Irreverent 2009 & 2010 Years in Review

Cherished Friends and Family,

I have heard your despondent cries from the desert of my correspondence . . . your gnashing of teeth . . . the flickering torchlight at the breach of

my drawbridge. Behold! I give you the 2009 and 2010 year in review.

Be warned . . . what appears to be another innocent Christmas brag sheet may impart fretful tales of isolation and disaster upon eyes that were prepared only for yuletide tedium of how Brittany and Dakota received good marks and will be summering at Camp Punky Brewster. Nay! You will receive nothing of this sort from me. My epistle is the electric pig poker of Christmas narrations in a quagmire of bland and listless holiday tripe. It has a body count and Excel spreadsheets! Brace yourself as I recount my tale of daring Drew!

Why no Christmas letter in 2009? Overwhelmed by events, I realized that my best material was already posted on my blog: http://drewskidoo.blogspot.com/ Why should I kill myself to reproduce all the knee-slapping joy I provide year round? I turned my focus to the teetering apocalypse of my publishing empire and quickly realized I’d made a huge mistake: Most poetry contests and reviewers use copyright date to distinguish contest year eligibility. By publishing in December 2008, I was requiring myself, without knowing it, to enter every possible poetry competition in the 31 days of December.

To add insult to self-injury, I instead focused on hosting my cousin Jenny and her son Justin for Christmas. By January 1, 2009 I was disqualified from most contests. Doh! If I’d only put 2009 on the book, I would have had a full year to enter the book into competitions. There was nothing to be done, as it was impossible to reprint the book.

I consoled myself with a rollicking urban adventure with Karen and Susan Miles in snowy Chicago. We laughed for days, and ate like kings (Chicago without a doubt has the best food in the United States). Special guest stars included cousin Robyn Williams and Hyperion colleagues Emily and Will. Weeks later, I sprang to Minneapolis to visit friends Lois Ottmar, and the Baker family. Though a drive-by Drew-ting, a good time was had by all.

In May 2009, friend Jacqui Cintron took me to Peru in another flagrant attempt to kill me. Though I regularly demonstrate she’s not in my will, she persists (She must be doing it for the sport). The complete deposition is on the blog, and is hilarious, if I do say so myself. Best memories include projectile vomiting on UNESCO world heritage sites, wheezing my way up the Inca Trail, dodging an Indian riot / train blockade, and surviving a demolition derby ride in the Amazon rain forest at night. In short, the Lojack in my underwear totally paid for itself in the end.

Pilgrimages to my hometown of Ormond Beach, Florida proved time there stood still. Nothing in Alfie’s beachside café had changed since 1983 (especially the ground beef)! My friends and I sat in the mauve booth by the door, listening to Journey Musak and reminiscing about high school. I realized I’d stopped “Belivin’.” The graduating class of 1984 had their 25th reunion in August 2009 . . . lemon juice in the paper cut of growing old. I guess it beats the alternative . . . yes, working at Alfie’s.

Finally! . . . in September 2009, the Florida Publishers Association awarded EAST OF POURING the gold medal for poetry during the FPA 2009 President’s Book Awards. A speckle of recognition and positive reinforcement! I milked that sucker like Elsie the cow!

I attended the beautiful October wedding of friends Charlotte and Dwayne McDuffie, and passed that autumn weekend with Joy and Dave Borresen in Nashua, New Hampshire.

I spent Thanksgiving in North Carolina with Dad, and wrote the Thanksgiving poem read by my family before the meal. I noted how far I’d come: from prodigal son studying art at my own peril to someone whose words were welcomed at my father’s table.

Then wham-bam 2009 was over. That was it. That is what you missed last year, and what you have finally ripped from my bosom you clinging voyeurs! Are you Happy?! I thought as much. I supposed you want a complete report on 2010 now . . . will you never be satisfied? . . .

In January, 2010 I attended the Key West Literary Seminar and Workshop. The Seminar was a cavalcade of America’s most famous poets, followed by workshops with several of them. The fellowship between poets from every walk of life and geographical region was intense.

Newly inspired, in April I went ballistic for National Poetry Month in downtown Orlando. I convinced famed poet Carol Frost to grant permission to display a poem on the side of the Orange County Public Library, and even got my ode to city zoning bureaucrats stenciled on all the streetlights so that low flying airplanes could read my magnum opus!

I conducted a Poetry Garden at Leu Botanical Gardens and arranged for International Academy of Design and Technology students to interpret my poetry as art installations in vacant downtown shop windows. It was a huge success (costing me thousands of dollars), but by the power of castle greyskull, I had finally gotten something accomplished.

After that, I had the summer from hell: June 9th a pipe burst in my house and flooded the master bath and bedroom. I spent two weeks in a sleep deprivation exercise (with Servpro machines blowing the smithereens out of the walls and floors). The day after they packed that crap up, at the other end of the house another pipe burst and flooded the guest rooms and garage! Naturally, you have to wash both ends of the house!

Simultaneously, my phone was broken . . . so every time I tried to call anyone (plumber, water reclamation, etc) I had to align the phone with the third house of Venus rising and stand on one foot (typically in a pool of rapidly rising water!).

To make things EASIER on me, my mother proceeded with knee-replacement surgery . . . obligating me to drive to her house and feed and walk her dog twice a day! Another session of sleep deprivation; second verse same as the first. But wait, there's more!

To avoid further floods, I re-piped the house, knocking holes in 39 walls and fishing modern hose to all fixtures. $4000 dollars later, I had a Swiss house (full of holes) and no vacation money. The summer has ended with dry-wall repairs, a new water heater, $3600 in car repairs, and my father having emergency quintuple by-pass heart surgery.

Luckily for my father, my experience re-plumbing my house completely prepared me to advise his cardiac surgeon . . . and goes a long way to explaining why he has a vessel sink permanently installed on his superior mesenteric artery. As you can imagine, quintuple by-pass patients think they are the center of the universe. Give me *my* medicine. Take me to *my* doctor. I think *I’m* having a heart attack. Help *me-me-me.* Blah, blah, blah. I mean really. Scoot over on that gurney and make room, my feet are killing me! And buzz me up some hotcakes from room service while your at it, and I’ll show you what a massive coronary really looks like you bunch of fakers.

To make things EVEN EASIER on myself, I refinanced the house, installed new wood flooring and had the interior repainted (of my house, not my father). During the course of these events the painter did a full body slam on the glass coffee table (without injury to himself suspiciously) and my mother broke and entered my house (literally broke the storm door) to exact her washer and dryer replacement ring (though she had a key to the back door).

The house, now decorated for Christmas, feels new (mostly in the wallet). If I can just get the bathroom lights up and the garage window repaired . . . I might swing a little holiday spirit in 2010.

And to make things ESPECIALLY SUPER EASY and y'know, REALLY, REALLY, REALLY, REALLY EASY on myself: Simultaneous to all of this home reclamation crap - I forced Orange County Florida to pass a human rights ordinance that included sexual orientation and gender identity against the Mayor's will. Wow, You say. Seriously! Say it! WOW!

All I did was spam the county until the cows came home. The real credit goes to my peeps in OADO (Orlando Anti-discrimination Ordinance Committee) who make magic happen just by being the great and wonderful people that they are. If you want to meet some rocking good people . . . come join our organization! I love you OADO! I tOADOlly dOADO!

I hope this season finds you and yours happy, healthy, wealthy and wise. I’ve made it through a very difficult year. Let’s prepare for the blessings and good luck of 2011. All my love and warmest wishes!

Christmas Card Prototype 1

I feel a little sheepish sending this to you all, but I love a good kid:

Brand I am

Well, it's official. I am a Web site (in addition to this silly blog). Check my fine seff out at:

http://web.me.com/drew_weinbrenner/William_Drew_Weinbrenner/Home.html

Yes, the next best thing to compulsively goggling ones self is to of course, build a Web site branded on ones work. I admit it. I am vain. That song is about me.

This is all in response to the relentless pressure to go legit. To provide an experience for those who look. I'm desperate for feedback . . . so let me know what you think!

Winter with the Writers

For the last two weeks I've enjoyed Rollins College's Winter with the Writers.

Last week Andrea Barrett read from her collections of prose inspired by the age of science. The characters are so fully and organically presented against the milieu of 19th century and early 20th century scientific discussion . . . that you forget the content is fiction. Amazing! And Ms. Barrett is both a gracious reader, author (signing many books generously), and guest. It was a pleasure to meet her, however briefly . . . and I highly recommend her books: Ship Fever & Servants of the Map.

This week, in addition to a reading, I attended the welcome reception for Kay Ryan at the Cornell Museum of Fine Art. (As an aside, the Rollins Cornell museum has an amazing collection of 19th century still life . . . and 20th century Soviet propaganda posters on display. Polar extremes equally rich with inspiration!)

Back to Kay Ryan: I'd heard Ms Ryan speak at the Key West Literary Seminar in early January, and was delighted I could enjoy a repeat performance in my home town of Orlando, Florida.

I was extremely self-conscious to show up alone, to a University which I did not attend . . . and to a social mixer with total strangers (including the Mayor of Winter Park, the College President, poet Bill Collins, etc). Add to the fact, that they served wine and sticky cheese in a Fine Art Museum . . . and I was holding my breath to see what antics would ensue.

I did remake my acquaintance with Kay Ryan briefly. She was very kind, waxing happily about her experience in Key West. I felt she very generously gave her focus while we talked . . . which is a nice memory to have of a poet laureate, when you yourself are an aspiring poet. Amid our discussion the Program Director ripped her away to talked with others (read as wealthy donors) . . . so that is all I have to tell.

I was glad I returned to hear her read again. The difference in venues, lighting, and acoustics enabled me to absorb more of her connotation, between the linguistic tricks of rhyme and pun. While before I found her to be clever and engaging . . . for some reason tonight, I was impacted by the passive profundity of many of her poems (reminiscent in style to James Tate - also discovered at the Key West Literary Seminar).

The Rollins crowd adored her. Putty - in - her - hands! She kept us all laughing, and then made us sad when the panel discussion finally wrapped up.

Kudos go out to poet and professor Carol Frost, for curating and managing an amazing lecture series . . . and to Rollins college, for making these rich literary evenings available to the public. After so many years in my self-imposed wilderness . . . I am now swimming in literati! Wonderful!

That Poetry Workshop Moment

You knew that I could not spend a week at a literary seminar and not humiliate myself at least once . . . at least. Count is four, but I will only mention the two most interesting stories:

Last year, I wrote a very personal poem, Famished. I was trying to get to the core of why I was not more proactive in my search for love and a relationship. My conclusion: I wasn't looking for any kind of love . . . I was looking for someone to volunteer themselves. The point being that one can be proactive, acquire relations like commodities, and manipulate a circumstance out of the resources provided . . . but the act of acquisition and manipulation means that one can never believe in that love. The only true love is that which is volunteered . . . no quid pro quo. At least, that's what Famished sought to express (I'll get back to you on the validity of such a philosophy, later).

During the poetry workshop, it came time for me to read the poem to my eight peers and then analyze its strength and weaknesses. I scanned the poem quickly, and realized that I had to vocally express the italicized text at the culmination of the poem as Onomatopoeia. More specifically, when I read the words "I ache" it had to sound like real ache.

Well don't you just know that at that very moment, I verklempt myself. I did in fact ache and I knew it. Suddenly, I could not talk, and felt a pesky tear welling in the corner of my eye. Nevertheless, the tiny room of nine people surrounding me gaped in silence . . . waiting for me to begin. Panic. I was either going to break down in a broom closet with nine colleagues, or I was going to swallow this emotion and man one out for the team. Tick, tick, tick. Oh, no. I wasn't pulling it off. I looked up to the facilitator, Todd Boss and in the only voice I could muster said, "I'm having that poetry workshop moment. Can someone else read."

No problem. We were off. Someone else took over, and I had two minutes to pull it together. But my wavering voice and red face was the elephant in a very small room.

I was filled with self-loathing. I'd spent all this time and money to get to the Key West Literary Seminar, to get feedback . . . and now no one was going to say anything . . . because they were trapped in a very small room with a weepy gay guy.

When the poem was finished being read, I immediately, in as perky a voice as possible, apologized. "Let me have it. Please! I need your honest feedback." They were poets and good people. No problem. We proceeded, and I survived . . . but now aware that Famished had cut me deeper than I ever realized, or would let myself realize.

After workshop, I found my friends and told them as much as I've told you. They did not know the poem or its connotations. Intellectually, they rationalized: Let it go. Move on. It's fine.

So, we all went out to dinner . . . a reading at the San Carlos Club . . . and then for fun, decided to take in one of Key West's many stripper bars.

I don't mention this to titillate. Heavens! If you've ever met me, you'd know what a prude I am. In any event, I find myself, a 43 year old gay man, in a stripper bar on Duvall Street drinking a 4$ bottle of water, and watching the strippers (in this case men) gyrate for their grateful audience. My beautiful friend Lizz, got undue attention from them, and ate it up! It was hard to tell who was putting on the show for whom. They were in love with her. One stripper keeps waving to me to come hither. I wondered if he thought I was Lizz's husband. I was sure he was going to ask me if I was okay with the titillation and benign physical interaction. He, a good looking physical specimen of the Russian gymnastic team - wearing not but silken red underwear, pulls me aside, in a niche in the bar with a drape. "Yes?"

In a thick Russian accent, he asked me if I would like to [censored for your protection and mine] . . . for $20.

$20. I said $20. And remember, I'm FAMISHED!!

I realized that I was living in that moment that I'd only heard about in Sunday School and ABC after-school specials. For a brief flash: What a bargain! $20!

No, no, no. Um. No, no, no, no, no. I could not live with myself if I became that person. But here I was in the position of rejecting the hottest hooker this side of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. I leaned to his ear, and over the regular throbbing of the distant electronica whispered, "You are very beautiful, but I have never paid for that . . . and I cannot start now. Be well."

I slipped out of the drape, back into the bar and skittered back over to my friends. "How are you?" They asked . . . really meaning, what did the Russian want?

I thought to myself. Um, not so famished after all!

My second moment of humiliation came from famed poet Billy Collins. My beloved and flirtatious friend Lizz had secured his complete attention during the social at the Key West Customs House Museum. They'd been talking for about 15 minutes, when I decided that Lizz could be my introduction. Billy Collins teaches during the winter semester at Rollins College in Orlando, and it might be an organic opportunity to introduce myself, tell him we are neighbors and broker future acquaintance. I stepped up to Billy and Lizz, who were laughing and talking about racy stuff (which I will skip - discretion being the better part of valor).

"Hello Mr. Collins, my name is Drew." I smiled and held out my hand. Without a beat he replied:

"Somehow, I believe you." he retorted and turned back to Lizz without further adieu.

I stood there blinking . . .

Not really wanting to meet him anymore, I admitted to myself that I was probably cramping his style with Lizz . . . (But still?)

I left with another story to tell . . . and so did Lizz . . . but not Billy.

Clearing the Sill Of the World - Family of Poets

Can it be over? I'm poised for more? Yes, yes. Always leave them wanting more. Key West Literary Seminar was a life changing experience. I had no expectations. Did not know how to prepare. I just opened myself, and made my heart available to intellectual stimulus, emotion, literature, and fellowship. I think this last component is the point of differentiation. I was able to connect with people who are invested in contemporary American literature. There is a continuum of experience, work, and dialogue that is defining a new generation of poets and writers. Before the conference, I lived and worked in isolation in Orlando. I did my best, but I did not have resources (writers groups, editors, avid readers, venues, etc.). Now I see! The blinds have been lifted, and I'm aware of the context in which my naive vibrations flit and retreat. I suppose I could mourn being exposed as an amateur among a pantheon of geniuses . . . but that's really not my style. Instead, I cherish my innocence before it was lost . . . and practice stretching my wings. The beautiful people I met! Their art! It's like delicious candy for the mind. The world is a beautiful place filled with interesting people sharing the work of their lives. I have also to admit, that my enthusiasm and vulnerability made me the "nerdy" one . . . but who wants to waste time being the player. The life meals that I ate were real, nutritious, delicacies prepared with a masterful hand. My salutations to all the employees and volunteers who brought together a nation of strangers, and made them a family of poets.

I have to note some of the breakout stars, whose light reveals them as the next generation of great American writers and poets. Here are my predictions:

AMONGST STARS

Best New Book: Rita Dove . . . Sonata Mulattica

Best New Poem: Todd Boss . . . Yellow Rocket (This Morning In A Morning Voice)

Best Recalled Poem: Rhina Espillat . . . Undelivered Mail

Stilled the Collective Spirit: Natasha Trethaway . . . Heartfelt descriptions of Mexican Racial Mores in 19th century Mexican Art.

Thank God For: James Tate, Richard Wilbur, E.J. Laino, Maxine Kumin, Rhina Espillat, Billy Collins

BREAKOUT POETS TO WATCH (in order of appearance) [Spelling guessed] AND THEIR POEMS

Ellen Jaffe - Hamilton, Ontario Transformations

Water Children

Laurie DeRosiers Grandmother's Hands

Marsh Muirhead NASCAR on Sunday

Healthcare-What's Right For You

Schaley Wolp (Mira Saksina) I am Neda

Ellen Burkehead Morris Wooden Ships

Scott Cunningham - Maimi, FL The Writer's Market Summary

Feldman Examines a Carpet

Sarah Wells Ten Reasons Why He Didn't Die

The Milking Room

Rhonda ? Days After the Earthquake

Photovoltaic Song of Myself

To My Child, Preparing for Surgery

Micah Zevin Consumation

James Cherry From Summer to Fall

Gun

Alice Small Meyerson The New Nurse

H.C. Palmer Fall

Crow Speaks His Mind

In the Tall Grass of the Landing Zone

Rita Meyers Would That There Were Jagged Edges

Kelly ? Thoughts on Alaska

Lizz Huerta: Chapbook - Burlesque

Mind my word. These folks are brilliant and waiting to be found.

Clearing the Sill of the World - Key West 3

Rushed on time, I could not proceed without downloading the conclusion of the Key West Literary Seminar:
Best presentation of the day, goes to Maxine Kumin (rhymes with human, but my spelling may be incorrect). She described the poetic path of her life from the 1940 to present, the diminshed contribution of women poets during the first half of the 20th century, her friendship with Anne Sexton, and her bucolic life as a Virginian horse farmer.
The other speakers were of course wonderful . . . and there is non-verbal learning by example that I have absorbed. I've noted the most interesting speakers, their choice of work, their ability to make their written language thrive as spoken word, and pitfalls into which even masters may stumble.
The weather has proceeded to deteriorate in temperature and now wind. I have battled it with Chicken Lo Mein and hot Chinese tea . . . but now on Day 4 of my vacation, I had to pause, return to my room and sleep. My unconscious needed to rest before facing the start of the four day workshop this evening. I will return with more notes, but for now this must suffice:

3 Poems from Key West

Portential
Hard-boiled islands
strung on a chain of highway

bisect the uncut peaks of topaz,
the circling barracudas.

The silken flesh of bulbus palms
shelter dark bricks. Gray and olive shadows.
Fronds mutter. Their flanges twiddle the cold
'tween drowsy blades.

Here, grandmother broke her hip
on a sidewalk planter grate on Duval.

Here, my confused heart marinated
in cruelty's salt sting, ever faithful.

Here, a stranger brushed against mein a garden lit by distant fire.
Born for death, I commit days
to a pilgrimage: a garden, on a rock, in the water:

my devil,
in a deep blue sea.
_ _ _ _
Cracked Open
I keep agreeing to go further,
figuring if I endure
I will arrive
eventually. But,
I never arrive.

My heart wants.
Involuntary wanting wants
and wanting wants
relentlessly. Still,
it wants more.

My descent is indecent.
I, enchanted, am decanted,
warm with shame, brine and heartbreak
immensely, like
a raw egg cooking in the street.

I have put my lips to the flesh of thinking,
licked his salty neck overtly,
the stream of consciousness conveys my soul,
covertly. But,
language sets these sordid pictures on the Internet.

You lay your head upon my chestand gobble up my exhalations.
I brace myself, my expectations
petrified. And
wait for the kiss, reciprocation.
_ _ _ _ _
Drastic Measures
There are those who can in fact
cut off a moderately dangerous mole
using a exponentially more dangerous axe.

The key: you must entrust at will
to stand very very very still. Very very very still
and to prepare yourself, said mole to kill.

Also key is not to know
the exact moment of the blow,
less you flinch and also go.
_ _ _ _

Clearing the Sill of the World - Key West 3

Friday evening passed warmly. We were awoken by blustering fronds in the courtyard of our inn. By morning light a frigid rain began to fall . . . and me without a raincoat. We ran to the San Carlos club, for Day 2 of the Key West Literary Seminar. Another day of literary superstars reading for a grateful audience:
Rhina Espillat - The bi-lingual and granmotherly Dominican earth mother. She is a quick and lucid wit in both Spanish and Dutch New York vernacular. She had one of the favorite poems of the morning "Undelivered Mail."
Billy Collins - A part time Orlandoan emerged into my consciousness today. He gave the most successfull presentation of the morning. He is confident, objective, and a skilled performer. I think I liked his presentation best because he offered some wonderful observances as bookends to his work. An example: "Writing is the pursuit of the love of strangers."
Matthea Harvey - The best superstar performer. She's set an uphill battle for herself, by selecting to read poems that were free associated from images, forms, and dictionary keywords. Her feminine high-fidelity voice begs to narrate the next "Living Planet."
James Tate charmed and Rita Dove illuminated Robert Pinsky's panel on the "Poet's Life."
Tim Steele and Paul Muldoon impressed as well.
Finally the afternoon wrapped up with readings from Kirby Condit, Kay Ryan, E.J. Laino, Todd Boss, Dara, and Harvey Shapiro. What's not to like!
My biggest discovery for today has to be Natasha Tretheway, however. She rose and surgically delivered acute and deeply crafted poems that connected to one another, to her persona, and to her audience. I cannot say enough about her. She is a quiet master with much more chi to radiate. Unparalleled amongst her peers today.
This evening, our honoree Richard Wilbur takes the podium to read the keynote address and adjourn us to a cocktail party at the old Customs House on Mallory Square. He is our high priest in the temple of poetry. I can't wait to see what he has planned.
More to follow . . .

Clearing the Sill Of the World - Key West 2

I have spent a beautiful sunny day in the Florida Keyes indoors, in a dark cavern called the San Carlos club, with 200 of my closest friends, listening to an All-Stars Game of Poetry:
Rachel Hadas - A bit academic, but honest and adroit. She, the burden of opening and so at a disadvantage. Brilliantly trained in the classics, she is the ground wire amongst so much lightning.
Erica Dawson - A mere 30 years old, and pursuing her Ph.D. at the University of Cincinnati, Ms. Dawson naturally coheres language, ideas, and format. Her hard work never shows. She makes a triple axle look like a dance step. An everyman engaged in the work of masters . . . she succeeds. I'm a bit jealous of her ease, and innate intelligence. She just arrives, and bears light without self-consciousness.
James Tate - My favorite of the day. Brittle and elderly, he needed help to climb the stairs to the stage. Once seated he read humorous poems in a deadpan-comic Richard-Wright style. His common language conveys large concepts using vernacular characters and dialogue. Amazing, accessible. I laughed regularly throughout his reading!
Robert Pinsky - A genius whose intelligence is akin to defense mechanism. He's like a magician that keeps you mesmerized by the energy and activity in his right-hand . . . while he arranges a surprise below his cape. I have the involuntary desire to sit him down . . . slow him down . . . lead him back to his heart. Wind from that path that bears complex and unaddressed issues. I wonder if his intent isn't to inspire repeated inspection of content. Rich with layers nevertheless.
Rita Dove - Whose new book is my next purpose - had the most interesting subject matter: A biography of a baroque mulato violinist who traveled Europe during the age of slavery, held court with kings, was a friend of Beethoven, and eventually lead the Price of Whales orchestra. What an amazing life!
Mark Strand - Funny, but not hilarious. He had one or two classic lines from his early work (to represent the celebration of 60 years of American poetry). He is a humble and generous poet, who was more interested in his peers than himself. Also someone I'd like to take to dinner.
Tim Steele - Did the BEST job with the most difficult subject. He spoke intelligently and engagingly on meter and rhythm in verse . . . and enabled me to access every point without losing my attention. I hope a transcript of his presentation is made available. It was that good. Sterling!
There were also four panel discussions of various formal topics: Influences, Poetic Mechanics, Form, and Process. These were interesting, as I'm a poet. Panelists spoke extemporaneoulsy and informedly . . . but I was self-reflexively aware that the audience was full of poetry "groupies" chomping at the bit to repeat some of their ruminations at the next book-club meeting. Still good stuff for a poet, priming himself to gestate in a workshop next week. I should have been subjected to a complete Survey of Modern American Literature by the time I have to explain my stinking attempts at immortality (turns out Vampirism is involved . . . and I'm just not that straight!).
The average age in the room is 60. I mean who prizes poetry enough to miss a week of work, and has the income to migrate to Key West at peak season. The greatest generation is also the greatest audience. They laugh freely and typically swoon a long suppressed "MMmmmmmmmm" after poetic flourishes by which they are moved.
I did manage to get Richard Wilbur (*the* 89 year old guest of honor) to sign the title page of his anthology. I asked him to inscribe something inspirational, but he only signed his name. I think the autograph was involuntary in that public-speaking thanks-and-here-you-go kind of way. I'm told this will be worth billions one day, but I'm not the type to haggle with sacred texts.
Tonight, I will attend the performance of a staged reading of Richard Wilbur's translation of the Suitors (French farce), and attend a cocktail party. The food and company has been lovely, but alas, a day of vacation has flown by. I feel stimulated, but not refreshed. If the weather is not freezing later in the week, I may play hookie and sit out in the sun at the beach. More soon . . .

Key West Literary Seminar

I spent Thursday evening directing my VW Passat from Orlando to Key West, Florida, despite a pesky check engine alert on the dashboard. Volkswagon assured me that my broken thermostat (repair fee $250) would not impact the operation of the car, just the fuel efficiency. The car it appears has decided to run "cold" during the longest artic cold snap in a decade. Go figure.
I spent the first three hours flying across the pine pampas and cypress land listening to Johannes Sebastian Bach (played by Glenn Gould - delicious!) and when traffic started to ramp up around Miami, I converted to the Emmerson String Quartet w/ Clarinet (Mozart). This lasted until I hit the overseas highway. I do not know what possessed me, but I put on the Bee Gees, and expressed my inner disco as I floated about the tourquoise glass that is Florida Bay. "Tragedy! When the Feeling's Gone and You Can't Go On . . . Tragedy!" I love it. Two favorites are "How Deep Is Your Love" and "No One Gets Too Much Heaven", which I shall not profane on the Blogosphere.
Upon arrival in Key West, I met my roomie Micah - a New York City Librarian - and my room. Old Town Manor. The B&B is a typical bungelow conveniently set at Eaton and Duval (read as perfectly central). The rooms have no heat, and few blankets (as they unnecessary most of the year) and so last night I spent a cold dark in a single brass bed. The thankfully hot shower this morning has revived me for the first full day of the "brain-i-mar".
Highlights last night:
1. Hearing about the Cuban-American poetry community that populated Key West in the first half of the twentieth century.
2. Listening to Robert Pinsky ruminate on memory, forgetting, phonics, and his curratorial interest in obscure poets of all ages, from all corners of the world. He is a phenomenal thinker, but I was at at six hour drive disadvantage. I let the cerebral discussion wash over me like a tide.
3. The late night reception at the Audobon house was excellent. Champagne, Flamenco music, Audobon's botanical gardens and famous poets of all shapes and sizes. I met Judy Bloom (famous author) and joked with her for awhile (suppressing my need to say Hello God, this is Margaret!).
Now I must skidaddle! Stay tuned campers, more comedy is on the way. And if you get bored, check out the online journal "Rose and Thorn". I gave the editor my book this morning.

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.