The other night I consoled a sobbing teenager about the travails of love, guaranteeing him that he will fall in love again, that he got his heart broken good, that maybe loneliness can only be semi-quelled by loving yourself, delving into the rich interior of the inner. He cries into the night. I put my head on my pillow and worry.
Another round of aftershocks hit Japan. Someone dedicates Bob Marley’s “One Love” to the dead, dying and missing. Another wonders if Japan will fall into the ocean and what that will do to gas prices here. George Takei, the actor who portrayed Mr. Sulu on “Star Trek,” declares, “Today we are all Japanese.”
With no fanfare, after having been under construction for what seems like forever, the walking-talking bridge on Bryant Avenue over the magnificent Minnehaha Creek reopens. I take a romantic stroll over it with the dog and remember what Yoko Ono told me about being in Japan as a young girl in the days after the United States bombed Hiroshima-Nagasaki: “Everything on the ground was flattened, but the sky was a beautiful orange. It comforted me like a nice warm blanket. Whenever times have been hard, I’ve always looked up at the sky and felt peaceful.” CNN’s Anderson Cooper, reporting on location from his umpteenth world crisis of 2011 and looking like he could use a hug, vacation or lover, stands amidst the latest rubble of the latest calamity and calls the scene “apocalyptic” before going to a Cialis commercial.
“Wild Temptation,” reads the marquee on Mount Olivet Lutheran Church. The teenager and I have a good laugh about that one and wonder what all the cars buzzing down W. 50th Street make of it as spring descends on the beat-up tundra.
A PBS commentator maintains that the nuclear meltdown in Japan is manageable and closer to the lower levels of radiation of Three Mile Island than the “30 times more serious” degrees of Chernobyl. A click away the CNN crawl reads, “Japan: largest disaster ever.”
Le Cirque Rouge burlesque troupe heats up the 331 Club with music, dance, drinks. The dancers, going by such names as Tomahawk Tassels, Queenie Von Curves and Buttercup Flowers laugh, sing, swing, bump and grind to a beat that harkens back to post-war America and makes the packed club of grinning anti-hipsters forget the signs of the
The Prime Minister of Japan calls the earthquake/tsunami/meltdown Japan’s worst disaster since World War II. Bloggers exorcise racist Tweeters for proffering the idea that Japan had it coming and that “payback [for Pearl Harbor] is a bitch.” Making the rounds on Facebook is a video of a woman claiming the disaster is God’s revenge. CNN headline: “Can We Trust Japan On Nuke Crisis?”
A wet sheet of typing paper dangles from a telephone pole on Bryant Avenue: “Do you want to be in a band? Call Grace Morrison 612 825 9430 It starts in spring Grace will call you when we have practice!!!!!!!”
The death toll in Japan is 3,300 as of this writing. At the carefree oasis that is Lake Of The Isles Dog Park, a huge white Great Dane by the name of Bandit gallops in and instantly achieves top-dog status with a herd of smaller dogs that relentlessly chase the giant pup around in worship. The sun is out. Miraculously, two dogs survive the quake and tsunami, but their owner, Masaki Kikuchi, tells the Wall Street Journal he won’t be bringing the dogs to the evacuation center where he and his family are staying. “There are lots of people dead and it’s too much to ask to bring the dogs,” he says. “It would be inconsiderate to other people’s sadness.”
The good folks at One Yoga remind me that the studios’ annual Spring Equinox celebration, in which a roomful of people simultaneously perform 108 sun salutations for peace, takes place Saturday, March 19. A star-gazing calendar reminds me that the same night, the biggest moon since 1992 will hang in the sky, making for one of the so-called “supermoons” that have long been associated with earthquakes, tsunamis and volcanic eruptions.
The missing toll in Japan is 6,700 as of this writing. I put my head on my pillow and worry about melting ice dams and Justin Morneau’s head.