private lounge. Victor scoots in, takes the middle, then Terrri slides across the red vinyl, right up next to him, throwing her right arm around his shoulders and embracing him, hard. He grins, a gawkish, yellowed smile. I push in next to Terrri, sitting on the outside, then press my hand against her knee, giving it a slight squeeze. She reaches down with her left hand, taps the back of mine twice, gives it a light scratch with her painted fingernails, then wraps her fingers around mine and squeezes tight. Across from me, guarding the other end of the upholstered horseshoe, Johnny Rainbow, on the inside next to Victor, compulsively taps his pack of Lucky Strikes against the table's faux-marble surface. Maxxy Blue, gingerly seated on the cushion's edge, adjusts his makeup in a tiger-striped light-up compact.
"Fuckin'-A, Vic," purrs Terrri. "What do you call that thing?"
Victor grins wider, brushes his meaty right hand through his stringy blonde hair. His gray eyes sparkle with pride. "I'm calling it an Agit-Aur. Half pure agitation, half beat-up guitar. I cobbled it together from the remains of the Adrenelator, took me weeks to figure out how to make it squawk like that. You dig it?"
"Fucking sublime," says Terrri.
Across the table, Johnny Rainbow nods in agreement while lighting his cigarette, packed to the point that its leading half inch is but a hollow paper tube. "Impressive," he says. "You rocked it."
"It was crunchy, meaty-good," says Maxxy, glancing back over his shoulder before turning back to his compact.
Victor throws his head back and laughs. "Yeah, good shit," I start to say, trailing off when I realize that the conversation's moved on without me.
Victor has turned, his left hand rests next to Terrri's cheek, touching close. "Christ," he says. "It's been too fucking long."
Terrri bats her eyelashes, mock-demurely, overstated and dramatic, then sighs, genuine. "Yeah," she says. "It's good to see you, too."
A waitress presses through the door, and for a moment a burst from the club's electro-pop fill music intrudes upon our scene. Maxxy clicks his compact shut, and announces, "I'm going to go out there and dance, dance, dance." He stands up, makes an unnecessary show of smoothing out his leather miniskirt, and disappears through the door back into the noisy club. The waitress, attractive from across the room but worn and weather-beaten beneath her caked-on makeup, approaches our table and takes our order: a pitcher of Newcastle, a tray of assorted appetizers, and a bottle of Buckler for Victor. Once she, too, has vanished back into the world of noise, Victor leans back, looks at Terrri, and says, "So, what brings you up the river to Hell-A, anyway?"
Terrri drums her fingernails against the tabletop. "What, Colonel Kurtz," she says. "Can't I just make a social call? Check up on an old friend?"
"We both know you're not like that," says Victor. "You're only here because you want something."
Terrri sighs, glances down at the table, then over at Johnny Rainbow. Johnny holds out the pack of cigarettes, which Terrri takes. She plucks one from the pack, hands the pack back to Johnny, then places the cigarette between her lips. I start to reach for my lighter, but Victor is quicker, producing a book of paper matches, striking one, and lighting Terrri's cigarette. Johnny tucks the pack back into his shirt pocket. "Okay," she says. "To business it is."
Terrri takes a long drag from her cigarette, exhales a plume of smoke into the air, then holds it out to me without looking over. I take it. "Vic," she says. "We're about three-quarters of the way into recording the new record out at Southern Cross. Johnny's written cello parts on two songs. Billy Markus from the label brought in some skeezy little chick that he's probably fucking to play 'em, but she was terrible, no tone at all, big waste of time and money. We could overdub them with synth, but I was hoping to talk you into coming down and re-tracking the parts. We're already over budget, so it'll only be scale, but you'll get full credit in the liner notes." She touches his shoulder gently with her right hand. "Please, for me?"
Victor crosses his arms in front of his chest, pushing his already pronounced biceps forward, then bites his lower lip as if thinking. "Who's running the boards?" he asks.
"Denny Lane," she answers.
"He's good," volunteers Johnny. I nod, even though I think the guy's an unbearable asshole.
"Yeah," says Victor. "I know him. He's got a rep, but I don't have any problems with the guy."
The waitress presses back through the noisy door, bearing tray and pitcher. She sets down the pitcher, platter of miscellaneous appetizers, five plates, four glasses, stack of napkins, and Victor's Buckler. "Need anything else, hon?" she asks, of nobody in particular.
"No, thanks, we're good," says Johnny. He picks up a steaming deep-fried cheese stick, swirls it about in something vaguely resembling ranch dressing, then chomps into it. Johnny exhales sharply. "Fuck, that's hot!" he exclaims, grabbing a glass, half-filling it from the pitcher, and quickly tossing it back. Terrri looks up at the waitress and smiles, rolls her eyes, then turns her attention back to Victor.
"Suit yourselves," says the waitress, before vanishing through the door. I fill a glass for myself, one for Terrri, and top up Johnny's. Johnny quickly picks his up, drinking to soothe his scorched tongue.
Terrri touches Victor's shoulder again. "So, you'll do it?" she asks.
"When would you want me?" he responds, taking a swig from his bottle.
"Next week?"
"Too soon," replies Victor. "Caff's got doctor's appointments like every single day. I could probably squeeze in a day or two week after, get the nurse to watch her. I'd need to check."
Terrri picks up her beer and takes a swig, then sets the lipstick-marked glass down. "Shit," she says, looking down at the table. "I'm sorry. I'm just so caught up in my own shit right now. I really should have asked how she's doing earlier."
Victor reaches out with his left hand, takes Terrri's chin in it, forcing eye contact. The silver ring on his finger glints in spite of the lounge's low light. "She's good," he says, letting go. "At least as good as can be expected. The new meds seem to be helping, taking the edge off her pain. Some days are good, some are bad."
Victor brushes the back of his hand against the corner of his right eye. "You know, she got me through my worst, got me clean, got me my life, my music back." He takes another swig of the Buckler. "It's the least I can do, 'for better or worse,' you know."
Johnny gets up from the table. "I need to hit the head," he announces before briskly crossing the lounge and exiting through the door.
Terrri reaches back, takes my hand in hers, squeezes it tight. "She loves you, Vic," she says. "You know she does."
"Yeah, I know," he says, brushing his hand against his eyes again. "It's just rough. You knew her, so adventurous, so alive. Now it wears her out just moving from the bed to the couch." He drives his fist into the tabletop. "Christ, they can't even figure out what's wrong with her."
Terrri lets go of my hand, reaches forward, touches Victor's shoulder. "She loves you, Vic," she repeats. "You know she does." I run my hand up Terrri's back to her neck, feeling her long hair brush my hand as I ascend.
When I touch her neck, she looks back, shooting me a gelicidal glance, so I let go, reach for my glass, and drain it. "I'm going to go find Johnny and Maxxy," I announce, then head out, alone, into the noise and commotion of the club.
***
We drive almost all the way back to Garageland without talking, without radio, Johnny Rainbow behind the wheel of the van, Terrri staring out the passenger window, and me squeezed in between them. Behind us, Maxxy Blue sleeps, stretched out on the back seat, occasionally interrupting the silence with his murmuring and snores. Finally, Terrri speaks. "Christ, that was depressing," she says.
"Yeah," agrees Johnny. "But at least he's going to do it."
"So it was worth the trip," I volunteer.
"I guess," says Terrri. She takes my hand in hers, holds it tight. "I'd just hate to be in his spot." She frowns, looks down, then looks up again, smiling. "Hope I die before I get old," she says. Around us, the lights of the freeway fall past, disappearing into the distance, alone and uncaring.
"The Green-Eyed Beast Called Love," copyright 2010 by Ross E. Lockhart. Want a little more of Terrri Terrrors and Robbie Snow? Check out "Like a Leper Messiah" over at Diet Soap.
November 24, 2010
Maddie and the AT-AT
While Jennifer was out performing Black Friday reconnaissance with Jan, Dodi, and Jill, the AT-AT decided to do a little bit of exploring. And, since Jay did ask for more pictures...
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
"Glad to see you finally made it out to the kitchen, AT-AT. Can I call you 'At' for short? Let's get a few house rules out of the way. The left side of the couch is mine. Don't drink out of my water bowl. Don't chew on any books."
"And no peeing in corners!"
"All right, let's see what you've got..."
"Full crew, check."
"Yikes! I hate when speederbikes fly out of my butt."
"A spot for a door gunner..."
"That's Goji, by the way. Goji as in Godzilla!"
Obligatory arty profile shot.
Bonus pic. Post-Drink, with bows.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
"Glad to see you finally made it out to the kitchen, AT-AT. Can I call you 'At' for short? Let's get a few house rules out of the way. The left side of the couch is mine. Don't drink out of my water bowl. Don't chew on any books."
"And no peeing in corners!"
"All right, let's see what you've got..."
"Full crew, check."
"Yikes! I hate when speederbikes fly out of my butt."
"A spot for a door gunner..."
"That's Goji, by the way. Goji as in Godzilla!"
Obligatory arty profile shot.
Bonus pic. Post-Drink, with bows.
November 22, 2010
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp...
"I got an AT-AT," says Maddie. "And it's taller than me!"
"So give me a treat or I'm gonna stomp all over your army men."
Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.
November 21, 2010
November 14, 2010
November 13, 2010
Spotted on my way to Our Best Friends this morning...
Since everybody is busy setting up for tonight's Evening for the Animals, Maddie and I are holding down the fort at Our Best Friends. Need tickets? Come on by!
And on our walk over, we made the following esoteric discovery:
The black-eyed, rain-soaked Hand of God points downward...
...to reveal the Key to the Universe.
Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.
From the Island of Lost Photos
Magical bubbles in the park.
Aslan the Giant Puppy.
Maddie unboxes The Last Hieroglyph.
Randall on the roof.
The Thing in the window.
"You gonna eat that?"
November 11, 2010
November 10, 2010
Dog Portraits (and more)
I'm working from home today, so around eleven, Maddie and I took a break and wandered over to Our Best Friends. I brought along the camera, so here are a few dog portraits:
Maddie in Walnut Park
Emma Parsley with pumpkin in her whiskers.
Hannah, also with pumpkin in her whiskers.
Bonus Pic: Maddie in Walnut Park (Alternate)
Bonus Pic: Maddie loves laundry day
If that's not enough canine cuteness in one spot for you, I've also posted pictures from the latest Small Dog Social on the Our Best Friends Photobucket, Facebook, and Webpage. Here's a teaser:
(Izzy the Chihuahua says, "Click on through to visit Photobucket!")
And finally, if you're looking for something to do in Petaluma this weekend, why not check out the 12th Annual Evening for the Animals?
FOPAS Presents the 12th Annual Evening for the Animals
Food, Music, and Fun.
Saturday, November 13 at 6 pm
Hermann Sons Hall - 860 Western Ave - Petaluma
$20 Advance / $25 At Door
Tickets available at:
Our Best Friends - 301 2nd St - 707-763-6560
Petaluma Animal Shelter - 870 Hopper St - 707-778-4396
Maddie in Walnut Park
Emma Parsley with pumpkin in her whiskers.
Hannah, also with pumpkin in her whiskers.
Bonus Pic: Maddie in Walnut Park (Alternate)
Bonus Pic: Maddie loves laundry day
If that's not enough canine cuteness in one spot for you, I've also posted pictures from the latest Small Dog Social on the Our Best Friends Photobucket, Facebook, and Webpage. Here's a teaser:
(Izzy the Chihuahua says, "Click on through to visit Photobucket!")
And finally, if you're looking for something to do in Petaluma this weekend, why not check out the 12th Annual Evening for the Animals?
FOPAS Presents the 12th Annual Evening for the Animals
Food, Music, and Fun.
Saturday, November 13 at 6 pm
Hermann Sons Hall - 860 Western Ave - Petaluma
$20 Advance / $25 At Door
Tickets available at:
Our Best Friends - 301 2nd St - 707-763-6560
Petaluma Animal Shelter - 870 Hopper St - 707-778-4396
