All Treats, No Tricks

Tea: Vanilla Jasmine

Music: King Crimson, "The Devil's Triangle"

Time: Night.

Mmmm ... jasmine.

Give readers a link to a story, you scare them for a night. Give readers a link to the whole site, you scare them for a lifetime.

So, here you go. Happy Halloweirdness.

Engage Ears, Disengage Thumbs

Tea: Blood Orange

Music: Peabo Bryson, "Pretty Women"

Time: Night.

The drama department at the local high school put on Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street tonight. The venue was tiny, the set (which my son helped to build) outstanding and the production thoroughly enjoyable.

Imagine my (insert word conveying baffled, bemused anger) when I noticed that the high school girl in front of me was sending and receiving text messages during the second act.

You wouldn't do that on Broadway or the West End. (You wouldn't do it off-Broadway or even off-off-Broadway. You wouldn't even do it during an overblown, check-out-my-acting-for-Jesus production of, say, The Screwtape -- or, if you will, Ska-Rew-uh-Tay-Puh -- Letters.)

I share the belief that you learn how to play a big house by playing a small one -- and I believe that to be true not only for performers, but for what Robert Fripp would call the audients. Practice courtesy and respect for the company in a community theatre, and it will carry over should you ever score tickets to something big. And trust me, the more people pay for a show, the more they're likely to want you tossed out if you're disrespectful and disruptive.

I hope the young texter gets that message.

Here endeth the rant.

Tonight's story: Lord Dunsany, "The Unhappy Body"

It's All Coming Back to Me ...

Tea: Moroccan Mint

Music: Jamiroquai, "Virtual Insanity"

Time: Night.

Yesterday was a bad day for hanging onto things. Today was a great day for getting them back.

First, I left my cell phone charger at Homer's. Or at least I was pretty sure I'd left it there, even though nobody could find it when I called last night. Then I lost my bright orange Arts Incubator stocking cap, which serves the dual purpose of (a) keeping my head warm and (b) making me more visible to drivers when I'm out walking.

(I thought about saying something glib on the visibility front, but after the events that prompted last night's post I don't think I will.)

I found the hat this morning, in the middle of the sidewalk alongside a busy street. It lay there all night, and nobody took it. This was a happy surprise.

I put it on and continued walking to Homer's.

The barista rang me up and asked, "How are you doing this morning?"

"I'm doing okay," I said. "I'll be doing wonderfully if anyone has found a cell phone cord. I think I left it here yesterday."

It wasn't in the lost and found drawer. I resigned myself to an excursion to get a replacement.

"Wait," the other barista said. He went over to the coatrack, took a hat off the shelf ... and pulled out my cord. (Beats a rabbit any day.)

On the walk back this afternoon, I found a notebook near the high school. There's a name in the notebook, which means I can leave it at the office in the morning when I drop off my kids.

I'd say that not doing so would be a shame and a sin, in light of getting back my hat and my cord in the same day. But really, wouldn't it be inexcusable no matter what?

Two scary stories tonight, as promised, and they're both from the master. That's right, two scoops of M.R. James:

"The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral"
"Lost Hearts"

Pack, Books and Candle

Tea: Blood Orange

Music: Dan Papirany, "Autumn Leaves"

Time: Night.

I did a lot of walking today -- five miles' worth, at least.

During the morning portion of my purposeful rambles, I came upon a makeshift memorial at the base of a lamppost. It had been there a while. Two of the three potted plants were still alive but drooping, and the candle -- the scented sort that comes in a jar -- was tipped over. The wax part, about three fingers deep with some serviceable wick still running through it, had come out and lay a few feet away from the glass.

I walked by ... then stopped, about fifteen feet down the sidewalk. Don't ask me why. It just nagged at me, that candle. So I righted the jar, put the scented wax back in and walked on.

Tonight, I looked up the story. That spot is where a 15-year-old high school sophomore named David J. Lengle was hit and killed by a car in August. He was the same age as my own son.

I can't imagine the pain of losing a child, especially so suddenly. I can't imagine what the driver feels, either. That can't be an easy thing to bear.

Anything else I could write would be inadequate. So tomorrow, or the day after, I'm just going to light what's left of that candle.

Two stories tomorrow. I've had enough of death for the night.

myTunes

Tea: Christmas

Music: Arizona Amp and Alternator, "Bottom of the Barrel"

Time: Night.

My music collection (which is causing my hard drive to sag in the middle) should, by rights, belong to five or six different people.

I have rock, pop, country (most of it alt-), classical, jazz, blues, Celtic, world (whatever that means), folk, funk, old-school hip-hop ... pretty much everything but death metal, polka and gangsta rap.

(That said, anything that combined those last three -- heck yeah, I'd listen at least once.)

A good chunk of the collection came from download.com's music section. For free. And before you howl "Piracy!" ... the artists like having their music on there, because it introduces them to new fans. I know I'd never have heard of Arizona Amp and Alternator -- or Autumn's Grey Solace or Alabaster Theatre, for a sampling of A's -- were it not for that site.

The Internet has been a mixed blessing. It delivers messages from friends ... and gives racist pinheads a worldwide audience for their venom. It lets artisans sell their wares to far-flung markets ... and helps spammer/scammers fleece grandmothers. It links people with something extra to give and those who desperately need that help ... and gives the gullible a way to spread urban legends faster than you can say "Turn me on, dead man."

But on this cold night ... listening to good music and preparing to read Grant Allen's "Wolverton Tower" (Pretty smooth way to introduce tonight's scary story, huh?), I have to say: "You did okay, Al."

Hitting the Books Again

Tea: Gunpowder.

Music: Holly Cole, "Onion Girl"

Time: Night.

I used to go out to eat (alone and with others, both family and friends) a lot -- and by "a lot," I mean "way too often for the bank account's health."

True, money was steadier then than it is now, but the pattern wasn't a good one.

Nothing in the fridge or the pantry speaking to me? Got a bit extra from an overtime check? Nobody felt like cooking? Off we went.

Money's tighter now. It's the 27th of October, and (not counting a couple of church dinners, a couple of pregame media meals and the Friday night arts refreshments) I've been out to eat twice this month.

I've enjoyed both times, but I've also enjoyed rediscovering my cookbook collection.

I never gave up cooking entirely, but I'd gotten into a frittata/carbonara/chili/throw something on the grill rut. (No, not all at once. That'd be ... uh, no thanks.)

I'm not giving up the old favorites, but it's fun to see what's on hand and start scouring the shelves for recipes. Who knows? Maybe the next turn of the page will produce another tradition.

Okay, that was reaching. I'm tired and rambly ... but you know I'm going to break out a couple of cookbooks and check out sweet potato recipes before I turn in.

Your bedtime wordgift from me: Jack London, "Local Color"

Seasoned with Change

Tea: Jasmine Vanilla.

Music: UK, "Night After Night"

Time: Night.

The farmer's market nearest me is shutting down for the season. Today was the final Saturday, although there's one more session on Wednesday. It seems too early for that, but there it is.

We bought a few late tastes of summer -- eggplants and bell peppers -- but mostly stocked up on hardy foods that should last well into the cold months.

There are sweet potatoes, still in their coats of dirt (they keep better that way.) There are turnips, which I used to loathe -- but now seek out as soon as I feel a fall chill. There are winter squash, awaiting loving treatment with sweetness and spice.

Eating seasonally was once the norm. We've gotten spoiled as a culture, though. Want strawberries in January or asparagus with Christmas Dinner? You can get them -- but at what cost?

The cost, I'm coming to think, of connection with the rhythms of the places where we live, and appreciation for what each season brings us.

I've had Molly O'Neill's cookbook The Well-Seasoned Palate (which is as desirable for the essays as for the recipes) for years. This may be the year I finally internalize it.

At the very least, I'm going to get outside some Turnip Bisque ere long ...

Tonight's story: Frederick Stuart Greene, "The Black Pool"

I've Just Seen a Place

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang.

Music: SixMileBridge, "Cunningham's Waltz"

Time: Night.

Went to an opening tonight (because it's Friday) at the Greenlease Gallery at Rockhurst University. Got to meet the artist, Clay Deutsch, who was kind enough to discuss his work with me.

On the way out, I noticed something I'd missed on the way in (probably because it took me forever to find the gallery, and I was preoccupied by the search): There's a lovely, almost cloistered space outside the building that houses the Greenlease.

Circular walk, tree in the middle, bench under the tree: It would be a perfect place to sit and read, sit and write, sit and just be.

There's a story, in a book sent to me by a dear friend, about a young man who was fond of going to the woods each day. His father asked why, and he said there was a place in the midst of the trees where he would go to talk to God. The father said, "But God is the same everywhere."

To which the son replied, "Yes, but I am not the same everywhere."

There's not a lot I could add to that, beyond a wish for everyone to have at least one space (I am blessed with several) in which you feel that connection between your innermost self and something -- or some One -- immeasurably great.

Tonight's stories, since I promised you two: Charles Dickens, "The Haunted House" and (Why didn't I think of this one before?) Maxwell Struthers Burt, "A Cup of Tea"

Brought to You by the Number L

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Big Rig Jackknife, "All Night Truckstop"

Time: Night

Upfront disclaimer: No scary story tonight. I'll do two tomorrow, I promise. But tonight's all about life, not chain-rattling returnees from a Victorian afterlife.

Good things came in 50s tonight.

As I type this, the Chicago Fire are leading the New York Red Bulls 4-1 in the second half. That means the Kansas City Wizards -- barring an utter collapse by Chicago -- will make the Major League Soccer playoffs. For me, that's a much-needed extra 50 dollars for covering the home leg of the first round.

(Update: The final score was 5-2, Chicago. Seven goals but no punch-up, so Nick Hornby wouldn't have called it perfect.)

And earlier tonight, I was the recipient of a random act of caffeine -- a 50-dollar gift certificate to a coffeehouse I really like. I was there, getting some work done on an art show review, when the barista came up to me with a happily baffled (henceforth to be known as "happled," which is a much better state than "hapless") smile.

"Someone just called in with a credit card number and asked me to give you this," she said, as though she still couldn't quite believe it.

The giver has been thanked. Ordinarily, I would do so publicly, by name, but I have the feeling I would get a bit grumbled-at if I did that in this instance. The giver didn't do it for a mention in a blog.

We had a bit of a discussion about what Christ would think about many of the things that go on in His name today. (Upshot: He would not be pleased.) That made me think about the admonition in Matthew: "When you give, do not let the right hand know what the left hand is doing." In other words, don't give in order to get the approval of others. Don't even do it to feel better about yourself.

Do it because it's the right thing to do.

And if you're in the mood to do so right now, whether by 50s or any other amount, might I suggest Heifer International? Every gift there helps people sustain themselves ... and isn't that one of the things we're here for, to help others to live?

I've Been a Distant Cousin ...

Tea: White Leaf Song Yang

Music: Jacky Terrasson, "He Goes on a Trip"

Time: Night.

My high school senior daughter got a dictionary tonight. Big deal, right? Yeah, it was.

Each year, through the Kansas Scholars program, the University of Kansas awards certificates and dictionaries to seniors who are in the top ten percent of their graduating classes. The ceremony for her district, which includes five high schools, was tonight. (For the record, I wasn't in the top ten percent of my class. I had the test scores. But homework? Couldn't be bothered.)

Late in the presentation for the last high school, I saw a young man in a blue shirt hurry into the line. I knew it had to be my cousin's son, who I hadn't seen in more than ten years. I was right. He almost didn't make the ceremony, because his soccer team was playing a makeup game (in a cold rain, I might add).

I think my grandparents would have been proud, to have two great-grandchildren at the same academic awards ceremony. I think it would have saddened them, the way I've lost touch with a lot of my relatives.

My cousin lives 15 minutes from me, and I've seen him only a handful of times since I moved here.

I know ... it's inexcusable. But it's correctable.

As I get older, more and more time goes by between blinks. Kids become fledgling adults. Friends find themselves at the threshold of grandparenthood.

And we have the best of intentions -- to keep in touch, to get together, to keep weeks from turning into months from turning into years. But we fall down.

As long as we have breath, though, we can get up again. We have chances to close the gaps -- or, at the least, to build bridges over them. It isn't easy, but it can be done.

Tonight's scary story: Christopher Blayre, "The Book"

Happy with What I Have to be Happy With II

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: U2, "October"

Time: Night.

It's raining, and I do enjoy a good chilly fall downpour. But that drip you hear isn't just the water from the eaves.

Yes, I'm still stuffy. And my left ear is plugged.

But you know what? I have hot water. I have tea. And even if I didn't have those, I have a roof over my head to keep off the rain.

I know I've said it before, but it bears repeating: When things seem crummy, count your blessings. A dose of perspective -- whether regular or decaf -- is pretty strong medicine.

So is a good ghost story. Tonight's dose: H.F.W. Tatham, "The Travelling-Companion"

No More for Me. I'm Stuffed (Up).

Tea: Blood Orange with Ginger, honey added

Music: The Skids, "The Saints are Coming"

Time: Night.

Another short one tonight, folks. My sinuses are kerfuffled.

How about we all make ourselves something hot and citrusy, drizzle in some honey (see above) and read ourselves off to nightmareland with George MacDonald's "A Ghost Story"?

Night-night ...

Behind the Wall of Sleep; or, Technical Difficulties at the Dream Theater

Tea: Blueberry

Music: Fulton Lights, "Breathe In, Breathe Out"

Time: Night.

(First off, I want to say to the rubber duck abandoned to spend a lonely winter in a drained city swimming pool ... I really would have scaled the fence to save you if the cop hadn't been watching. I'm still having a hard time looking my own ducks in their beady little black eyes tonight.)

Sometimes I wonder if there's a correlation between creativity in the waking world and an utterly whacked-out dream life. The duck episode was real, but wow, you should have been in my head last night.

No, no tornado dreams -- not lately, at least. (In case I haven't mentioned this before, I have recurring dreams of tornadoes. I've never seen one in real life, which my dream self knows. So I dream that I've seen one, and I'm all excited -- until I wake up and realize it was only a dream, at which point I get cranky.)

But why in the world would my subconscious have made up a YouTube music video of Asia in which John Wetton (playing a 12-string bass and wearing a shiny gold suit) delivers an incoherent rant at the start of "Only Time Will Tell" -- and what was up with Steve Howe's ginormous gold-tone plastic double-necked guitar?

I don't know how I managed the segue, but all of a sudden I was driving a car up a street that was either Southwest Boulevard here in KC or Second Street in my hometown. People I know kept stepping out into traffic, so I swerved to avoid them, and a policeman decided I should pull over. (I know ... the snoozy injustice of it all.)

So I started to pull over, and then I realized:

"Wait. I'm dreaming."

And I woke up.

Now, my dreams are sometimes vivid enough that I wake up wondering if they really happened. How, then, do I realize -- always in moments of distress and/or duress -- that none of it is real, and I'm free to go? (If no one's taken the word "dreamnesty" yet, I'm calling dibs.)

And why, once I have figured out that I am dreaming, don't I stick around and have some real fun -- a high-speed chase, a shootout with rocket launchers, a daring leap across the Grand Canyon in my steaming pile of Honda?

Mysteries all. Maybe I'll dream up a solution tonight. Or maybe it'll be that weird one about the 2000-foot black tsunamis again. I hope not. I'm too tired to dodge sharks.

Maybe I'll get John Wetton to do it for me.

Tonight's scary story: Robert W. Chambers, "In the Court of the Dragon"

Back on the Board

Tea: Chocolate Cherry

Music: David Bowie, "Heroes"

Time: Night

Today, I played Scrabble against my 15-year-old son. Two games, won both. (The king is still the king.) That's only part of the point.

I used to play against my father, whenever I could -- and our games were epic. Scores of 302-301 weren't unheard-of. We scraped and scrapped and challenged for every point, so fiercely that nobody else would play with us.

He always hoarded the "Q" tile. Consequently, I held every "U" I could get my hands on. When he died, a little over a decade ago, I buried the "Q" with him.

And until today, I had played once since he died. But it was time. We've had a new Scrabble set for several years now (my son, if you'll recall, pulled it out of storage earlier this year) and I'd slowly been working up to the idea of playing again. When my son challenged me this morning, I accepted.

He has some of his grandfather's mannerisms. He fidgets. He takes forever to make a play. Even when he's about to score big, he never pounces. He gives the board one last look-see, to make sure he's not missing one or two extra points by playing something else.

And he doesn't want any help, from anyone. If he's going to win, he wants to earn it.

It was odd in ways, comforting in others, to be hunched over the board and the letters again. I have a feeling it won't be long before we're at it again.

Someday he'll beat me ... if I'm lucky. After all, great rivalries need winners on both sides.

Tonight's scary story: Lettice Galbraith, "The Trainer's Ghost"

Those as Can, Do (and Should Teach)

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Lynyrd Skynyrd, "Gimme Three Steps"

Time: Night.

Third Friday means hanging out with artists, which invariably means good conversation.

Tonight, I was at a reception, talking with an artist acquaintance who teaches at an area high school. He was bemoaning the fact that too many times, people who teach art at that level aren't producing artists themselves.

A writer friend has said the same thing for years, under another paw. He contends that to teach writing in high school, one should be a producing writer.

Granted, that is the case sometimes. There are artists who teach, writers who teach, directors and actors and techs who teach. And when that happens, it's a good thing.

But that should be the norm. Education should be a minor, not a major, in every case. Focus on expertise in the core subject, and it will be easier to teach it. And if someone knows the material-- has lived the material -- and can communicate it, why keep him or her from teaching?

In too many cases, though, the education degree is paramount -- and it shouldn't be. Would you rather have your kids learning from people who know how to do the work, or from people who have spent most of their undergraduate lives learning educational theory (much of which seems dedicated to the modern-day cult of self esteem)?

I'd better stop here. That last parenthetical could lead to a much longer rant, and it's late.

Tonight's scary story: Lafcadio Hearn, "The Corpse-Demon"

Mount Argyle

Tea: Jasmine Vanilla

Music: Beaver Nelson, "Minute Man"

Time: Night.

I don't always wear matched socks. Sometimes, I deliberately choose not to match. I do like to have the option, though.

And for several weeks ... okay, months ... my choices have been shrinking for no apparent reason. I put socks in the laundry. Sometimes I do the laundry -- and it still happens. My dryer is like the Thunderdome: Two socks enter, one sock leaves.

Today, I'd had enough. I rounded up every bag of unmatched socks I could find. (There were, for the record, five. There are five people in the house, but the unmatched socks were not divided by member. That would have been way too efficient.)

It started while the kids were at school and Mrs. Steep was at work. I made a pile in the living room and started pairing. As the others arrived home, they joined in.

I didn't count how many pairs we managed to get together. All I know is that I still have dozens of unmatched socks in what's now "my" sock bag.

Maybe I'm not meant to get them all paired off. Maybe my sock pile is some sort of cosmic trigger, a textile version of the monks' quest in Arthur C. Clarke's "The Nine Billion Names of God."

Then again, maybe the whole sock thing was just a cheesy way to set up giving you two stories tonight. No ghosties or monsters in the Clarke, I know. But the story is its own (albeit peaceful) brand of spooky, wouldn't you say?

You didn't read it? Go back and finish it. Right now. Or no literary dessert for you.

All done? Good job. Now you can move on to A.M. Burrage and "The Green Bungalow."

The Last Drop (or Not)

Tea: Yunnan Gold (morning)/ Oolong Pouchong (night)

Music: Yes, "City of Love"

Time: Night, as I type.

I finished a small bag of loose tea this morning. It was lovely, as passings go -- golden, warm, rich, Indian summer in a cup.

I got two steepings out of the leaves. They, in turn, got me through a cold, rainy morning.

Tonight, I pulled out another bag whose gauge is nearing "E." But the more I looked, the more I thought, "You know, I can probably make this last one more time past tonight, if I steep in a small cup."

It's not easy for me to do that. You know my predilection for veritable kegs o'tea. But sometimes, having just a bit of something excellent really is enough.

And I think I can get one more steeping out of tonight's portion ...

Scary story du nuit: Bernard Capes, "The Marble Hands"

Pans, No Flash

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: This Train, "Technology"

Time: Night.

I can't honestly say that I love my cast iron skillets and my woks. They are, after all, only worked metal, and could be replaced if necessary. But I am rather fond of them.

Part of it is remembrance of stir-fries and fish fries, of sizzling bacon and twice-cooked pork. Good meals nourish more than once. But there's something else.

These particular pans aren't low-maintenance. They require care. None of this dishwasher-safe nonsense. Put soap in a well-seasoned cast iron pan or steel wok, and you undo -- in some cases -- years of work. Try to wipe them dry, or let them air-dry, and they rust. Forget to oil them after they're dry, and you run the risk of losing the conditioning.

With all that work, why put up with them? There are electric woks and nonstick pans. And in certain situations, those have their uses. I wouldn't rig up a charcoal fire in the dining room for hot-pot, for example.

But when you want a crisp crust on your corn pones, you want cast iron. When you want concentrated heat at the bottom of the pan and a cooler place along the sides, so your beef cooks and your broccoli doesn't get mushy, you want a hand-hammered wok.

The really good stuff takes work, more than might seem reasonable to people who don't "get it." But it's worth it. And that's true in the kitchen, too.

Tonight's scary story: Algernon Blackwood, "The Wendigo"

Drizzlicious

Tea: Blood Orange

Music: Asia, "Without You"

Time: Night.

Ah ... wet, cool fall weather. My time is upon the world, and none too soon. I can only take so many beautiful Indian summer days before I get cranky.

Were I scripting the night, I'd have a bowl of beef and Guinness in front of me and see myself off to bed with something malty and peaty. (I have the latter, but I also have a bit of a sniffle and scratch -- which isn't a Dickensian law firm but certainly sounds like one, doesn't it?)

So I think I'll steep myself one last cup, stir in some honey and contemplate some old-school spookiness. As promised, I'm catching up and giving you three stories:

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell, "The Devil Stone"

William Hope Hodgson, "The Weed Men"

Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, "Narrative of the Ghost of a Hand"

Brutality Uncovered (and Un-Covered)

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed

Music: Bob Walkenhorst, "Primitivo Garcia"

Time: Night.

Missions day at church today. Pot luck (always a good thing) and presentations from missionaries, in fields as far-flung as Asia and Italy and as close as my home county.

One of today's speakers is a member of our church and a friend of mine. He and his wife work in Orissa state, India.

Orissa is home to a Hindu ultranationalist movement that aims to force the conversions of all Christians, Jews and Muslims. The alternatives: departure or death. The violence has been appalling, and it's still ongoing.

And for the most part, it's been ignored by the Western Press. (That may be changing. I found this from the New York Times and this from the Sunday Herald tonight. Now that the Pope has issued a condemnation of the attacks, I can only hope more coverage will follow.)

Darfur has gotten a lot of press, and rightly so. So, over the past week, has the political marginalization of Christians in Iraq. Any killing is a tragedy, and no one -- of any faith or none -- should have to worry about persecution for what he or she believes (or doesn't).

But where has Orissa been in the mainstream media? Buried, pardon the bitter expression.

My friend has a theory. The violence in Darfur has been committed by Islamists. Christians in Iraq are concerned about their place in an overwhelmingly Muslim country. It's safer to write about "bad Moslems" than about "bad Hindus," because Muslims are our officially approved boogeypeople -- the Other du jour, as it were.

(Please don't think I'm demonizing all Hindus, either. My friend and his wife are able to coordinate relief efforts in Orissa because one of their agency's local partners is a Hindu priest. My friend choked up today, relating the bravery of this man risking his life for -- well, for Others.)

We're not at the point of sectarian violence in this country, but we've been there before. There were atrocities on both sides in the early years of the Mormon movement, and in 1857 the prospect of open warfare between the U.S. and the Utah territory was quite real. That's an eyeblink ago, as history goes.

Somewhere, there's a notebook with one of my rare epiphanies (I get them occasionally). I don't remember all of it, but it runs somewhat thusly:

"If I hate in my own name, I am wrong but still within my 'rights.' If I hate in my country's name, I am wrong -- but still within my 'rights,' insofar as I have a citizen's stake in the matter. But if I hate in God's name, I am not only wrong but utterly in the wrong. One cannot hate in the name of One who commands us to love our neighbors -- and reminds us that everyone is a neighbor."

So tonight, remember not only the Christians of Orissa, but the Muslims and the Jews. And if you pray, say one for the persecutors, too. Hate hurts the hater. And there's too much pain in the world already.

Lighter post and three scary stories tomorrow. I promise.

Enough Already

Tea: White Grapefruit

Music: U2, "Angel of Harlem"

Time: Night.

I'm going to keep this short and simple.

It's beyond time to quit "othering" the opposition -- whichever side you're on -- in this election.

The people supporting the wrong candidate (or wronger candidate, if you will, as there doesn't really seem to be a completely right one) are still people. Misguided, perhaps, or merely with different priorities -- but people.

Ditto the candidates and their families. They're still people. Enough with the hating. Enough with the name-calling. Enough with "us vs. them."

As bad as things are now, we're all us. We can't afford a "them."

I'm skipping the scary story tonight. Two tomorrow. I'm in need of a little light right now.

Single-Region Courtesy

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed

Music: Norah Jones, "Come Away with Me"

Time: Night.

Being a freelance writer, just building a career, I am bound by a state law requiring me to be broke at nearly all times. So when arts events with free food and drink surface on my calendar, as they do nearly every Friday, I count them as gratitudes. It does get me wondering, though ... what do I bring to the table, besides a pen, a notebook and the hope of being written about?

A beyond-dear friend of mine is in the same leaky economic boat. Still, she takes good chocolate with her wherever she goes and shares it liberally -- not with the aim of getting anything in return, but because she is a sharer. It makes her happy to treat people to new tastes.

That's not why people are glad to see her, though. They're glad to see her because she treats people as people -- not as parts of the machines they operate, not as cogs in the engines they serve. In today's hurried world, that's a rare thing.

It's a lesson for me. I often have to go empty-handed, physically ... but each of us can offer the gift of interest in other people, the taste of respect and regard. It's both sweet and nourishing -- to everyone involved -- listen, ask questions, cut down on the use of the pronoun "I" unless it's absolutely necessary.

Best of all? No calories.

Tonight's scary story: John Kendrick Bangs, "The Spectre Cook of Bangletop"

Moderation in Moderation

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Jayhawks, "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me"

Time: Night.

I'm trying to lose the phrase "It's the strangest thing," because -- well, really, how do you quantify that?

It's a strange thing, though: I'm becoming more efficient. I'm getting better at follow-through. I'm catching up on things I've been putting off for months.

Heaven help me, I may be growing up. Not that that's a bad thing, entirely. Has to happen sooner or later, I suppose.

It's not all bad, you know. Getting up early and staying up, for example, means I can get the routine things out of the way before they take over the day, thereby making me feel a little less guilty when it's time to slack.

What, you thought I was going all the way over to the Beige Side of the Force? No way. Sure, my inner child might have an earlier bedtime now -- but you can have my ratty Chuck Taylors, my cheesy monster movies and my rubber duck collection when you pry them out of my cold, dead fingers.

It's a balancing act, to be sure. Structure is good and necessary, but it can't take over my life. I need something of the random, the chaotic, the downright goofy -- or I'll die. Not physically, mind you, but the body is only a house for the self. And this self has to have the sparks, even if they must be a bit more controlled.

And now, time to hit the rack. Tomorrow, I get to organize the garage and make some calls on a shared story that's due next week -- and then I get to hang out with artists until well past dark-thirty.

I can live with that.

Tonight's scary story: Charles Collins, "The Compensation House"

Stray Cat Strut

Tea: Christmas

Music: The Archies, "Sugar Sugar"

Time: Night.

I often go on and on about being an animal lover -- if they're properly cooked. But I do have somewhat of a soft spot for living creatures, especially if they're in peril [well, the sort of peril that doesn't involve me hunting them.]

(A friend of mine will dart into traffic to save a stranded animal. I haven't done anything like that ... yet. Never know, though.)

While I was waiting for church activities to start this evening (I'm Baptist. We do Sundays and Wednesdays.), I took a short stroll in the park across the street. Suddenly, a gray-and-white cat pounced from behind a bush and started batting at my bootlaces.

"Okay," I thought. "I'll play." And so I danced around for a bit, and the cat pounced and rolled and seemed to be having all sorts of fun. Even had it not been wearing a collar with a nametag, it was clear this was no hungry feral stray. This cat belonged to someone -- or more likely, someone belonged to this cat.

But where was the owner? Nowhere to be seen, and it would be dark before long. So I finally got the cat to hold still long enough to ascertain that his name was Arnold and that his tag bore a telephone number.

I called it. No answer and no answering machine. I tried again with the same result. I pictured a family, most likely with one or more tearful children, out searching for a beloved pet. I tried again, and a man answered.

"Hi," I said. "Do you have a gray and white cat named Arnold?"

"Yes, we do."

"I found him across from the Baptist Church, by the water park."

"He's kind of a wanderer, but he's only a block from home. See the house with the white car? That's ours."

We exchanged a few more pleasantries, he thanked me for calling, and I hung up and gave Arnold one more scratch behind the ears.

Somehow, I have the feeling I'll be seeing him again.

Tonight's scary story: W.C. Morrow, "The Gloomy Shadow"

Bonjour from a Plongeur

Tea: Marron Glace

Music: Jacob do Bandolim, "Assanhado"

Time: Morning

I can't say there are no words for how I feel about doing dishes -- especially scrubbing pots and pans. There are. They just aren't very nice words.

Mornings? Ditto.

Yet here I am, steeping my first cup of the day after 45 minutes of washing, rinsing, drying (okay, so I dried the heavy pots on the stove) and stacking. And I'm fine with that -- and I'll be even better once the caffeine hits my system.

For one, it's in my jobs column and it needs to be done. But beyond that, I'm trying to move away from a place of doing things grudgingly and out of obligation -- and into a space of doing them because I want to.

Paul exhorted the Ephesians to do everything "as unto the Lord" -- with joy, with love and without complaint. Tall order, for we fallible humans ... but every time we manage it, I believe we will be changed for the better.

Wow ... preach much, Steve?

I'd say it's time to pass the plate, but it's going to be covered with potato pancakes in a bit. Time to break the fast and listen to the rain for a while ...

Today's spooky story: E.F. Benson, "The Horror-Horn"

I should have had it delivered by an African Swallow ...

Tea: Mandarin Orange

Music: Earth, Wind & Fire, "Fantasy"

Time: Night

My youngest daughter doesn't like mushrooms, but I can get her to eat shiitakes if I soak them in vanilla Lapsang tea and include them in spicy stir-fries.

Her older sister doesn't eat coconut ... until tonight.

I made Gobi Foogath (Spicy Fried Cabbage) as a side dish for egg curry, and the recipe (taken from my battered edition of Charmaine Solomon's The Complete Asian Cookbook, which can also be found online here) calls for two tablespoons of dried coconut, stirred in at the end.

It came time to add the coconut. I looked at the futon, where my unsuspecting daughter sat, blithely doing her homework. I looked at the bag of white shreds, back at my daughter ... and poured in a generous handful.

Of course, I told her. But I was restrained about it. I kept my dancing and chanting of "I got you to eat COconut ... I got you to eat COconut," to a meager thirty seconds.

Then she had to ruin the moment by shrugging and saying, "Oh, well. I couldn't taste it."

Sheesh. Waste of a perfectly good gloat.

Tonight's scary story: M.R. James, "Canon Alberic's Scrapbook"

Skippy the Wonder Chicken says Good Night

Tea: Blood Orange

Music: Del Amitri, "Always the Last to Know"

Time: Night.

Remember that stretchy (but non-rubber) chicken from the other night?

It's finally gone.

The final roster of meals to which it contributed:

Thursday lunch: Dirty rice for one

Thursday dinner: Roast chicken and vegetables for five

Friday lunch: Leftover roast chicken for two

Friday supper: Sausage and cabbage soup (with the leftover vegetables and a chicken stock base) for four (I was at First Friday.)

Saturday lunch: Soup for four (One of the kids had a scenery-building workday at school.)

Saturday dinner: Spinach salad with chopped chicken for five

Saturday late night snack: Soup (with the leftover chopped chicken added) for one

Sunday supper: Soup for four (One was tired of soup and had a sandwich.)

I'd say it's fitting that the last meal came on a Sunday. Church and thankfulness for blessings and all that. But I'm trying to make every day a day of gratitude, of awareness, of stewardship.

Heh ... guess this lesson tasted like chicken.

I know I slacked last night and didn't post a scary story. So tonight, here are two.

Thomas Peckett Prest, "The Demon of the Hartz"

Horacio Quiroga, "The Feather Pillow"

Instant Gratification Overload

Tea: Lapsang Vanilla

Music: Wild Cherry, "Play That Funky Music"

Time: Night

So I've sent out ... (counting) ... 32 e-mails so far today and tonight to artists and gallery directors. (Yeah, I'm a bit behind on my correspondence. I'm trying to do something about it, at least.) Out of those 32 recipients, two have replied as of this writing.

Considering it's the weekend, that's not a bad number. Given the way communications used to be ... it's nothing short of phenomenal.

Say it's 1860, and I want to send a letter from St. Joseph to Sacramento. Enter the Pony Express, which -- if nobody gets popped out of the saddle -- will get the missive from point A to Point B in ten days. That's considered fast.

It took weeks, sometimes, for my father's letters to get home from the Pacific Theater during World War II.

Now, I can get calls from England in real time. I can send out almost three dozen notes in the span of several hours, and know they've all arrived safely in their destined in-boxes.

And you know what? I'm spoiled. We all are, I think.

It's easy to take quick communication for granted, even for those of us (yes, we dinosaurs do still roam the earth) who remember the days when hitting "send" meant licking a stamp and dropping a letter in a slot.

We take it as a given that people will be reachable -- by e-mail, by cell phone, by instant message. It's not a far leap to expecting them to be reachable at our convenience, not theirs, no matter the circumstances at the receiving end. Let a call go to voice mail? How dare she?

It's a symptom, I think, of a larger malady. Things -- long-distance conversations, fast transportation, putting food on the table -- are too easy for us, and as a consequence, we don't appreciate them as much as we should.

Shutting off our cell phones and unplugging our computers for a week would help us grow a bit fonder of instant communication, perhaps. But that's about as likely to happen as -- oh, I don't know -- an election in which looks don't matter and no cards get played.

Oops, got to go. I have a call coming in.

A Pleasant Reminder

Tea: Lapsang Vanilla

Music: Pink Floyd, "Learning to Fly"

Time: Night.

This will be short. First Friday has worn me out a bit. It was good, though. Got to see some people I hadn't seen in a while, found a few new (to me) spaces ... and as always, the art reminded me just how good Kansas City's creative community is.

The weather was gorgeous, the music (inside and outside) worth hearing ... in short, an affirmation of some wise words I've heard recently:

"I'd rather be poor and healthy than rich and sick."

Amen to that.

Tonight's story: Jessie Middleton, "The Ghost That Grinned"

Stretching a Non-Rubber Chicken

Tea: Blueberry

Music: Beastie Boys, "Sabotage"

Time: Night

So how do you feed five people -- three of them teenagers -- on one non-giant chicken?

Quite well, I'm finding out. And with the economy the way it is, anything that stretches out the food budget is a good thing.

The process started last night. I took out the giblets, butterflied the bird and set aside the backbone. (I know the link says to discard it. I can't afford to discard anything, right now.) Then I peeled back the skin on the breasts and thighs, rubbed some smoked paprika on the exposed meat and put the skin back. A dusting of smoked paprika and kosher salt on the skin, and the bird went into the fridge.

But wait, there's more. I browned the backbone and the neck and put them into a pot of boiling water, to make stock. I put the liver and gizzards into another pan of water and cooked them. After a while, I took out the neck and back (while they still had some flavor in the bits of meat attached to them) and put them in a baggie with the giblets.

The neck and back meat and the giblets were part of my lunch today. I made dirty rice, using the stock to cook the grains. With a few drops of hot sauce completing the assembly, lunch was served -- and enjoyed.

For dinner, I roasted the chicken, along with some vegetables (potatoes, carrots, onions and celery) tossed in olive oil and dusted with poultry seasoning, salt and pepper. On the side, iceberg salad. Now, in the past I've regarded two pieces of chicken as a snack and three as something of a divine right. But tonight, we all made do with slices from the breasts, and nobody complained of being hungry. (My stomach is shrinking, I think.)

I boned out the rest of the chicken, saving some for Mrs. Steep's lunch tomorrow. (I did save out the flat portions and the tips of the wings. Those are going to be my lunch.) The rest of the meat will go on a salad, most likely.

Done? Not yet. I make a stock out of the bones. That will be a base for soup, using the leftover roast veggies, the cabbage in the fridge and three jalapeno bratwursts (bought on sale for 60 cents each). With any luck, there will be leftovers of that, too.

Please don't take this as bragging. Take it, if anything, as an expression of gratitude for Providence and provision, and of regret for past waste -- and a determination not to take a full belly for granted.

Tonight's scary story: Algernon Blackwood, "The Lease"

The Horror! The Horror!

Tea: Lemon

Music: Franz Ferdinand, "Take Me Out"

Time: Night.

It's October again, kiddies. You know what that means. Time for scary stuff (BWAH hah hah hah haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa) ...

So here you go.

Oh ... not up for real-life creepiness? Fine. But I have to warn you ... measured against the indoctrination of kids into a cult of personality, this is kind of tame.

Here you go: We lead off the month with Elliot O'Donnell's "The Two Ghost Houses of Red Lion Square."

Enjoy.