Other Words 2009

November 6 – 8, I attended the Other Words Conference sponsored by the Florida Literary Arts Coalition and Flagler College (http://www.floridarts.org/). This literary seminar and writer’s workshop is held over a long weekend in ambient St. Augustine, Florida.
St. Augustine, continental North America’s oldest city, is a charming, if asymmetric, collage of colonial Spanish, French and English buildings, set amongst monuments to Victorian robber barons, mid-century modern Florida, and sad1970s attempts at urban planning. Bridges soar, lighthouses haunt, museums punctuate, Formica proliferates, and tourists wander like beasts off the Serengeti (belching, running, wailing, and circling the crumbling Castillo de San Marco).
Flagler College is a gem in the diadem of Florida’s Victorian heritage. The juxtaposition of sandy coquina walls and dark russet terracotta ornamentation is striking. The dining hall was replete with Tiffany windows, and the faux filigree of a different age. The atmosphere of these hallowed halls lends an air of academic dignity to the conference dialogue.
Highpoints of the conference included:
- Frank Overview of the Biases and Assumptions of Literary Editors
- Discussion of the Long Poem
- Introductions to Breakout Poets
- Community Outreach by the Poetry Society and Crazyhorse to their respective communities
- Side by Side comparisons of Literary products from the Florida Review, Tampa Review, Anhinga Press, Miami Poetry Collective, Greensboro Review, Crazyhorse
- Collaborative work with other artists and media.
Best Speakers Included:

Elena Karina Byrne, Regional Director of the Poetry Society of America in Los Angeles, and Carol Ann Davis, Co-editor of Crazyhorse, spoke about fostering a literary community in Charleston and Los Angeles. Both have done so much for specific communities in their respective literary capitals. I was inspired to make a larger effort in Central Florida.

Ira Sukrungruang, co-editor of University of South Florida's Sweet, read an excerpts of his writing on being overweight in different genres. He is a powerful and articulate speaker, and his discussion of presentation and genre was very insightful.

Rhett Iseman Trull read from her collection, The Real Warnings. Wow! So young, and such a confident voice. She is a rising literary star, as is Ken Hart with his collection Uh Oh Time. Both won the Anhinga Prize for Poetry . . . and it leads me to look to this publisher for more great work.

Meghan Brinson spoke on the long poem in contemporary literature, and her efforts to coordinate and link found long poems on the Internet.

It had been a long time, since I felt so integrated into a community of like-minded, creative and genuinely good people. Other Words positively reinforces all the sacrifices made in pursuit of a literary life.

Ghosts of Color

Last weekend I flew to New Hampshire. It was the apex of autumn. Villages of white clapboard stood watch over slate cemetaries, pumpkin patches and wreaths of corn.

The pretense of my trip was the wedding of a lifelong friend, Charlotte, to her beau and (now husband) Dwayne. The wedding was moving and relaxed, punctuated with excellent food, the brilliance of a hardwood deciduous forest aflame with color, and two families uniting through their children. Wonderful.

Icing on the cake, was wandering with lifelong friend, Joy, into the trails of the White Mountains, the farmstands of Hollis. The beauty and happiness that is New Hampshire washed over me like a memory.

On Columbus Day, I set off alone to haunt the places where I had once laughed, and loved. I set off down remote trails, photographing the trees, streams, and lakes south of the Franconia Notch. My subconscious percolated the past into the present, using the timeless consistency of the autumn woods as a bridge.

Here, once upon a time, I had been fully present. I loved life deeply . . . forgot that I was vulnerable . . . and then suddenly was vulnerable. I had wanted to reclaim the colors, the granite, the trails, the mountains. I had wanted their sensation to belong to me in a new context. However, everywhere that I went the past presented itself.

I realized that in everything, every day, one must choose to live fully present and completely vulnerable, regardless of the consequences. The option is to spend your life sheltering yourself, mitigating risk and pursuing control. This option might be safer, but the memories would be of fears and strategies, instead of experiences and offerings. In any case, it was too late for me. New Hampshire is a place I poured myself out, and there I was on fire in the trees.

The Fallen

by William Drew Weinbrenner

In careful folds

on rounded mounds

stand forest clouds

of ruby red.

Through and under

circling ceilings,

brittle brown

and dead.

Shuffled feet

crush and crunch.

The puzzle plowed

to mossy bed.

We're m i l e s a p a r t.

Our hearts resound.

But not a word

was really said.

Beauty pulls

a vacancy,

wrapped in wool,

a single thread.

Three years distance

I put between

unravels

in my head.

For Immediate Release!

Central Florida Poet Wins Gold Medal at FPA 2009 President’s Book Awards

Florida Publishers Association awards Central Florida poet William Drew Weinbrenner gold medal for anthology EAST OF POURING during 2009 President’s Book Awards

Sarasota, Florida USA (Ahewlu Productions, LLC) September 26, 2009 – The Florida Publishers Association awarded Central Florida poet William Drew Weinbrenner a gold medal for poetry during the FPA 2009 President’s Book Awards banquet at the Helmsley Sandcastle Hotel this evening. Weinbrenner received the medal for his 27-year anthology EAST OF POURING, Collected Poetry 1980 – 2007.

EAST OF POURING is a collection of eight chapbooks developed between 1980 and 2007. Its author, William Drew Weinbrenner hails from Ormond Beach, Florida, where his early work is situated. But the poetry, like Weinbrenner, eventually circles the earth, describing all seven continents and his search for love and peace during the advent of the 21st century.

With the help of his father, W. D. WEINBRENNER wrote his first story at the age of six. He was introduced to poetry, drama, music, and design through the United States public education system. In 1981 Drew won the Florida Council of Teachers of English (FCTE) Contest for the autobiographical short story "He’ll Get Over It," and then consecutively won the FCTE Contest for poetry in 1983 and 1984. He is a University of Florida, Florida Player, and received his Bachelor of Fine Arts in Filmic Writing from the University of Southern California, Lucas School of Cinema-Television. By the time he was forty, he had visited all seven continents, lived abroad, and forged a career as a technical writer. Throughout his life, he continued to write about his eccentric, dramatic, and often comic experiences around the world. East of Pouring, his first book, is a retrospective of twenty-seven years of poetry, written from ages fifteen to forty-one. Drew is a musician, writer, poet, screenwriter, photographer and designer who lives and works in Orlando, Florida.

EAST OF POURING, Collected Poetry 1980 – 2007 is available at Urban Think! Bookstore in Downtown Orlando and can be ordered online from Barnes and Nobles:
ISNB-13: 978-0-9817880-0-5
Title: EAST OF POURING, Collected Poetry 1980 – 2007
Author: William Drew Weinbrenner
Illustrator: David Hunter
Pages: 360
Price: $22 USD Hardcover
Publisher: Ahewlu Productions, LLC
Publication Date: November 2008

Contact via: dweinbre at ja who daught calm (spelled this way to foil a spate of spam)

This Blog: http://drewskidoo.blogspot.com/
Florida Publishers Association: http://www.flbookpub.org/

###

Auld Langs, Bitte (or is it Old and Bitter)

Last weekend was my . . . cough . . . 25th high school reunion. . . . Wheez . . . I cannot believe that 25 years has passed. I remember 1984 as though it were yesterday.

Returning to Ormond Beach, I was in awe. What a beautiful place I'd grown up in. The town is truly beautiful - an oaky jungle that spans three peninsulas, backed up to the Atlantic Ocean.

The favorite thing I did all weekend, was to swim in the 72 degree water, and get a sun burn on my vampire technical writer skin. It was a thrill to be alive, in the rolling summer saltwater, to feel the sand, and smell the ocean. I was invigorated.

Ironically, during my youth in Ormond Beach, I couldn't wait to escape. I believed that the outside world held adventure and wisdom for me . . . and I'm sad to admit that I never appreciated who I was and where I was when I was young.

Knowing who I am now may have helped me to steele myself and enjoy the class reunion. Although most of my very closest high school friends could not make it to the reunion (... and as an aside, I'm still in touch with most of them and visit them regularly...), it was nice to re-meet familiar faces 25 years later.

The children who were my peers, were now the adults who were my peers. They had spouses and children - some who were now in high school (ouch!). I forgave the bullys, admired the cheerleaders, laughed with the generous of spirit, and simply was who I was, where I was. I think, along with the book, that I have come to peace with my past. It has closure and structure. I have brought order out of the chaos of random teenage experiences.

I'm also glad to believe that my best days lie ahead of me, instead of behind me. I hope to find a spouse, to live more adventures and make a difference. Auld Lang signe, indeed.

My Red Chair Affair

For the purposes of promoting the artistic efforts of Ahewlu Productions, we decided to participate in the Red Chair Project's silent auction. Participants in this silent auction decorate a small childrens chair from IKEA and provide an artistic experience for the auction winner.

At first it would seem obvious, that I should do a poetry reading from East of Pouring as my artistic offering . . . until it occured to me that few people in Orlando, Florida are going to want me to come to their house and read poetry from my "head in the oven" period. Slightly more, may enjoy erotic gay poetry . . . but I've sworn of Bridal Showers . . . since "the incident." (joking)

What could I do to make poetry . . . sexier?

Looking in the mirror, it was clear that I probably would not be able to lose 25 pounds before September 19th, so the whole stripper pole, hot oil rubdown and elaborate puppet show idea will have to wait for next year (yeah, that's the ticket).

I finally decided that I make killer sangria . . . and that if I was successful in getting my patrons drunk they, sedated, would be more likely to sit through a poetry reading . . . and if the heckling got to bad, I could at least outrun them. If the event became superlatively bad, then I could as a last resort . . . join them in inebriation - and care a lot less about how I've suffered for my art.

I submitted my idea, and wonder of wonders I was invited to join the silent auction. I was given three weeks to decorate a red chair. No problem right? No. Problem.

My red chair took every minute of three weeks, and was scaled back twice to adhere to the laws of the space-time continuum.

First I had thought that I would cover the chair with text from my book, and then have the elements of sangria orbiting the chair on very thin wire. My chair would be the magical chair of fruits with poetry by fruits. Heck, maybe Carmen Miranda would buy the chair, and I could read her her rights.

The first reality check was painting a white chair red. The chair absorbed red paint like a sponge, so that many coats were necessary. And have you ever considered how many surfaces there are on a chair. It's a cubist nightmare. Painting the chair red took two weeks. I realized it was going to take every fiber of my being to get text on the chair, so I jettisoned the flying fruit and committed to high quality text alone.

The second reality check was decal transferring text to the chair. Oy, veh. The text had to be printed as a mirror reflection, so that when it was applied to the chair it ended up right-side out. Microsoft Word does not enable mirror text. So I had to type all poems in Paintbrush and invert the text as graphic. Once printed on the decal material, the double adhesive text had to be surgically removed from wax paper and placed on the chair with tweezers.

One poem and I was out! I had two days to finish, and had only covered half of the seat with text. . . The book title was inadvertently glued to the newspaper on the coffee table.

I retreated to Plan 3: The white paint pen. This for the most part worked . . . but imbued the chair with the atmosphere of a subway train, instead of the throne of poetry and fruit I'd previously envisioned. Sigh.

But art is about manifesting ideals as physical, tangible objects. Successful artists respond with pragmatism to the pitfalls of the physical world. So, in the end the chair is more than a compromise . . . it was a learning experience. Stay tuned, to hear who the final winner of my Poetry and Sangria event is . . . and what the chair "went" for.

Except in Hurricane Season . . .

These things just come to me out of the ether. I post them. I alter them once in awhile. But let's face it. I'm a magnet for funny stuff:

Exhibit 1: Disney Solicitations.

*altered for context.

Before anyone protests, if you know me . . . you have a fairy godbrother . . . and let's leave it at that. :-)

I'm having a bad day . . . all week.

I'm having a very bad day . . . all week.

On Tuesday, I thought I was coming down with something. I started coughing while at work. Once at work though, you're in. My company's attitude is, if you could drag your self in in the first place, you are probably not sick. So in short, employees become sick during their own time. At work, your germs should be doing something constructive . . . or my team lead will find something for them to do.

But after a bit of hacking in contiguous cubeland (or is it contagious cubeland) . . . my co-workers, on the brink of their summer vacations, kindly suggested I take my collapsing respiratory system out to the parking lot. I headed home . . . thinking to myself . . . well this will be nice: Finally, an afternoon to catch up on all the things I'm running behind on!

As I commuted home unicorns ate puffy cloud pudding and whinnied 'til they wet themselves. Silly rabbit, they said!

Within seconds of reaching my sanctuary, the respiratory virus hit will full karmic velocity. Not only will I *not* be doing anything productive this afternoon . . . but I will spend most of the next four days trying to cough my back out my left nostril.

Where I could have picked this illness up? I had just returned from South America, via Miami Airport. I was in the Amazon rain forest and climbing at altitude in the Andes. Hmmm. I work with people from all over the world . . . but no, neither environment seemed connected to the cough. Then I remembered: Disney World. I had been there the first weekend in June, and was very likely exposed to disease carrying midgets from planet "Petry Dish Memorial Elementary School." There it was. I had the D1SN1Y virus!

Hey Imagineers, I have a new idea for a ride at Disney world called "Bleach Mountain" (sponsored by Dupont). It's a roller coaster where Disney characters in Hazmat suits hose you down with sterilizing agents before you leave. They even give you a souvenir goofy surgical mask!

But wait there's more . . .

After two days, work was convinced that I was faking it, so they scheduled a meeting for Friday morning, and over the phone let me know they expected me to be there. Ever Pollyanna, I assured them that I am *never* sick for very long, and fully expected to be better by Friday.

Friday morning, still sick, I dragged myself into the office. I was informed that the morning meeting would be a conference call held in a teeny tiny utility closet near my department of open cubes. In I went, channeling Brenda Vaccarro during her chain smoking days, and sealed the door behind me. In the utility room were my boss and team lead, cowering behind cupped hands. I thought to myself: this is what justice feels like.

After four hours at work, I went home half day . . . for the second time that week. But it was Friday, and now I'd have the weekend to rest, relax and recover. It would be good to return to work Monday restored . . .

But wait there's more . . .

Friday afternoon, water began draining out of my air conditioner. It was very very hot and humid, and the A/C was pulling buckets of condensate out of the air every hour or so. The draining water would fill a catch basin, trigger a water sensor, and automatically turn off the air conditioning. So sick and covered in flop-sweat, I'd have to crawl out of bed, waddle across the house, empty the bucket, and return to bed . . . every 45 minutes or so . . . through the night.

Saturday morning I called the A/C repairman. I was told he could not see me until after noon. I decided I wanted A/C over the weekend, more than I wanted to go to the doctor. So I canceled my doctor visit and waited for the repair man.

He arrived and told me, for $113, that it was a simply drain clog. He blew high pressure air down the hose, handed me the bill, and was on his way (Let it go. It's not that funny). Ah. Air conditioning. The catch basin continued to fill with water, but I did not have to dump it as often. Things must be improving, right?

But wait there's more . . .

Returning from lunch with my mother and sister on Sunday, I entered my house to find the center of it flooded with water. The kitchen, laundry room, Hall and A/C unit were all standing in an inch of water. The dry wall and cabinets had soaked up the water and wrinkled. They looked like I felt: old - sick - and bitter.

Before you could say "Poor Slob" I was on all fours with a wet vac, sucking the life out of my floorboards. (Let it go. It's not that funny). I turned off the A/C and called the repair company. Now, it's a Sunday afternoon at 3:30. I also have no voice. So wheezing, I call and say "My house is being flooded by the air conditioner!" The first operator, Charlie, hung up on me.

I called back, now furious - - but unable to shout at him. I got operator number two . . . who would be willing to try to leave a message for somebody.

The story is more excrutiating, but I'll cut to the end. At 9:45pm a repair man finally shows up. He actually blows out my hose, instead of just saying that he will (yes, I hear you snickering).

But wait there's more . . .

This morning, before I can leave for work, I push the washer and dryer, and the oven back against the wall. I put down the carpets and arrange the wet shoes to dry. I empty the wet vac and put the towels in the washer. I'm standing in the kitchen, dressed for work . . . . tired from the drama of the weekend . . . but literally thinking to myself "There. That's better."

AT THAT VERY MOMENT, a bottle of Champagne (really Spanish Cava) that had been on the kitchen counter explodes. The cork shoots across the kitchen knocking over the dish rack, and profuse bubbles of champagne shower the kitchen I'd just cleaned the night before.

That is when I lost it. I LOOOOOOOOSSSST IT. Though I have absolutely no voice, I said the "F-word" 8 bajillion times, cursed, broke a commandment, and a small cow came out of me. I named the cow Frederico, and then flogged his little brains out with a champagne saturated dish towell. Then a roll of paper towells. I stripped off my work clothes, and again on all fours (yes, doggy style dam mit), I cleaned the freaking kitchen again!

I'm hoping there is no more. I can't take it. I am full up.

Drew, Guru of Peru!

Complete Travelogue for Peru - May 2009:

Sunday May 24th, 2009

Even though weve been here two days (and cant find the apostrophe on this latin keyboard) Jacqui (special guest star) and I wanted to tell you all that we are alive and well in Peru.
Events that we have survived in no particular order include:
- Hurricane in Miami threatened to send Jacqui alone into a sleep deprivation exercise. Fortunately we found each other and migrated to Peru a mere three hours late.
- Drew promptly was possessed by the demon Soroche (altitude sickness). He spent much of Sunday afternoon projectile vomitting narcotic tea at old women and their llamas. (To clarify, the old women pose all over Cuzco in traditional costume with Llamas and children, extorting Americans to pay for pictures with their little darlings. This we did, and Im grateful to say there is no photographic evidence of what went on before or after the pictures.
- About one thirty in the afternoon we were picked up for our city tour. Somehow it became a good idea to take Drew and Jacqui another 2000 feet higher in elevation to -get this- sachsayhuaman : pronounced Sexy-woman.
- While Jacqui waxed nostalgic on finding her homeland, high on cocoa tea, at altitude with a fine chardonnay on hand . . . Drew fertilized the ruins as part of a new weight loss program . . . (while a strange woman with a broken arm and a strange expression told me in english that it could be cholera or a heart attack. She confessed she was studying medecine and she had just learned about which drugs are best for these symptoms. We politely assured her that I was just possessed.)
- At the end of the tour we had to explore the dark alleys of Cuzco carrying wads of cash for the end-of-the-week tour operator. When we finally found the brown door (we we have only learned three days later how to say brown, "maroon") it turned out that they could not take Jacquis credit card . . . so we had to go to an ATM and take out additional mass quantities of cash. It all worked out in the end, and Jacqui should get paroled any day now.
- We rushed to dinner at a folklorico dinner show off the Plaza Armas, with Drew having not eaten or drank for about 24 hours. (Why arm the demon after all.) Half way through his tepid dinner, the virgin mary floated by our second story window (no joke - in an Ascencion Day procession) and then the restaurant was taken over by car jackers . . . who turned out to be folkloric dancers engaged in the dance of the white goose. Apparently the white geese in Peru wear ski masks with moustache tatoos. Its a long story (pesky apostrophe!).
- We have just been notified that there may be a railroad strike on the day we are to leave Macchu Picchu. We may therefore have to stay an extra day here, and miss the sacred valley . . . which annoys us. The strike has little to do with working conditions on the railroad .. . and more to do with the government siezure of water rights for the surrounding mountains -- effectively shutting down indiginous agricultural traditions. Very sympathetic plight . . . but inconvenient for us.

Monday May 25th, 2009
We have successfully explored Macchu Picchu today. Thankfully it is 1000 feet lower than Cuzco, greener and more beautiful. It truly qualifies to be a wonder of the world. Jacqui and I are beaming with adventurous spirit.
Tomorrow we will climb the death defying Huanya Picchu at 5am in the morning.
Weather is clear and cool and it should be another day of miraculous vistas.
Jacqui has been messaging Vertigo fears with body language (such as strangling me anytime we skirt a cliff edge.) She's going to have a lot of fun tomorrow on a bamboo ladder on a sheer cliff face.
Our friend Brian is now taking wagers on whether Jacqui will complete the circuit. I guarantee you shell do it. Shes one brave chick!
We have many pictures of the temple grounds: Sporty Jacques house of flowers, Drew falling off a terrace into oblivion and beautiful pictures of us relaxing in the splendor of the Andes.
We'll keep you posted . . . But now we have to go and get six hours sleep before waking up a 4 am for the third, bitter, day in a row.
The resort is beautiful . . . details to follow . . . and yes i have just found the apostrophe!!!!!!!

Tuesday, May 26th, 2009
A quick note to tell someone that our plans are changing. Because the strike is certain to hit on Wednesday, we are leaving Macchu Picchu area tonight (so that we will not be stranded in a $700 a night hotel room for multiple days!).
Instead we are taking the 8:57 train to Ollytaytambo, where hopefully our local guide has arranged a driver for us . . . and the return of my suitcase (another hairbrained travel scheme).
We should be, if all goes well at the Casa Andina private collection Urubamba - Sagreda Valle a day early.
Wednesday is shot. The strike includes farmers covering the roads with boulders. So we will be pedestrian exploring the area around our hotel, and perhaps enjoying a spa treatment if such exists.
Weird notes I forgot to tell you about last night:
Last Saturday Tom Dickerhoof and his fiancee were on my flight to Peru. They sat two rows ahead of me and I didnt notice them until we landed. Another coincidence beyond belief. (All who dont know who Tom is - hes my mother´s cousin.) Hes taking a church mission trip to Peru.

We've successfully climbed Huanya Picchu today. It was exhausting and I got dehydrated. We've had to pay about 30 cents every time we want to use the restroom at the park. Everything is for a fee. Even the Macchu Picchu Ticchu (Tissue). Cost is one soles (pronounced soul-less, because it is so, to charge to use the restroom).
I've had a bit of cramping from the dehydration, so I'm glad to be going lower tonight.
Plans to climb Everest are pretty much bagged. If I cant handle 12,000, I can't double that altitude.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Ma Peeps, Family, and greatest fans of Spicey Lee Cintron: Here´s the latest update from South America:
So on the Huanya Picchu Trek of Tuesday morning, I´m happy to report that Jacqui completed the complete circuit in record time, in great form.
It is I, Everest-esteeming climber, who was sucking wind like the mighty vacuum of space.
I´m sure Jacqui felt like she took a morning hike with Darth Vadar.
She did tend to scream and panic at the sight of sheer plummits (sp) off the top of the peak, or down rickety bamboo ladders. But for the most part I bribed her with Chardonnay and she clung to me like a rabid Koala bear. (Or starved Cougar - pick your metaphor).
I ended up very dehydrated and light-headed from the trek. And so we returned to the hotel to get water, naps and a spa.
Before we could enjoy such luxuries, we were informed that the train strike had become a general strike and we´d be in Aguas Caliente (hot water-metaphorically and literallty) for an undetermined amount of time (which would not have bothered us if we weren´t paying $700 a night for a hotel room).
About that room. I entered the bathroom on Tuesday Morning, to find it occupied by a large hairy animal. He asked me if I minded, and I apologetically closed the door. Jacqui asked me who the heck I was talking to and then I realized that there was a gigantic spider using our restroom. I quickly made Jacqui look at said spider, to much screaming in fluent spanish, AY TARANTULA!! This annoyed the spider, who pulled the door closed and locked it. Needless to say we were forced to pay Una Souless (soles) to use the toilet on the mountain.
Anyway back to the story of the general strike: While we were inquiring about what to do, i.e. leave . . . when we saw a tribe of Mestizo Indians walk through our compound to the railroad tracks with spears and swords.
This was not an encouraging sign, and I must admit that Jacqui called this one correctly. "We´ve got to get the hell out of here!" The riot police agreed with her. So we began to hatch a plan to force teenage travel guides and hotel conceirges to rearrange our itinerary and race to the train station.
We got new tickets, and got in line for a 8:57pm train . . . that was delayed by the Indians for four hours . . . and was swamped by every sheltered American Yuppie and backpacking college student for 80 miles. It was a rock concert for train workers and riot police. We call it Picchapolooza.
I´ll spare you the grotesque stories of the prolific beer that flowed through the crowd. (Why not get drunk before a political riot in a small Andean train depot, I ask you?). Long story short. We made the train, and got to Ollantaytambo at 2am on Strike Day, and had a police escort with out teenage guide to our hotel.
Note: The hotel is beautiful, and we´re so glad we´re here.Today, we´ve spent the day touring the ancient Inkan town of Ollantaytambo and its ruins. it is as beautiful as Macchu Picchu, but climatically different. The difference being cloud forest and New Mexican canyonlands. Green and Beige. Still, the town exuded authenticity.
Highlight for both of us, was being invited into a Quechu courtyard and home, and taking pictures of the herd of guinea pigs being raised there. Swine flu, I laugh at you. Cholera. I wonder if you´re trying. I crawl with guinea pigs and pellet poop and laugh at your face!!!!!
Pictures will be simply stunning. I have saved all of you the effort of enduring altitde sickness by photographing every possible angle of the trip.
Now we must go relax for dinner. Know that we are safe, well, happy, and that the strike will be over tomorrow. Our itinerary resumes on schedule and we will be biking over the Andes to the edge of the Amazon rain forest (Manu Reserve). We´re staying at Cock of the Rock Lodge, but Jacqui has forbid me from sharing all my jokes about this.

Saturday Evening May 30, 2009

This is a quick note to let you all know that our flight home has been delayed two hours. Our connections are not severely affected, so we should be home as expected on Sunday. Beth, I hope you check your e-mail!
As for what in tarnation we´ve been up to: Thursday morning we met our guide and driver and headed out across the sacred valley of Peru. It is an indiginous agricultural area rich with history, crops, food, and Quechuan culture. We could have swung a cougar and not hit a single llama, much to our collective disappointment. We don`t know where the llamas, alpacas, verecunas, and assorted camelids are, but their fur lines every retail store between here and the amazon. So we figure there`s herd of naked llamas poolside in the carribean working on their tans.
Anyway, so we go with two strangers to the top of the Andes, and they tell us to get out of the van and mount mountain bikes to ride downhill on a gravel cliff-side road for an undetermined number of hours.
Okay. What they hey. Its vacation stuff, no?
The views were breathtaking. The cultural exposure to people and their land unparalleled. But lets tell it like it is and say that Jacqui had an intimiate encounter with her mountain bike seat for most of the trip. At random intervals the jarring road would loosen the nut on the seat and shoot it upwards into Jacquis tender nether regions. I`m just saying!!!!
We did stop at some homes with looms and buy their artistic weavings . . . and we did befriend poor rural children who were anxious to practice their English on us. It was a lot of fun!
We could not tary though, as were were bound and determined to cross the Andes and descend into the Manu Reserve Rainforest. We were scheduled to eat and stay at the Cock of the Rock Lodge. Snicker snicker snicker.
Driving on a mud road that skirts the cliffside rainforest was hair-raising enough. Encountering oncoming traffic, such as frieght trucks, head on in the dark jungle was equally exciting. Having to listen to five hours of Latin Pop music and greatest hits of the 80s was torture.
I´m not joking- we had to hear AeroSmith´s "Don´t want to Miss a Thang" eight times between Paucartambo and the Lodge! Ahhh.
We were also tortured by not being able to remember who the singer of the 1984 hit, "GLORIA" was -- and we know that Brian would know the answer.We were convinced that our guide and driver had no freaking idea where they were going, and were just going to drive and drive until they figured it out.
Just when we were about to start panicking we came across an Entemologist, Bruce Pursor, in the middle of the Amazon who was shining a light on a big bed sheet - out in the middle of the rain. He was photographing speicial features of moths and butterflies based on Altitude (and encouraged us to google him).
He also knew that the Lodge was an hour ahead. We proceeded, and late in the rainy dark made it to our bungelow in the jungle.
We were awoken before dawn to dress and go to a blind in the jungle, to watch the mating dance of the cock of the rock. This bird is literally black and white and red all over. We saw about twelve men competing for the affections of a mere two ladies. And then there were the birds too. What a tease, let me tell you!
The rest of the morning was filled with monkeys, hummingbirds, breakfast and a jungle hike. It was hot, humid, and clear.
Jacqui was crowned with bamboo as Cutchie Coya (Happy Star Princess) and sent to live with the local tribe, to teach them how to shop on QVC.
This done, we packed and were off the way we came up the rainy hills to the Andes.We stop in Paucartambo, where a lady and her daughter climbed into our van unannounced and basically refused to leave until we took one to Cusco. Jacqui and I were aghast. As I was running Midnight Express through my head, our guide told us to climb back in the van, and we were off with Mamacita (who was also kind of off).
We stopped at the Inkan tombs of Ninnnemarca . . . pictures to follow and then descended via and alternate route that was crazy scarey!

Imagine a pitch black night,
A dirt road under construction,
That lines a cliff,with a 2000 foot drop (not exaggerating),
with oncoming traffic,
including trucks who played chicken with us,
and a driver committed to doing 40 Km an hour to get home,
while they played "I wanna be sedated" on the radio . . .

We needed sedation when we got home. We went out for a wonderful dinner and alcohol and have today shopped away the morning at a craft market.
There is enough crap in this world to fill a million tourist markets, let me tell you. Luckily we didn´t buy much of it . . . but still have a few things to remember our vacation.Now we´re being tortured by American Airlines for the next 12 hours. We cant wait to see you all and give you a hug. It will be good to be home. Don´t try this trip at home kids. Its only for the professionals! We`re them. We´ve lived a month in seven days, and it was a month of rich living and adventure. God Bless Jacqui. Ella esta fantastico, y gracias Dios Yo tengo una amiga hablar espanol!
Notes in Closing, Sunday May 31, 2009

A few things we neglected to mention in our e-mail, that deserve to go down in the record.

We were in Peru for one week. In that time frame there were three parades/political protests in a one week period: Labor Parade through Cuzco on the 24th, Political General Strike by Indiginous people on Wednesday and a religious procession by young people from the state of Cuzco on Saturday. Each had colorfully costumed participants and throngs of baloons and banners. The people of Peru are engaged, and know how to put on a pageant.

On Saturday morning, Jacqui and I rounded a corner and almost ran into Winnie the Pooh . . . with five or six young men dressed in matching gold clothes. They were participating in Virgin Day. Jacqui was hysterical, considering the Disney licensing infraction this represented. She took a picture, and I dubbed the creature "Winnie Peru."

Later in the plaza we were bilked out of Soles by a lady asking us if we wanted to pose with her baby lamb and costumed children. The lamb was named "Pancheeta" which reminded me of the Italian Christmas cake Panacetta. Jacqui, ever a cougar, made Pancheeta jokes, and I suggested that like Winnie Peru, Pancheeta could become a national spokesperson for Cheetohs Cheese Snacks.

One of the best restaurants in the world, much less Peru, is called Cicciolini's. It is located behind the Cathedral in Cuzco. Named after an Italian porn star who became an Italian Congresswoman, the restaurant is nevertheless sophisticated and delicious. They specialize in Tapas made using local Peruvian ingredients. I encourage everyone to find this place and eat to your hearts contents (after getting over soroche).

Our driver to the Cock of the Rock Lodge was called Hieme. This is all I can say on the subject, but feel free to let you mind wander over the possibilities.

I hope our descriptions inspire you to see the remarkable and iconoclastic space that is Southeastern Peru. Truly Amazing in all the world.

Torpedo Warning!

I had an MRI yesterday for my lower back. It will suffice to say that my back is a pain in the rear. More importantly, no one had ever previously or satisfactorily described the MRI experience for me. I arrived totally unprepared, a lamb to the slaughter, with A1 tied around my neck!

I followed the kind radiologist to a changing room, stripped, and donned a pair of blue pajamas.

Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI) machines are gigantic steel doughnuts, through which you are threaded like the proverbial camel through the eye of a needle. Upon first encountering an MRI machine, you will size it up and say, sure . . . I'll stick my head into that . . . heck, I'll stick my head in anything once! (And frankly, I'm amazed that my genes are the ones that survived!).

But the catch is, that you cannot assess the MRI experience from outside the doughnut. In short, I now am convinced that I know what it is like to be burried alive in a microwave oven, with someone trying to rescue me with a buzzsaw and a cowbell. This, ladies and gentlemen is what needs to be said, before you go gently into that good-doughnut hole with nothing more than a pair of used blue pajamas to defend yourself.

(No! No! Fight the dying of the light!!!!)

Why they put me in the machine head first, when they had to do my lower back, is a mystery. But let's face it, bored MRI technicians have probably wagered on who in the lobby will be the first to break. Speaking of which, I must proceed . . .

I'm not usually clausterphobic, but it was tight. My elbows could not rest at my side, so I had to recline, Dracula-style, in the tube ... only to be further tested with easy listening music (Don't You Want Me Baby and Give Me One Reason are two of the songs I remember playing).

"Mr. Weinbrenner, there will be some banging . . . and the table will get warm. But you will at first start out very cold, as we blow fresh air over you during the process."

I tried to look tough, and relaxed, as she cranked me back into the nether regions of my doughnut hole. Whew, I thought. This *is* clausterphobic! You can do it, though. Focus and relax. You are one with the blowing air, like a butterfly soaring over-

"Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack - Don't you want me Oh-o-o- thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack . . . . . Give me one reason to stay here . . . thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack . . ."

Were the songs really designed to be so ironic, or was I being tortured on a particularly lucky day?

I began to feel my flesh slowly burning. Ever so lightly. As though I was receiving a chemical peel while my head, in a bucket, was being struck by a cowbell.

Finally the machine stopped thwacking. Thank God, I thought.

"Okay Mr. Weinbrenner. The first set is done. Only fourteen more minutes to go. Click."

Ooooooo. Nooooooo. I thought. I'll talk. Really. I'll make crap up. Just let me out- - um, no. I have to do this. Relax. Breath. Be still. You are sailing over the windswept snows of --Jeez, it's cold in here!

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack . . .

Then again, I felt my flesh burning while being attacked with a cowbell. Lower this time. Ah, the burning flesh is showing signs of progress! Thank God my flesh is burning I thought, otherwise I would freeze to death.

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, Take My Breath Awayyyyy, Thwack, thwack, etc.

While listening to the radio headphones, during my burial-- Suddenly! . . . an Emergency Broadcast System buzzer pierced the tranquility of my cowbell massage. Ank! Ank! Ank! Eeeeeeeee .... The alert about sent me through the MRI tube!! Heaven only knows what shot out of my other end. The "tornado" warning should have been a "torpedo warning." (Yes, it's raining tense g*y guys on Lake County Florida. Take cover.) I was never so relieved to find out it was *only* a tornado, and not that the MRI had jammed with me inside!

Upon emerging from my waterboarding, I told the technician what happened during the MRI. She calmly replied, "Why the machine is the safest place in the world to be during a tornado."

Really!? Really!? Inside a giant electromagnet is the safest place? Did you never catch one episode of the Hulk in the 1970s?

On a beach in Hawaii sucking on a Mai Tai and reading the funnies, is the safest place to be during a tornado in Florida. How about that?!

In short, I don't care if you SCUBA dive, or if you sleep in a bunk bed. MRI machines are no place for sick people. And for no one else who has not had a full body greasing, before being inserted in their oil drum.

Call me Vlad the impaler from now on. I eat MRI for breakfast! But lordy, check the weather forecast before you get inside!

Chicago Is My Kinda Town

CHICAGO!

Ma Peeps in Homotude! What it iz. I've just spent four days in Chicago, and I'm in love.
I had no idea what to expect prior to arrival. Chicago's portrayal in mass media is always focused on the detail, and not the whole. When you finally find yourself standing in Millenia Park, or along the Lake Michigan shoreline . . . you are amazed that no one ever effectively explained the skyline, the sense of space, the cleanliness and order of such a large city, the sounds of the El(evated Train Line), nor the flawless presentation of public art, museums, and superlative culinary standards. Chicago is the simply the most successful large city in the United States.
These amazing restaurants can be recommended without hesitation:

A+

Bistro Zinc (french) - Between Division and Chicago on State. A truly french design, with a super-efficient hispanic staff.

Topolobampo - Frontera Grill (Nouvelle Mexican) - Trendy haute cuisine crafted from native Mexican ingredients. Food as art is the aesthetic. Creative, original, winning. Best waitress in Chicago: Jessica.

Zealous - (American Fusion) Smidgeon pretentious, but with the wine list to back up the boasting. Very very good.

The Gage - (Rustic American) - American sports bar at the foot of Millenia Parks Cloud Gate. But the food is more thoughtful and crafted than the genre would require. Butternut squash soup was to die for, and the desserts were amazingly original.

The Bongo Room - (Dessert for Breakfast) - Forget a lite breakfast. Have a cake for breakfast - in the shape of a pancake. The best dish looked to be the vegetarian croissant sandwich. Mmmm.
The Feast - (Sports Bar) - Chicago

The Blue Line - (Damen Station Trendy Diner)

B+

Ginos' East Deep Dish Pizza. Wasn't worth the wait, but was okay.

Hancock Signature Lounge and Restaurant. The best view in the city, is overwhelmed with visitors, and so does not have to excel in service apparently. Don't be discouraged however, and bring your camera.

One other important note: Always buy a multi-day CTA Card from CVS or Walgreens before you head out. The El conveniently goes anywhere you need to go, for an unbeatable price. Mass transport is a hallmark of Chicago, and if you hide in a taxi, you will never understand the mind of the city.

Other hallmarks of Chicago:

• Great Art
• Great Architecture
• Truly Great Food
• Best urban planning and public space allocations in the United States.

Poetry Garden

Well, I see that the weekend of March 14, 2009 in Orlando, Florida, the Red Chair Project has offered three key sources of entertainment:
1) Young Frankenstein
2) Friday the 13th Torture Show at SAK
3) Poetry Garden at Leu Gardens
(featuring yours truly)
What do these three events have in common? Let's investigate:
Young Frankenstein is a comic retelling of the Frankenstein legend, where a mutilated monster is reassembled from the fruits of grave-robbing.
Friday the 13th Torture Show, pretty much speaks for itself.
And finally, there would be me . . . butchering the English language, just for its own gratuitous pleasure.
Yes, this weekend it's definitely murder and mayhem for the Orlando arts scene.
Hmm. What shall I tell you, my pretties, about the poetry garden?
The Poetry Garden exhibit is a prototype event. The idea is to situate poetry unexpectedly in the outdoors, to enhance the garden experience of Leu Garden patrons (especially at the end of winter when much of the garden is still dormant). Still the weather is wonderful now - cool and sunny, and there are only a few times a year that it is this pleasurable to wander in the out-of-doors in Orlando. If the Poetry Garden goes well, I will advocate the expansion of this program with Leu Gardens (perhaps having an open invitational poetry contest, or funding regular poetry retrospectives in the garden). Benefits are two-fold: the profile of local literature is raised in the community, and Leu Gardens burgeons its efforts to be a focal point for the arts in Orange County.
As for me, I hope that one or two people will learn of my efforts. Now I close with a sample from the garden:

Axiom

The standing droplets
on the velveteen petals
of rose hibiscus

wholly justify
the creation of morning.

Follow-up: During the event, some lovely person landscaped my poems with picked flowers! My heart rejoiced in the dialogue between my words and the garden. (Picture attached)

2008 in Review! The annual Christmas Letter

Well, this letter is for the dedicated Christmas card reader, who has hung in there for the last twelve years. Only you dear reader, will discover this very late comical year in reveiw. But here's the beginning:
2008 started with the Las Vegas “Disney Girls” reunion. It was great to catch up with my friends, some of whom I had not seen in several years.
We will have to change our group name though, as only two of us still work at Disney, and most of us are not girls (Unless by GIRLS we mean “Guys In Ridiculously Luxurious Style” – Am I selling it? Probably not. Sigh.).
The highlight of my Las Vegas trip was the amazing water circus “La Reve” (The Dream) at the Wynn resort. I found this name a bit ironic, as “The Dream” is performed around a swimming pool, making it –kmmm-kmmm- “wet.” C’mon people, do I need to draw you a diagram?!! This is funny!!!!
I’ve been petitioning for them to add more audience participation. But the restraining orders say that I’m not allowed to jump in the pool anymore. When will they appreciate my art?!! Back to Florida, I went.
On January 25th while at work, I received a phone call . . . from my home telephone. That’s strange, I thought. How can I be calling me, when I’m right here? I considered not answering, but it occurred to me that it might be my Mom making an impromptu house call. (She plays this game called, “Can you guess what I’m doing at your house right now.” The correct answer is: “Whatever you want, because I was a breach birth.”)
When I answered, it was the Orange County Sherriff’s department. They informed me that they had just apprehended three juvenile delinquents burglarizing my house. They asked me to verify that the youths, who’d kicked in a gate and shattered a window to enter, were not invited guests (as they claimed). I want to ensure everyone reading this letter, that when you visit my house, the first privilege I grant guests is the use of my front door – you will not have to break out a window to get inside. Pesky!!
I rushed home to find eight squad cars encircling my home (which is strange, because usually there’s only four), three grumpy crazy-haired youths fuming in the back seat of said squad cars, and my home newly renovated in early 21st Century “Beat Yo ***” style (So called, because when you see your house decorated in this manner you want to beat someone’s asterisks).
It was a random break-in foiled by my crafty next door neighbor Darlene, who alerted the authorities at the sound of breaking glass. I have spent the last eleven months replacing windows and pursuing litigation. So far I have received $17.50 in return (seriously).
In March, my friend and professional therapist, Vicki Curea, came to visit me in Florida. Here I must note that while Vicki is a professional therapist, she is not *my* professional therapist. However she is *my* friend (free of charge incidentally – Score!).
I hosted Vicki on a tour through Miami South Beach and the Florida Keyes, showing her the best of the overseas highway, the Miami Art Deco district, and Sea World (her favorite). Though we had a great time, I could not sublimate my repression impulse to account for the autonomous nature of my unconscious complexes. You’re probably like, “tell me about it!!” In short, it’s too much fun being nuts to give up chasing cars now.
In May, I joined my adventurous gal pal Sonya Sherman in the Cayman Islands. We then flew together to Cayman Brac and Little Cayman on a teeny tiny airplane over a great expanse of water. This said, I can say that I have set foot on all the major Cayman Islands.
I have been diving for 14 years, and Bloody Bay Wall is one of the most amazing places I’ve ever seen. One can enjoy unparalleled clarity and underwater features, unique in the entire world. In short, imagine swimming in crystal clear blue seas about six feet deep, until reaching a precipice that descends 2000 feet to the bottom of the Caribbean Sea. One’s immediate reaction is vertigo (after all you are floating weightless). Then you are awed by the difference of expansive peripheral vision and the vertical organization of sea life here. Wow! Lovely.
Upon returning to the U.S., my work decided to send me to Berlin Germany for six weeks! Visions of expense accounts and luxury European travel danced in my head . . . for about eight hours. Upon arrival in Berlin, I found out that my luggage remained in Washington, D.C., and that I had to find my way to a sparsely decorated apartment in West Berlin.I quickly acclimated, and you can read about my summer in Berlin throughout this blog. There are even pictures of the apartment, which turned out to be nicely located near the main boulevard of West Berlin.

Skipping to July . . . After the Love Parade I visited Tim and Marguerite in Belgium:

Upon arriving in Belgium, I made my way to Oostende, a beachfront resort west of ornate baroque Brugge. Oostende is laid out in a grid pattern between a broad strand of beach and a working marina. It resonates with Belle Age (late 19th century) Victorian parks, tall sailing ships, a boardwalk, small restaurants, as well as the obligatory Northern European cathedrals, cobblestones and electric trams.In a 24 hour period, I visited with my friends’ family, met their two small children, wandered through the town on a guided tour, enjoyed beachside ice cream, beheld an antique car parade and spent the afternoon photographing kite surfing and seaside picnicking from a strand-shed. Dinner was at Niko’s Greek Restaurant. And then, in a flash I was gone, racing back to Germany, and my work in Mulheim.

My subsequent visits to Karlovy Vary, Czesky Krumlov, and Prague are documented in detail throughout this blog.

Due to the constraints of my work-related airline ticket, I was required to return home from an airport in Germany. The nearest German nternational airport to Prague is Dresden. As one of my screenplays is set in Dresden, I decided this was my chance to see it! I was off to wander streets, where I'd previously set characters and scenarios.

Dresden did not disappoint. Despite being entirely recreated from rubble in the last 70 years, the city still resonates with charming Saxon architecture, Elbe riverbanks and famously wide avenues. I took time out to review pre-war historical film footage, demonstrating what Dresden was before obliteration: beautiful, cultured, wealthy, central and celebrated. And then gone forever.

The new Frauenkirche church is a soft yellow limestone wedding cake, especially inside. The Zwinger galleries and gardens, though not pristine, are still lovely to pass through. Famous mosaics, squares, cathedrals and palaces fringed a broad colonade embankment at a bend in the river. 1000 years of history vibrated from the gaslights in the cool summer night.

Early the next morning, Mom and I discovered that a Lufthansa air strike had stranded us in Dresden. If we were going to catch our United flight back to the states, we were going to have to Beeline to Frankfurt by train . . . with two large suitcases with the wheels popping off. Wondertwin powers activated, we beamed across German for a sweet flight home to our own little beds!

Shortly after returning home, my boss asked me to research activities in Hamilton, Ontario. As a result I was obliged to fly to Buffalo, New York, and drive across Niagara Falls to Ontario. The good news is that they have built a bridge, and one no longer has to try to drive across the falls. This adventure is also blogged separately.

With the completion of my work in Ontario, I joined my family at Raquet Lake, New York, in the Adirondack National Park. Big thanks go out to my Uncle Bob and Aunt Dorothy, for allowing me to join their family's vacation. My father also brought his newly completed "Pelican" sailboat, and we christened the boat with much fanfare and ceremony. The following day, we commuted to Pearl Cottage in Lake George, and spent several days swimming and canoeing in the sun.
In October, I visited Joy and Dave in New Hampshire . . . got some excercise and photographed autumn color (blogged separately).
October 22, 2008 was the last day that I and my mutated meta-tarsal shared competing space in my left foot. I went toe to toe in this battle for polydactyl dominance, and I'm proud to report that my little piggy went wee wee wee all the way to the chrematorium (largely because I have health insurance, credit cards, and pre-hensile thumbs. My mutated meta-tarsal on the other hand had a boney horn which wasn't good for much except poking through the top of my foot). Piggy struck first, attempting to rupture my skin after a summer of pedestrian traffic in European capitals. I retaliated with a visit to my Podiatrist and eventually a piggy-ectomy. It sounds as much fun as it was. Here's a recap:
Basically, you wait through several visits for a podiatrist to get good and ready . . . then you show up to an outpatient surgery center. They put you in a shower cap, drug your #@^ up, and then go at you with a power saw. Piggy never had a chance. I should have armed him. How'd you like to see the face of that podiatrist, saw in hand, when a horny tarsal gets the draw on him with a teeny tiny howitzer!
My boss gave me two days off work . . . and then I was back at the grindstone . . .
Before I knew it, it was December and my book was being delivered by the printer to my publishing empire. Picture: The Debut of East of Pouring at Urban Think! bookstore in Downtown Orlando:




And as the year closed, I enjoyed a relaxing Christmas holiday with my blind cousin Jenny from Staten Island and her autistic son, Justin. I kid about the relaxing . . . as someone who lives alone and can do whatever I want whenever I want . . . subordinating myself to an autistic child was a shock to the system. Kudos go out to Jenny for being a mom 24-7-365 and doing a great job! And kudos go out to Justin for revealing his intelligence and normalcy, through the veneer of autism. I connected, and I now know I can handle kids. The confidence that came from coping, was my gift. Thanksgiving for all the things I take for granted was another gift. So many gifts were delivered to me through the fountain of coping . . . throughout the year. Merry Christmas, and Happy Drew Year ma peeps!