Write or Wrong

Oh, for Pete's Sake!

2011-05-19T06:36:00.000-05:00

This morning, I read an email from Facebook where my brother had posted a comment "What happened?" on one of my photos. I thought, now what photo have I posted that would have elicited this question?

It turned out the comment was in reference to a picture of Ham Sammich, or Sammy, my dog. I thought he looked cute. I thought my family (who are all over Facebook) could use a reminder of the sweet, portly beast who thinks he's a lapdog.

Obviously, my brother's very considerate question has got me thinking about how inured we've become to the everyday dramatics of Facebook. What once was a forum for students to mobilize and socialize is now the "muffin top" on the torso we call "social networking." We all know it's there, we try not to look at it, but some people shake and flaunt it like it's something luscious and appealing.

I keep trying to rationalize Facebook's value -- a way to keep in touch with old friends and family, a way to connect with causes I support, I can share pictures with those who are far away and I can plan my social time -- essentially, I can share my life.

At what cost am I hanging on to these positive attributes of Facebook? I check my News Feed less and less because it is often a source of pain and stress for me. I find myself being judgemental, intolerant and frustrated. I miss the days when all you might come across are stupid videos of skaters racking their nuts on a handrail and babies burping. I miss my causes saying they had a successful event. But, most of all, I miss ten minutes of morning and often ten minutes of my evening. What about you all?

Books as Comfort Food

2011-04-21T23:03:00.002-05:00

There are times when I chuck the ol' Carpe Diem into the bin as a load of just so much claptrap. At these junctures, where one path seems as poor as another, I grab a task, something to keep my worries at bay. Some people eat, others knit, runners run, drinkers drink, some blog or podcast and others participate in all sorts of TMI activities that burden perfect strangers and loosely connected acquaintances with irrelevant nonsense. I read and write — solitary, thoughtful and outside of myself — the perfect pastimes to lead from wallowing in defeat to wonder of the ways of people. I often leave this sort of work sated and full of profound intention to change. And, I do ... change, that is. Always for the better, I believe, always for the better.

Grow Soldiers, Grow!

2011-03-24T22:08:00.001-05:00

Battle hunger, not nations.

Life Versus Humanity

2011-03-19T12:03:00.006-05:00

Our lives are electric — painful, dynamic, mysterious, golden, commonplace, fleeting, eccentric, bold, joyful and without guarantees of any sort — yet, in service to others, we assail our lives' errant, erratic natures to run bolts to ground to bring us to purposeful and meaningful acts of humanity.

Mr. _____ Sucks In Dirt

2011-02-11T22:48:00.008-06:00

His fingers are covered with blackboard chalk dust,

Which pass frequently over cratered nodules

Of flapping, undulating facial skin.

Who’s to say we need to listen to this or that from

Teacher/Joker with his pores gaping open,

Like mini orifices, which collect dust

Of grimy school yard trash heaps and classroom

Germs from our coughs and cafeteria belches?

He takes all this into his ruddy skin,

And spews it out in judgments upon our work;

He emits all this noxiousness out in words

Of no encouragement. His face of dust

Pans the room of would-be scholars, druggies,

Gas station attendants and practical nurses.

We know not what our pre-adult skin

Holds in store for our futures and families —

For our next day or the day after that —

Because the bible says we are all of dust

And to dust we shall return from our skin (but, they don’t teach this in high school).

Smallish

2010-11-27T09:31:00.003-06:00

I was born on the move. The result of this mobile life — city-to-city, school-to-school, hangout-to-hangout — is a propensity to feel rather small. While I often feel overwhelmed, as if there's not enough of me to take in this tactile existence, feeling overlooked has it's distinct advantages. Here are some artists whom I admire who act on the concepts of working in the background and toeing the boundary between inner and outer life:

1) Slinkachu http://slinkachu.com/

2) Jules Aarons http://www.julesaarons.com/

3) Edward Hopper http://americanart.si.edu/exhibitions/online/hopper/

Time for Chickens on this Farm

2010-10-09T09:36:00.002-05:00

There is a hole in the fabric of my home that can only be patched by chickens. So, I've been looking into what is to be a major project to celebrate my 40 years on this planet this January ... a chicken coop. Thank goodness for this resource: http://www.madcitychickens.com/. Wish me luck, please.

Evening Fishing

2010-05-30T06:41:00.008-05:00

Last evening was magic -- cotton was wafting through the air coming to rest in whispy peaks on the water, a transient (who looked strikingly similar to a dustbowl-era hobo) was reflectively lazing on a park bench next to a rusted out batting cage, the nightcrawler was fighting me with its imaginary fists, kayaks and canoes with friends and lovers slipped to and fro beneath the bridge where I stood -- I fought a bit with my line not to hook any of these precious things. I was after a fish, after all.

Remote From Denver

2010-04-29T21:39:00.001-05:00

Joe Biden's here in my hotel. Woot, woot! Just kidding, really. Frankly, Secret Service make me cranky ... and I'm feeling as though I'd like to bounce tonight. Not possible, I'm afraid.

Colorado Springs tomorrow. On the agenda: Best of the West Art Auction; Jack Quinn's; Garden of the Gods; Pioneer Museum; Fine Arts Center; and much, much more.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Scary Larry In Microfiction

2010-04-13T06:33:00.003-05:00

A mirrored disco ball of dental work, his mouth agape and I’m inside hearing that thought-shattering cackle, the malodorous stench tastes of brandy manhattans, giving offense. Why the hell did I say “yes” when Larry asked me to dance?

Larry, the dumbfuck from Hoboken, his mouth in a purse and then, again, jarred open with a mountain more than a touch of wrenching gracelessness. “Come on, baby, quit busting my chops, why doncha!?”

When I quit reaming him out four ways from the middle for stepping on me all the way up the ankle and for even daring to pull his respiration act on me,

he sat down right,
no left,

in the middle of the dance floor.

“Well that there dance step be a new one on me, Scary Larry.”

I could see the vomit of muddled ardor beginning to rise in his craw. He looked philosophically kind and pensive in this moment, completely at peace. He’s in the Garden of Eden instead of this rundown Roseland. Suzie thinks: he’ll be off the floor in about two seconds with his mitts on my ass and his tongue waggling, “I’m really very deep, Baby, you’ll see!” or some other such tripe. He’ll want me to show him how it’s all done by people in the real world. Slinky trips into the cesspoolish puddles in Larry’s mind left me feeling slathered with disgust. Even the saintly medallion is murmuring obscenities from the safety of the nest on his breast; that uber-glint of silver and gold, olive skin, lustrous ebony hair, everything, all, with the green patina of Larry’s life.

Happy Birthday, Piewacket!

2010-04-09T16:47:00.002-05:00

I'd like to wish a very happy first birthday to PIEWACKET. Every day is an inspiration ... truly! Unfamiliar with PIEWACKET? http://www.piewacketblog.com/

Tavern Life

2010-03-09T15:52:00.004-06:00

While wandering about through my old Dell Inspiron files, I found an article I did for my Wisconsin Folklore class at UW (2004). I remember writing this paper around 3:00 a.m. because it was due that morning. I think I'd just gotten off work. It's kind of funny and not very well-written, but here she is:

Tavern Life

by Suzanne S. Album

What Makes ME an Authority?

I am a writer, so I make a practice of observing and noting sociological and physical characteristics of places and things in order to construct realistic characters and settings. I have been a bartender in Wisconsin since 2000, for two locally owned taverns. One tavern is Rusty’s (est. 1963), located in Middleton, Wisconsin [since closed, now a Sonic] where I worked for four years, and the other is Irish Waters (est. 1979) [since closed, sits vacant] where I have worked for two years [left late 2006]. Previous to my bartending in Wisconsin, I bartended in locally owned bars for close to nine years in Colorado Springs, Colorado, and in Denver, Colorado. In my travels over the past fifteen years, I have also been to, and frequented, bars anywhere from California to Canada, Mexico to Florida, and unbeknownst to my folks, several hotel bars across Europe when I was sixteen. Comparing and contrasting my experiences and observations, I find that there are some sociological factors that stand out as being distinctly that of Wisconsin tavern life, some of which are: the prevalent usage of nicknames; Wisconsin’s various uses for brandy; bar sponsorship of local sports/recreational teams; the odd variety of reading materials; and discussions between people that I like to call “What’s for Dinner?”.

Nicknames

It doesn't seem to matter much where these nicknames came from. They might be from grade/high school, the military, sports/recreational teams, bar buddies, family, or friends. When these nicknames leave the social context in which they originated, and find an entry into the life of the Wisconsin tavern, they are carried on.

Let’s start with something that occurs with great frequency when addressing or referring to another person in a bar, the habit that people have of shortening a name, adding a “y”, an “ey”, or an “ie”, and then proceeding to call the person by said construction. When I worked at Rusty’s, I did not work for Daniel Adler and James Passini, I worked for “Danny” and “Jimmy,” two men in their fifties. If anyone called or stopped by asking for them by their full names, they were most like solicitors and I was directed to avoid them. When they introduced themselves to others, it was as “Dan” and “Jim,” respectively.

Sometimes, people do not even have to shorten a name to abuse it. My poor friend Paul gets called “Pauly” on a regular basis. The guy is about 6’4” and probably weighs close to 300 pounds. I would venture to say that close to a quarter of my customers and coworkers over the past six years, upon learning my name, call me “Suzie”, though I have never introduced myself as such, especially at age thirty-five. I've not decided whether I care for my nickname, but as with anyone who has this happen to them in Wisconsin, it definitely won’t matter whether I like it or not because people will continue to use it.

Then, there are some people who are called by their last names or some bastardized form: there’s Don Jensen, who is always “Jens” or “Jensen” (customer at Sweeney’s Oakcrest Tavern, Rusty’s, Sport Bowl, Village Green); Ben Peck is “Peck” (bartender at Irish Waters who can frequently be overheard yelling “Don’t call me Benny!”); and Larry Ostermayer (manager of Sweeney’s Oakcrest Tavern), who for the majority of his life in Madison has been called “Oscar” because his last name sounds like Oscar Mayer. Just recently, there are a few who have taken to calling me “Al” because of my last name. Again, I don’t know quite what to make of this, but I will say I prefer it to “Suzie."

Other nicknames are given for a variety reasons. Again, my friend, Paul, who I mentioned earlier is also referred to as “Too Tall Paul." My ex-boss, Jim Passini, is also called “Wiener” by many, many people (I have no earthly clue where this came from and, when asking about it, no one else could/would tell me either). My friend Spider, who I know from Rusty’s, Kollege Klub, University Bookstore, and the Oakcrest, got his nickname from the way he used to move across the football field in high school. He is now somewhere between sixty-eight and seventy-two years old. I still have no idea what his real name is.

Brandy

Ah, Wisconsinites LOVE their brandy! The first day I bartended at Rusty’s in mid-October, a customer asked me for a Korbel and Coke. I, of course, replied something akin to “you want CHAMPAGNE in your COKE?” Needless to say, this was but the first of many lessons I would learn regarding Wisconsin’s favorite liquor. I believe that same day I learned how to make both an Old Fashioned and a Manhattan. Not too long after this, I learned of the perceived curative powers of blackberry brandy. Here are some recipes I can do in my sleep:

Brandy Old Fashioned Sweet – Wisconsin Style

1 ½ -2 oz brandy (Korbel, Christian Brothers, E& J, etc.)

3 dashes bitters (Angostura)

½ oz simple syrup (sugar water or corn syrup)

Lemon – lime soda (7-up, Sierra Mist, etc.)

Ice

Garnish: orange or green olive

(whole maraschino cherry or grenadine optional)

Directions:

In a large tub (9-10 oz glass), muddle brandy, simple syrup, and bitters (and 2-3 maraschino cherries, or grenadine if desired); add ice; add soda; garnish with an orange or an olive (ICK! An olive in this always makes me a little queasy.)

Brandy Manhattan – Wisconsin Style

2 ½ -3 oz brandy

½ oz sweet vermouth (or, if perfect, sweet and dry; or, if dry, sub dry)

Ice or up

Garnish: maraschino cherry or green olive (ICK!)

Directions:

In a small tub (6-7 oz glass), add ice; add brandy; add vermouth; garnish with a cherry or an olive (again, ICK!)

Blackberry Brandy

1 – 4 oz.

Directions:

May be served on the rocks (ice) or up (no ice) dependent upon preference. Also may be warmed when dealing with cold, flu, cough, chilled hunters, cold fishermen, broken-hearted people, people returning from outdoor sporting events, etc.

Reading Materials

In every bar I have ever worked in, conversations are littered with trivia and urban legend. The difference that I have found with Wisconsin bars is there are so many sources of trivial information just lying around, shoved in drawers and cubbies, and carried in by customers and coworkers. When I was at Rusty’s, you could go into any drawer or cupboard behind the bar and come out with things such as: road atlases, the owners’ high school yearbooks, ten-year-old football stat books, supply magazines, bar photo albums, last year’s football and NASCAR pools, almanacs, joke books, phone books, Trivial Pursuit cards, newspaper clippings, loose fifty-year-old photos of customers’ family reunions, Badger football posters, and all kinds of things to read that keep the trivia going strong and the boredom of a slow day/night from setting in. Customers would often bring in some of these types of materials, as well as catalogues containing items for sale that could be perused and commented on for value. These catalogues often lead to discussions on what local businesses offer and where to get the best deal, what local businesses should be patronized, and which should not.

Many of the reading materials in Wisconsin bars can simply be found on the walls and doors. Local liquor distributors work with the owners on putting up beer/liquor signs and specials signs. Many taverns have newspaper and magazine clippings up that critique their bars or give historical information. Local sports teams get their posters up and bar-sponsored recreational teams’ trophies often sit on shelving where the plaques may be read by the customers. Bar owners have up notices to their customers with information of bar related events and codes of conduct. Many taverns have a bulletin board in the main entry for the community’s use. All of these things contribute to the ambience and décor of the taverns.

Local Sports and Recreation & the Tavern

In my years at Rusty’s, no summer month (really, every other week) would go by without one of Middleton High School’s various clubs and teams doing a car wash in the parking lot. No summer Sunday would pass without the majority of the Middleton Home Talent baseball team coming in to celebrate a win or be console over a loss. Rusty’s sponsored a bowling team, a basketball team, a softball team, a volleyball team and numerous pool teams. Irish Waters has an annual golf outing and sponsors a basketball team. Rusty’s runs a bus to every Badger home game at $5 per person for the ride there and back. They give away a free drink, whatever the customer may be drinking, on every Packer touchdown. The Village of Shorewood adult soccer team makes its home in Irish Waters every Tuesday night during the summer, because we offer them deals and spoil them rotten. I’ve noticed with my visits to several of Wisconsin’s bars, statewide, that these taverns take extreme pride in the role that they play in contributing to their customers livelihood inside and outside of the bar. They display the trophies with pride.

“What’s For Dinner?”

The interest that bar patrons and workers show toward what is being eaten and how food is being prepared at home, at celebrations, at local restaurants, and during holidays, is absolutely astounding. Everyone seems to want to know what your having for dinner. Many a time have I sat at the Oakcrest discussing food with various employees and fellow customers. Vernie likes to talk with me about how her husband makes “Beercan Chicken” or “Deep-fried Turkey." Motts (or many call him Mottsie) makes it a regular habit of inviting me over to see the renovations he has done on his home, luring me with barbeque duck off his new Weber gas grill. At Rusty’s, Geno used to bring in tastes of his mother’s peanut brittle. He started bringing it so regularly that I had peanut brittle coming out my ears. I finally asked him for his mother’s recipe, so that I could tell him that I was making it at home. People in taverns trade recipes, giving each other advice on preparation and enjoy discussing food.

One of the funniest incidents that I ever heard about with food at its center involved a man named J___. It was New Year's Eve, 1999, at Rusty’s. J___’s mother, R___, was well known in the bars for her deviled eggs. For any special occasion involved with either Rusty’s, or the Oakcrest (two old family haunts for R___’s family), R___ would send J___ with a huge platter of deviled eggs. J___ has a little drinking problem and this was really late at night when he was sent on his errand that required so much pomp with presentation. J___ decided that he would come in the bar dressed (or undressed) as “Baby New Year." But, it was awfully cold that night, so he left his boots and flannel shirt on. Needless to say, he was escorted back to his van to retrieve his pants, undershirt, and underpants, but the eggs stayed in the ba. No one bothered to watch the comedy of him being redressed in the parking lot by a disgusted bartender. Everyone was afraid they’d miss the eggs. The deviled eggs had all been eaten before he got back inside.

Your Job Is a Privilege

2010-02-25T10:19:00.007-06:00

I took a digger on the ice this morning while walking the dogs and now have two swollen/scraped knees and a very sore wrist. In honor of the occasion, I'd like to make a request of you, my friends ... please spare me from your needless whinging about having to work at a "boring, stupid, effed-up" job. For those that are familiar with my situation, I have been unemployed since July and not by choice or for lack of trying. Your complaints are painful to me and others in my situation, no doubt. Reevaluate and get back to me when you realize how fortunate you are. While you do have the right to opportunities for gainful employment please understand, as I now do, that there is no such animal as a "secure, sure thing." In this economic climate, maintaining and retaining your job is a privilege, not a right.

Yesterday, Shmesterday

2010-02-24T11:34:00.003-06:00

Yesterday, I had only two minutes of hot water.

And, speaking of hot water,

My fish, Rover, croaked.

And, speaking of croaking,

My throat was very, very

Sore.

Yesterday, the weather was too crappy to walk the dogs.

And, speaking of crappiness,

I had to flush him,

By him, I mean Rover;

He spun wide-eyed in the bowl,

Dead.

Yesterday, there was nothing in the fridge that sounded good,

To eat, I mean — to snack on,

to make for breakfast,

Or lunchtime, or supper —

My nachos were no bueno,

Sick.

But, this was all yesterday,

And today is,

Well...

Today.

Yesterday is shmesterday.

Prep for a Night At Madame Fortuna’s

2010-02-12T13:46:00.007-06:00

Troy drops his pen and reads over what he has written of the side of himself he calls Tanya. He is not gay or even bi-sexual. Crouched in the chair with his sternum straddling his right arm and his forehead on the edge of the desk, Troy is in pain. Where did it all go so terribly wrong?

Tanya’s personality development started innocently enough. They had thought it would be a kick to go to Sarnia for the “Canadian Ballet”, or strip clubs, which none of the Port Huron crew had ever attended for a variety of reasons, among them age and transportation. It was to be a bachelor party where every one of them would play the bachelor at some point in the night. This scenario was kind of like being in any restaurant and saying it was your birthday when it really wasn’t, but getting the song and dance. They ALL wanted the promise of a song and dance — at least that had been what Troy had thought he wanted, in theory. With every sip off Mike’s flask of rotgut whiskey, Troy actually lost confidence. With every tuck of a $5 bill into the cord of a thong, he had found himself beginning to wrench. The undulating bodies, so much skin, heaved forward with the acid in his esophagus. The strippers seemed to have sensed this in him and had retreated down-line to Paul’s agape and smiling eyes, or Axel’s woo-hoo’s and Kyle’s constant repositioning on his seat. From one strip haven to the next, Troy silently debated with his friends. He mutedly pled his case with them, wordless telling them lie after lie: his stomach was upset from their dinner, and maybe he had food poisoning from the Shrimp Scampi he had inhaled at the Fogcutter; he was tired because he had not slept well the night before from all the excitement of their plans, imaginatively crossing the Blue Water Bridge into the collective destiny that they had talked about for the past few years; he was bored because the women were not “hot” at all, at least not in the way that he had thought they would be, like the Victoria Secret models they had pored over in the catalogues in middle school and high school; and he had to get up early for a job interview that he could not possibly reschedule because he was thinking of finally leaving his high-paying Tim Horton regional assistant management job for an even higher-paying management job in Detroit with Fishbone’s. His lies had become more and more elaborately detailed as they molded themselves into anything he deemed believable to them.

While he had kicked lies about the confines of his overtaxed digest system, his friends led him from one place to another, each place getting successively seedier and dirtier. The fresh-faced, French-looking girls turned into stretch-marked, low-breasted women. The brass poles and stained pine stages turned into PVC pipe and Formica. Troy didn’t even look up anymore. If he kept his eyes on boards of the deck of the boat of their shared experience, and not on the swelling and ebbing lake water of his revulsion, his seasickness would abate. His friends (Kyle the Shy One, Mike the Secret Stash of Swedish Porn, Paul the Metrosexual, and Axel the My Favorite Word Is Fuck Dude) who might normally have had great concern for his physical state had been concentrating on their own desires. So, Troy had ended up The Child On the Leash to Keep Him from Running Away. Each friend took a turn at slipping the loop end of the invisible leash that had been attached to Troy over his wrist. Troy had toed each crack on the sidewalk. I wonder if this really will break my mother’s back. I wonder if this really will break my mother’s spine.

They had come upon a pulsating place. The music was a heart throbbing Donna Summer out into the arteries of the street and the neon flew blue through the veined limbs of the night. Troy looked up to see a star-and-crescent-moon-littered sign that read:

MADAMe FORTUNA’S

SHOWGIRLS extraordinaire

Troy leaped into the lead and pivoted toward the entrance dragging Kyle behind in his wake. Axel exclaimed, “What ya wanna go in there for? I don’t think they take their clothes off! Come onnnnn!”

Before he could think, Troy blurted, “I want to check it out.”

Paul piped in with, “Axel, you shithead, we can do whatever Troy Boy wants. He hasn’t had his lapdance yet and if he wants his chick to be decked out in a tutu, who are we to question why?”

Mike patted Troy on the ass with a go get ‘em, Tiger, sack ‘em, divide and conquer in the pressure of the pat, pushing him into the field, into the game. “Yeah, Boy, go get your Tutu Tootsie.”

Kyle merely tugged back on the invisible rope that bound him to Troy, but Troy already had his wallet out to pay the doorman the entrance fee. “Loonies or dollars?”

Troy pulled out a $20 from his wallet and the doorman said, “I’ll need another five. It’s five apiece.”

Kyle exclaimed, “Hey guys, at least we can drink in here and lay off of my whiskey for awhile.”

The platinum blond, rhinestone chokered, sequined siren had been just finishing the final lines of “The Woman In Me” (That I’m feeling so free/To be the woman in me/It’s so easy with you/To be the woman in me) and Troy was wrapped around the song. The singer’s cheekbones were high with blush and her lips were pink and pouty, parted with the notes that gushed from her breast with the vamping style he had so longed to have in his life. Her arms opened wide and invited him to peek into her secret soul as an intimate friend or a prodigal lover who has found that what he really wants he cannot buy with money. Troy longed, pined, ached to enter those milky and slender arms, to tenderly stroke her back and whisper, fatherly, you will ALWAYS be the woman of my dreams.

For the first two months, Troy had found himself at Madame Fortuna’s nearly every Saturday night. Near the third month, he began coming to the club on Friday nights, as well. At first, he only spoke with the person who took his drink orders. I’ll have a gin and tonic with very little ice and a lemon instead of a lime, please … thank you. He always sat by himself at a high-topped table just to the left of the stage. From this vantage, he could observe every angle of the performers without calling too much attention toward from the other patrons. He watched how the performers would lean forward and sing out the songs in a compressing wave of notes that would flow around the room rocking, padding and lulling the listeners into niches of happiness and well being. The performers had been well aware of Troy’s attentiveness to their performances and they began to join him, one-by-one, at his table for a little conversation. Sometimes, he found little presents of a caricature of himself on a napkin leaning on an elbow at the table and smiling, or once there had been a couple of handmade cufflinks with Frankenstein’s monster on one link and the bride of Frankenstein’s monster on the other. These were always left for him either in, or propped against, the ashtray and they made him warm with pleased amusement. Troy enjoyed these chats and gifts immensely. He had begun to feel comfortable with asking these men questions such as, How long have you been cross-dressing? and Did you ever take voice lessons?

Renata, a willowy, brown-haired man of thirty or so, stood with Troy before performing a little Ella (My old flame/ I can’t even remember his name/ But, there’ll never be a gent/ So sophisticated or elegant/ As my old flame) and said, “Just so you know, Troy, I’m not gay. I just really enjoy this. I suppose it’s kind of quirky, eh, but come over here once and listen. There’s something so liberating in becoming another person for the night. I’m not gonna tell you where I work during the day … or even what I do. But, you’d just never believe me if I told you … ‘cause you wouldn’t recognize me. That’s all. You just wouldn’t elsewise. Hell, my own mother probably wouldn’t even recognize me until I said ‘Hey there, Ma’am.’ Even then, I’m not so sure that’d work. She might say ‘and who might you be, young lady?’ Wouldn’t that be somethin’? I think about that a lot. I must admit … it ALWAYS makes me laugh.”

Around the end of the fourth month that Troy had been going into Madame Fortuna’s, the guys were grouped around Troy’s table when he arrived. At first, he developed queasiness in his gut akin to what one might feel if one were approaching an intervention. But, all the fellows were smiling with good-natured welcome and an obvious readiness to ask him some question, “So, Troy, our ‘Ever-present On Any Given Friday or Saturday’ friend,” Simone lisped, “how’s your singing voice?”

Troy was a bit taken aback until he noticed that everyone was still smiling at him. Their eyes delved into his psyche. It was not too difficult for him to answer, although he had a little trouble getting started, “Well … I … uh … I guess it’s pretty good … I mean, I sang in a chorus in middle school. I sang in a classic rock band in my first couple years of college. I still sing in the shower, of course, but doesn’t everybody?”

Everyone laughed and CeeCee chucked him lightly on the shoulder and said, “How ‘bout a little test drive … a little dry run shall we say there, Tanya?”

At this point, Troy really had been thrown off kilter. CeeCee had called him Tanya. He could not get a grip. He had felt vertigo and confusion. He looked down at the floor past the pearly buttons of his light-blue oxford shirt, over the knees of his khaki Dockers, finally resting on the tips of his cordovan tasseled loafers. He took a deep and lasting breath and looked back up to find all the guys wide-eyed and expectant of an answer. Something welled up within him that made him shiver. Troy was excited. Something had been stimulated and he didn’t understand it. He tried out a small smile that stretched into an enormous toothy grin and blurted, “Yeah! Yeah! Okay! Sure! … uh … When?”

The guys all gave each other waist-level high-fives and other such physical contact signs of success as a team and moved to herd Troy into the back room, “Why NOW, of course, no time like the present!”

“Oh no, I couldn’t, or do you mean I’m gonna sing for you all back there? I could do that. That’s fine. Happy to. What do you all want me to sing, huh? I’m not too shabby at Chris Isaac’s stuff, or maybe some Tom Petty, how about that?” He questioned them, eyeing all the while the bait they had been trolling across his sense of reality.

Gina grasped Troy’s elbow with a playful squeeze to the funny bone, “Why, Tanya, now you know those two you just mentioned are men. We just CAN’T have you singing the likes of THEM in HERE, now can we. It’s simply IMPOSSIBLE.”

“Yeah, Honey,” Noelle said, kicking the back of Troy’s right loafer with the toe of his left silver sling-back, “we were all thinking more along the lines of hearing from you the more contemporary artist … possibly some Norah Jones … or Diana Krall … now there’s a voice, wow!”

Troy blushed a deep crimson and tried to halt the crew just before entering the area backstage, but he was swept into the space previously off limits to him and the other patrons. The guys quickly dispersed to their respective stations against the walls and left Troy frozen in shock by a rack of silky and satiny ladies’ things. He reached behind his back and began rubbing the cuff of a satin blouse between his thumb and forefinger. He had started to sweat profusely and was lightly hopping from right to left, left to right, knees bending forward and back and his eyes snapping from the door to each face of the performers and back to the door again. He had already agreed to sing for them, so he knew that there was no possible way to back out of his promise. After all, they had given him gifts and friendship. What harm could it do to humor them a little? We’ll all laugh about it years from now, anyway. I don’t know any of this Jones girl’s songs. Who the heck is Diane Crawl? I’ll just have to hurry up and come up with a female singer I like. I like them all. Oh God, help me figure out a goddamn female singer NOW! Oh God, all I can think of is Karen Carpenter and hate Karen Carpenter. Didn’t she die of anorexia? I don’t want to sing a dead lady’s shit. Oh God, oh help! Think! Think! Okay, I got it! How about Madonna? No. Cher? No. Ah, yes, got it. Shawn Colvin.

Shawn Colvin. He LOVED Shawn Colvin! (Sunny came home with a list names/She didn’t believe in transcendence/“It’s time for a few small repairs,” she said/Sunny came home with a vengeance) He had known from previous shower time experience that he could get his voice high enough to emulate this folk/rock/pop diva. He cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and let loose at a tamped down volume. By the end of the song, he had opened up full-throttle and was swaying around and gesticulating dramatically while remaining close-lidded. Following the finish, he opened his eyes to a nodding and clapping audience. Natasha kept yelling, “Fabulous. Just superb! But, you need to open up those baby blues, darling. Those eyes! Don’t let ‘em know you’re scared!”

He laughed, bowed, and was basking in the glow of their compliments until Simone and CeeCee began grabbing garments off of some of the racks around the room and holding them up to his chest. Involuntarily, he had started hopping back quarter-step by quarter-step from their limbs that dripped various fabrics like the canvas of sails. Troy tripped backward over the lower crossbar of the clothes rack behind him and tore the elbow of his shirt open as he went down on a loose screw jutting out of the rack. Gina and Simone helped him back up and made a show of dusting him off and smoothing his hair back down. Whereas, if these had been his high school buddies, they would have been laughing at him, but when Troy looked around him, all he saw was concern in the faces of these good-natured people. “Oh, Troy, we’re all so sorry!”

“We really didn’t mean to scare you! We just thought … well … you know …”

“You’ve just always seemed so interested … and well …”

“We just wanted to help …”

“You have a fantastic voice …”

“But … if you’re not comfortable, we really understand!”

He caught his breath and resisted the urge to flee that place forever. Why am I still here? He could not answer any of his own questions. He simply began uttering in a mild voice, “It’s okay. I’m all right. I wasn’t scared … I just … I hope you all understand that I didn’t expect this. I think I just need a drink now. If you all don’t mind I think I’ll go sit down. Thank you for the compliments … really … thank you!”

He could not keep his mind on his friends’ performances the rest of the night. He kept envisioning himself on the stage under the celled lights and the cold microphone mesh so close to his lips, singing Shawn Colvin and rocking back and forth. Even in the daydream, he could not open his eyes. He could not see himself as he was garbed, nor could he see the reactions of the audience to his performance. He had been completely unable to envision himself dressed in women’s clothing, wearing makeup and high heels. He had, however, thought about how he would have to shave his face so very close to the skin and how the chest and leg hair would have to go. He had owned a linked bracelet for a while, but had removed it after it had painfully torn half of the hair off his wrist. He had never felt that he had come off as particularly masculine, yet he did not feel especially feminine, either. His main concern had revolved around the variety of persons who would most probably notice the physical change he would inevitable have to undergo to make this work: Tim Horton’s management, employees and customers; his family; his buddies Axel, Kyle, Paul, and Mike; and so the list lengthened.

Even with the list of concerns also growing ever lengthier and more explicit, by month number seven in the thick of the winter snow, Troy decided to “go for it” and develop Tanya. He knew that he would have to leave Tim Horton’s in order not to have to explain the slight physical changes to his facial features that were inevitably to occur. Troy knew that he would have to abandon hope of seeing his high school friends as often as they, too would notice anything different and would be much more likely to say painful things to him. He avoided his immediate family almost entirely anyway, but he had known that he would still have to go through a little extra effort not to bump into them as he sometimes did while out and about.

Friday, February 12, 2010

try as i might, they just won’t come to me. i call them, lightly, distinctly, though with a slur of sorts, but they elude me. all my words seem negated by the undertones of Her words. i try to speak for myself and Her words are emitted from my mouth. i do not like Her at all. She is wicked, vindictive, mean, and so thoroughly wrong i cannot comprehend what goes through Her head. my battle is always lost before i can throw up the white flag.

She is an alcoholic. She spends money unwisely. She judges people for their outward appearance. She gossips. She tells lies to Herself. She lives alone. She cries. i now understand frida and her two hearts. it was not just because one was sick with heartache; she was torn between her two selves.

every day should not be a battle with Her. i want to be me. i want to understand and love those around me. She won’t let me. She buries them beneath contemptible thoughts. all She ever seems to want to know is how She can get back at them for the wrongs they commit that affect Her. She is the blight of my life. She’s holding me back from all that i might accomplish. damn Her! i want to expel Her, but how? She loves me and loves to ruin my good things. She has tunnel vision. beyond what is good for Her is inconsequential. what is good for me is invisible. She conducts invasive procedures upon my relations with others.

always, when i believe that i have conquered and won my territory, She rears Her ugly head and busts my chops. everything becomes breakable in my life when She is around. She pulls the skin around my eyes so tight that i cannot keep them open to new possibilities. She yanks downward on my hair so hard that i cannot keep my head up. She squeezes my neck so restrictively that i cannot speak with clarity. She hobbles my ankles so completely that i cannot walk without Her as a crutch. She socks me so hard in the stomach that i am unable to digest all that i perceive. She is abusive and cruel.

if there was a way i could tell Her to leave, i would. but, i can’t do it; She defines me. She is the only one who can show the world how good i am by comparison with Her. my sweetness, sympathy, and care shine forth after She’s been around. She is my life and i lead the barest existence.

War

2010-02-06T16:14:00.003-06:00

Crawl into a hole. Crawl into a hole that slowly refills itself with sand, so you won’t die. This is a desert bunker and also serves to protect you from the sun. Do not remove your camo, no matter how hot you are, no matter how much sweat is under your body armor. Removal of your weapons is also prohibited, while outside of designated weapon removal zones. Do not remove your weapons or armor to medically treat any other individual, even if that individual is an officer, even if that individual is screaming at you to do something. Help them the best you can with your rifle around your neck, the handgun strapped to your thigh, the other strapped to your ankle, and any other weapon you have managed to confiscate. You won’t be doing anyone any favors by getting yourself shot in the head, neck, chest or family jewels. You do want kids, don’t you?

Stay away from the local tea. It may be poisoned, no matter how sad the kid looks when you say “no,” no matter how much he cries for you to feed him because he’s an orphan or put shoes back on his shrapnel-cut toes or a clean destasha on his back. Let him get his own freakin’ gutra for his damn punk-ass head. He just wants to see you dead. For him, the only good American soldier is a maimed, bleeding, tortured and, eventually, killed American soldier. You are proud to be serving your country in this capacity, aren’t you boys?

That goes for the food, too. Those kitchens are something your mother would bomb herself, given the opportunity. There are all manner of diseases that you could contract out of one of those pits where they eat on the fucking dirt floor. I don’t feel like having to spoon feed or shoot you up in the arm or butt with some Grade-A penicillin to counteract your stupid ass Grade-F appetite. You be happy with what Uncle Sam provides you. Just pretend it’s your mama’s cooking and suck it up.

And, don’t go putting pictures of all the shit-stained underwear of the guys on the internet, either. If I even catch wind of anything even remotely like this going on with you, your video camera, or your laptop, I’m gonna make sure that America sees YOUR head chopped off on Iraqi national television. I’ll shove your desert blog right up your ass. Got that? Have I made myself perfectly clear?

All right then, let’s get on to the last order of business for tonight. Stay away from the freakin’ hooka. It’s up to you to figure out which I’m talking about depending on where you are. If you want to stick your dick in it, DON’T. If you want to stick that stupid pipe in your face, DON’T. There will be no drugs and no pussies on the front line ... EVER. Got that? GOT THAT? All right then, see y'all tomorrow bright and early. Fuck y'all very much for listening to me. Fuck you, Lansing, get your sticky-ass feet off my cot, you douchebag!

Outside, Inside, and Never Together

2010-02-02T19:37:00.006-06:00

The ceremoniousness of it all was understated by the fact that it had to be done. All their plans to place and accentuate the table were superseded by the inability to get it through the door. This was to be the table where Rita and Karl were going to hold bohemian dinner parties for eight or more; on this they would place Karl’s grandmother’s depression glass fruit bowl with its milky green, pocked look that was so very retro, thereby, so very “in” according to the papers; their 2.4 children that they were going to attempt to have in a couple of years were going to necessitate the need for plastic dinnerware, miniature utensils, and lidded drinking vessels encompassed in various cartoon characters. This table could make it all happen for them. Their dreams for the dining room seemed plausible if, and only, if, they could get this particular table inside.

Rita and Karl were “The Couple” of the block. People felt discriminating. People loved them, and people hated them, because their house was perfect, their teeth were perfect, and their bank account was perfectly suited to the lifestyle to which they aspired. They hosted homeowner’s meetings. Rita made the perfect lemon squares. Karl had the perfect swing. No sand traps for these folks. In the eyes of their neighbors, they were mired in nothing but the bliss of their existence. For all of this the neighbors cared. What they cared for was distinct in that it was defined by the envy they felt when these people showed their faces. They didn’t even have to speak of their plans for people to rant and rail against them. People felt crass, as a condescending couple will have the propensity to make people feel.

William, next door, had been scooping up the oil slick in the gravel of his drive when the Lexington delivery truck had pulled to the curb of his neighbor’s home. He leaned on his shovel and watched the deliveryman unlock the door to the back of the truck and lower the ramp. A second deliveryman hopped down from the cab and joined the first in the back of the truck. Will made another half-heart scoop at the gravel that he leisurely let tumble into the wheelbarrow.

Karl came vaulting through door of his Victorian with Rita seconding his motion. He halted at the top of the stairs and clasped his hands. Rita met the end of her sprint at the porch column and caressed it lovingly, peering coyly at the truck as though it were a date arriving. They were not quite prepared to meet their fate, so they left the steps as a barrier for one final moment.

Anticipation overtook them. Rita made the first move to descend the steps, gingerly stepping down one, then another. Karl bound down two in order to meet her stride — an escort to a debutante that had somehow been lax in his duties. Together they met up with the deliverymen at the rear of the van, tiaraless and crownless. The table was a royal decree that would instill upon their lives their status that they believed they so richly deserved.

“Hey Fellas. Thanks for being so prompt.”

“No problem.”

“Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“Nah, we had a map.”

“Good, good. Now did they put the base on like I asked?”

“Nah. We need to put the base on inside ‘cause it’s too heavy when it’s all together.”

“Now, look, I specifically asked that the base be put on before you delivered it. You’ll have to put it on in the truck.”

“Sir …”

“You can call me Karl …”

“Well … Karl … the top of the table weighs about three-hundred and fifty pounds, and each base weighs close to a hundred-fifty apiece, and if we put it all together it’s gonna break the ramp.”

“You guys that deliver have got to deliver furniture that’s heavier than that?”

Karl stood with his hands on his hips, eyes widened, and his head cocked upwards into the bed of the truck. Rita stood behind him staring at the curb and nodding like a wooden lawn bird. The deliveryman was stone-faced and introspective while his partner had retreated into the depths of the truck as though it was a hive.

“OK, Sir … Karl … then with just the two of us … it’s gonna break us.”

“Don’t you have a gurney back there?”

“A gurney won’t get it up the stairs, Sir.”

When Olivia spied Karl out the window of her garage apartment that was directly across from his front door, he was spinning like a gyroscope. She picked up her watering pot, her small pruning shears, and her gardening gloves. Her intention was to water her strawberry pot that she had filled with various herbs, and to get a better handle on what was going down across the street.

Flapping and pacing, Karl delved into some place within himself that the neighbors had never known. This place’s visit had outward consequences. MR. CALM, COOL AND COLLECTED Karl, MR. I’M GOING TO HANDLE IT Karl, MR. EVERYTHING IS PERFECT ON MY SIDE OF THE FENCE Karl had been replaced with MR. SNARL.

The Robertson’s paused in their fraudulent excavation of their mini-van to watch the show, while their son stopped his excavation of the flowerbed to run to his parents and ask “What’sa madder wid Mister Track?”

Rita began to whimper, “My floors … my beautiful floors …”

Karl stamped his feet down on everything in his elliptical path. He muttered snatches of words that seemingly had no connectivity, “one and one-half inches … solvent … throw the rug down … flagstones … I called … I know I called … three times … can’t throw the rug down … eight-thousand bucks … eight thousand bucks … Saturday … Christ …” and he spun himself down to one point on the sidewalk where he stood with his limbs beginning to tuck themselves back to his body. He brought his palms up to his eyes and pushed as though to pull down the valances of his eyebrows and rip down the curtain that shaded the outside world from his view.

“All right … look, Fellas … here’s the deal ... I didn’t want the table put together inside because we have hardwood floors in the dining room and I don’t want them scratched; I just don’t want the mess … I’m sure you can understand that, can’t you?”

By this point, both deliverymen were simply staring down at Karl from the truck.

“The only thing I have that’s large enough to throw down for you guys is the Persian rug and I just can’t take the chance that it’ll get ruined. You can understand, right?”

“We have tarps … massive tarps …”

“Well … that’s just not going to be good enough!”

Lillian had been lingering on the corner with her spaniel, letting her sniff and lick at the storm drain grate far longer than she might otherwise have had patience for at any another time. She tugged at the leash, pulling her dog back up onto the sidewalk and into motion. She jibed, stopping and starting to avoid the full wind of the situation, until she was about fifty yards from the spectacle. “You could … maybe … have them put your table together on the porch, Rita,” she piped hesitantly.

Karl side waved in Lillian’s direction encompassing the lot of them with a palm-up gesture, “I know you’re trying to help, Lilly, but I asked for this to be done before they got here. They owe me the service that I asked for.”

Rita slipped two fingers into the crook of Karl’s elbow and lifted her chin level with his secret, trinity knot tattoo that was just under the cuff of his polo shirt, “Karl, Honey, we better let them put it together on the porch.”

“Fine … fine …if that’s the only way we’re going to be done with it, do it … just do it!”

The table top, wrapped in tarp and strapped to a sturdy handcart, came down the ramp with one delivery guy in front stooped guiding the base end of the cart, while the other simultaneously pulled it back and let it roll downward with the gravity. Once in the street, they grabbed either arc of the handle, pulled it over the curb, across the flagstones, and up each step where the wheels made a kakunk sound each time it hit the face of the step in front of it until they reached the flatness of the porch. Each deliveryman took a turn at retrieving the two bases with the cart. They removed their back belts, returned to the van, grabbed their tool belts, and reentered the porch.

“Maam …?”

“Please … call me Rita.”

“Uh … Rita … may I please have some water?”

“Yeah … Maam … uh … Rita … me, too … please.”

So the men got to work at drilling and dowel pounding. Karl stood at one corner of the house with arms crossed in the manner of a foreman, excavating the job, like the Robertson’s, with a characteristic thoroughness while Rita stood at the other picking dead leaves off her hanging geraniums, emulating Olivia across the street in haphazardness and inattentiveness. William swirled gravel with his shovel, unaware of the designs he created while Lillian was hunched petting her dog, and unaware of the designs the dog’s fur fell into.

Lillian stepped, with her spaniel in tow, up William’s drive, taking him slightly by surprise.

“Kinda weird, huh?”

“In two years I don’t think I have ever seen them act like that.”

“Me, either.”

“Kinda weird.”

“I’ll say!”

The table was whole, in all its inlaid, select hardwood, and six hundred and fifty pound glory. It was gorgeous; the varnish of it shown mirror-clean. It was spectacular, and so was Karl’s show that followed when everyone (except the deliverymen) realized, collectively, that there was no possible way that it would fit through the front door. It was not going to fit if they took the door off its hinges — it would not even fit if they took the door's frame off.

Karl imploded. His arms dropped to his sides and he seemed to slump. If one got up very close, one might believe that they saw his eyes beginning to roll into the back of his head. He sat down on the porch swing and put his head between his knees with his hands grasped at the back of his head and with his forearms covering his ears, whispering, “What … God! … What did I ever … Shit!”

William dropped the shovel and walked to a spot below Karl’s porch level with Karl’s shoe, all the while suppressing the adolescent urge to start giggling, “Karl, may I make a suggestion?”

After a brief pause where Karl glanced sideways from his perch on the swing, he responded, “Yeah … what?”

“Take it through the bustle-door!”

“Will, I hate to ask, but what the hell is a bustle-door?”

“Well, it’s that door on the side that the Victorians made wider for the ladies … the one that leads into the Ladies’ Parlor … to fit their bustles in without dirtying themselves … your table’s kind of like a bustle now, isn’t it?”

Everyone started laughing. Karl sprung off the porch swing and the deliverymen sprung into action to unhook it, so they could walk the table around without obstacle. The deliverymen took the back-step end of the table, Karl and Will took the front-step end, and Tab Robertson came from across the street to help guide from the middle. They all could see themselves huffing with exertion in the reflection off the tabletop. Rita swept through the interior of the parlor (living room) clearing nonexistent debris from the path destined for the table. She swung the door open and hugged herself with relief. The table easily cleared the doorframe and was set down for those toting to catch their breath. Congratulatory glances were thrown generously to all. Rita ran to get the boys some refreshments and, on the way, attempted to open the other side of the double doors leading into the front hall. The second door was stuck.

“Look, it’s got no hinges.”

Karl grabbed the floor lamp to the right of the sofa and swung with a force hefty enough to embed its base into the façade. The action had been taken so quickly that everyone ducked. The aftershock was astonishment, even Karl, most probably at his own action.

The table sat calm, cool, and collected for many weeks. Rita had pulled a chair up to it, using it as a sorting table for her scrapbooking. Karl had pulled a chair up to the opposite side to watch her clip and paste upside-down images of himself windsurfing or hiking up mountains on his head, all the while formulating new plans, master plans, where his home would not get the better of him.

The neighbors now had their chances to host homeowners meetings. Rita and Karl did not want anyone in their home until they could move the table and repair their wall that once was viewed as a door. The neighbors no longer loved, nor hated, Rita and Karl. But, they all got the distinct impression that “The Couple” did not care for them all very much.

The Perfect Hard Boiled Egg

2010-01-28T14:14:00.000-06:00

It's taken me a while — 20 years, or more, in fact — to figure it out. But, I've done it. Me. I finally figured out how to boil the most luscious, delectable, easiest to work with, chiffon-yellowest of yolk, whitest of albumen, and delicious hard boiled egg.

Now this was no small feat, let me get that straight right now. My mother's career was our home. My mother washed and ironed our clothing, cooked all of our meals, did all of our landscaping, painted walls, rewired lamps, fixed holes knocked in walls, took care of the family finances, tiled and refinished floors, nursed us back to health, tutored us, sewed some of our clothes (then, mended them later), disciplined us, took us on cultural outings, did art projects with us, and many other necessary chores that kept a household as orderly as was possible with characters like my brother and I. By the time we left home, we knew how to do ... well ... nothing.

I used to think my mother, who preferred to be called "Mother" (so I called her "Mama"), never let us assist her with any of the chores because she liked taking care of us. Now I understand that my brother and I were really more of a hindrance to her completing tasks; she was very obsessive like that. My mother was the "hotdog" of housewives; she did EVERYTHING herself. Later, I believe she felt very guilty, as my brother and I came out of our family household absolute bumblers.

My brother and I are fast learners. We quickly gathered that if Mohammad (Mama) won't go to the mountain (our laundry), we'll take the mountain (of mending, stains, grocery lists, ironing, potential meal options that may be prepared and frozen in individual portions for reheating later) to Mohammad (again, played by Mama). This worked well for a while, until my brother and I each moved around six hours drive away. By then, the mountain (of the aforementioned) would not fit in the car.

So, we began to learn to do for ourselves. For me, the baby steps were the most painful parts of the process. I almost killed myself by unknowingly mixing bleach and ammonia cleaning products in an under-ventilated bathroom full of unaddressed mildew. I started a small grease fire in my kitchen by trying to pop oiled barley in a wok. I ironed the pleating right out of one of my nice kilts. I warped numerous cooking pots and pans by running them under cold water to cool them down to clean. There were, literally, years of: unbalanced and unsorted loads of wash; stains set so deep a Bissell would bust before getting anything out; furniture legs deeply gouged by the vacuum; stacks of chipped dishes; and bouts with food poisoning from waiting just a bit too long to eat a sandwich with mayo. I was a Home Ec wreck.

Don't get me wrong. My brother and I could call our mother at any time, day or night, and ask the most seemingly inane question about keeping house and she would patiently explain out the answers, step-by-step. I believe she loved these phone calls. She still does. She's very nurturing. As I said, my brother and I are fast learners. Both of us have become fairly accomplished at certain aspects of keeping a household.

I have become a fairly proficient and creative cook. I have a knack for creating flavor combinations which are simple and fairly inexpensive. I enjoy experimenting, especially with produce and herbs from my kitchen garden and those of my friends. I try to keep things interesting. So, rather irrationally, I was too embarrassed to ask my mother how SHE boiled an egg.

If you look in The Better Homes & Gardens New Cookbook, Fanny Farmer's Cookbook, The All New Joy of Cooking, and Betty Crocker's Cookbook, you will see and read more than you could ever want to about how to practically, and methodically, boil an egg. What you will not learn in any of these bastions of strength in the common household culinary world is how to attain "The Perfect Hard Boiled Egg" that I've developed. I imagine that these little tricks we use in these recipes we devise are what we hand over to our children and their children and so on.

So, here it is, without further ado:

The Perfect Hard Boiled Egg

1 organic/free-range and/or home grown egg

water

Take egg out of fridge approximately 20 minutes before boiling. If the shell is too cold, it will crack when placed in the boiling water. Bring enough water to boil in a small pot so that your egg will be completely submerged. Do not put any salt in the water in effort to make it boil faster; salt will weaken the shell. When water has come to a rapid boil, gently place egg in water with a small ladle, 2 tbsp measuring cup, or soup spoon. Do not adjust temperature. Rapidly boil the egg for 10 minutes. Following, turn off burner and allow egg to sit in boiled water for an additional 6 minutes. Promptly drain and either place egg in fridge or place in strainer and run cold water over it to cool. Voilà! She is, how you say, magnifique!

Barabara Makes Her Debut

2010-01-27T13:37:00.000-06:00

Barbara Makes Her Debut

Every human skin here dusted with luminescent snow;
The staged ballroom so taut, tight
With white, as so many spathes of the calla lily.
If any being black, or brown, or red should make an appearance, Barb would be rabid.
She is completely ignorant to the fact those in her contrived court
Are manifestly destined to be
Terminally middle-class;
Equipped only to be carrying the trains
Of others predestined to land up
Right into the folds of purple robes fringed with ermine,
All her failing aspirations simply lead to attempts to surround herself
With Anglican ... royal ... courtly couples.

It seems I've been sitting here far too long for, ever
Have I sat as the contemplative audience, questioning the ways in which Barb will brush
Past the primary colors in life. Then,
I attempt to understand her need to be with those of flaxen hair,
Her seemingly artless reasoning; the logic of her forever
Having to see to it that the props in the theater of her life are painted
To her transparent standards.
Man, referred to by her only as Him,
Be he black, or brown, or red, is never seen as human,
Or even part of nature yet,
Somehow, in some way,
She sees Him as kindred.

Man is a being with his mind to the hone, then so sharpened
As to penetrate that part of her mind that seems to me so entirely small.

"You Mean, You Really Need To Know This?" 12-18-2009 Post Continued

2010-01-25T10:35:00.000-06:00

"We will be going into the new 20 10 edition of getting to know your family and friends. Here is what you are supposed to do, and try not to be lame and spoil the fun.

Change all the answers so that they apply to you. Then send this to a bunch of people you know, INCLUDING the person who sent it to you. Some of you may get this several times; that means you have lots of friends. The easiest way to do it is to hit 'forward' so you can change the answers or copy and paste. Have fun and be truthful!"

1.	What is your occupation?	I've been thinking a lot about my jobless situation. I've applied everywhere, but Mickey Dees. Sadly, my primary occupation goes not much further than this here questionnaire.
2..	What color are your socks right now?	sockless; skin tone; nude; naked; bereft of hosiery; fidget-foot; but bunny slippered (Does this count?)
3..	What are you listening to right now?	air blowing in from the furnace, while my dogs sleep-whimper and sigh
4..	What was the last thing that you ate?	a cold Bisquick biscuit and water (apparently, I'm trying to tap into my inner street urchin)
5.	Can you drive a stick shift	Does the Pope wear a funny hat?
6..	Last person you spoke to on the phone?	My dad, boringly enough ... and I did not so much as speak to him as I was spoken at; this is a typical state of affairs with him.
7..	Do you like the person who sent this to you?	Absolutely, more than she knows. However, every chain mail coming down the 'pike hits her computer and is fired off into cyberspace carrying all the names and addresses of anyone and everyone who ever received, or is destined to receive, every email with promises of salvation in heaven, angels watching over you, boundless luck and wealth, puppies and kittens and rainbows and monkeys flying out of your archenemy's ass and...
8..	How old are you today?	38-years 11-months 25-days (24-days 11-hours 4-minutes 26-seconds)
9..	What is your favorite sport to watch on TV?	dog shows
10.	What is your favorite drink?	water - worldwide, this seems to be everyone's favorite -- good, clean, precious drinking water -- I wanna be just ... like ... everyone.
11.	Have you ever dyed your hair?	Yes
12.	Favorite food?	corndogs, but I never eat 'em because they're gross
13.	What is the last movie you watched?	"Good Dick" (I know what you are thinking and STOP IT. It was on The Movie Channel yesterday and here's a link: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0944101/
14.	Favorite day of the year?	Well, this year, it will be the day I get a job.
15.	How do you vent anger?	I cook, stew, beat, batter, strain, chop, pummel, slice, and sometimes burn.
16.	What was your favorite toy as a child?	my brother's shortwave radio - I used to sneak into his room and we'd listen to the Doctors, that would be Dr. Ruth and Dr. Demento.
17.	What is your favorite season?	Sprummer - I'm a gardener. What can I say?
18.	Cherries or Blueberries?	depends on the final product
19.	Do you want your friends to e-mail you back?	No, I mean, not about THIS anyway.
20.	Who is the most likely to respond?	I think of this email as having a social disease where the buck stops here.
21.	Who is least likely to?	see #20
22.	Living arrangements?	Well, I try to eat right, diet, and exercise some. I breathe regularly and sleep some. Still working on the regular source of income, though.
23.	When was the last time you cried?	Cried what? Uncle? Go, Bucky? Foul? Wolf? The sky is falling? What? What do you want from me?
24.	What is on the floor of your closet?	cheap carpet and hangers, along with the skeletons, of course
25.	Who is the friend you have had the longest that you are sending to?	I want to keep my friends, thank you, so I send this to no one.
26.	What did you do last night	Do I need an alibi? If not, the Sunday Crosswords from the Chicago Times Tribune.
27.	What are you most afraid of?	These, strangely enough.
28.	Plain, cheese, or spicy hamburgers?	I believe sausages also come in these flavors, as well as chips, french fries, corn nuts, popcorn, foccaccia bread among other things.
29.	Favorite breed of dog	Rat Terrier or Rat Terrors, as P and I call 'em
30.	Favorite day of the week?	Wednesday
31.	How many states have you lived in?	Depends on what 'state' you're talking about. If by 'state' you mean 'state of mind,' then innumerable. If you are talking U.S. of A., well then, that would be 3.
32.	Diamonds or pearls?	Gems of wisdom or pearls of wisdom? Which one started as a lump of coal? Which one started as grains of sand? Pearls are quicker.
33.	What is your favorite flower?	I have always been particularly fond of iris. I'll post pics, when my iris pop up in the Spring.

________________________________________________

Pictures Speak Louder

2010-01-22T12:29:00.000-06:00

Pit

2010-01-05T13:05:00.000-06:00

The Coffee Room is deserted, except for John and Walter. Walter stands with his back against the doorjamb. John is hunched over the countertop, by the coffeepots, pulling at his head.

“What’s the matter, John? You have a headache?”

“It started when I looked sideways. Like this, see? That was, I think, last week Tuesday. I thought it was uh bug. But it wasn’t. It was uh black spot … in my left eye. Uh spot … bouncing ‘round on the left corner of … well, of whatever thuh hell I was lookin’ at that wasn’t dark. Uh spot. I thought there was somethin’ in my goddamn eye. I’m not uh hypochondriac, so stop lookin’ at me like that. It was there. Crap! It is there. I checked my eye out in thuh men’s john. Couldn’t see anything in it, but hell if that spot ain’t still there.”

“Well, have you, uh, seen someone about that?”

“I don’t wanna go to the doctor.”

“I’m just saying, I mean, if your really worried about it you could …”

“That stupid spot’s like one of those white or red or whatever colored spots we use tuh have on thuh sing-a-longs. Remember?”

“Yeah, yeah I do.”

“It’d bounce from word tuh word?”

“Right, right.”

“But … it’s uh black hole, but solid. It bounces ‘round my kids while they try tuh ask all those … ya know … Why, Daddy? questions. I can’t even focus with this goddamn spot!”

“Maybe it’s allergies.”

“It strokes my wife’s breasts. It’s even pettin’ my dog. Shit!”

“I don’t know, John. What can I do to …”

“I’ve been tryin’ to look at everything from thuh right eye … thuh right side, see. I can’t! My left eye, thuh one with thuh shitty-ass spot keeps cuttin’ in. Even, get this, when I close my eye, or cover it up with my hand, like this, it’s still there. IT’S STILL THERE. I think it’s getting bigger, growing. It use tuh, kinda disappear if I put my head uh certain way. Like this. But now, it’s there ALL…”

“Hey man, everybody’s looking in here. The whole office can hear you.”

“I don’t care if they hear me. What this spot does, see, is it keeps addin’ periods in thuh middle of what I’m reading. It won’t even let me fuckin’ read. Matter uh fact, that’s when It’s REALLY THERE. Ya know why? Cause paper is white, and computer screens are blue, and newspapers are gray, and none of ’em are dark enough tuh hide it. Fuck! It won’t even lemmy fucking speak! It keeps interrupting. It’s putting a shitty black period in thuh middle of yur face, RIGHT NOW.”

“Hey now. Take it easy. Do you need to go home? I can probably drive you. You’re getting kind of hysterical, buddy.”

“I’m not gonna lie to ya. Yeah, I’m fucking scared shitfaced. I mean, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I don’t wanna go to thuh doctor. He’s gonna tell me it’s all in my head. Or, that I need drugs or shots or surgery. Or, that I have, what's it called? Glaucoma. Or, uh detached eyeball part, or my view is wrong an needs to be fixed by takin’ my sick eyeball out an puttin’ in somebody else’s.”

“John…”

“Or, that I have cancer of the eye. Or, caught cancer of the brain where I’m gonna die in six months or six weeks or six days of a brain tumor. Die!”

“John!”

“IDONTKNOWWHATTHEFUCKIMGONNADO.”

“Take it easy! Take it easy, John. I really, REALLY think you ought to see the doctor. I know that’s not what you want to hear.”

“Huh. Maybe I should just let it take over thuh whole godddamn thing? Everything. What are you shaking your head for? I’ll be okay. I’m just gonna get my coffee here and go back tuh thuh Henderson deal.”

“Look here, I’ll go over to H.R. for you and have them contact you about what you have for sick days, vacation, all that stuff. You need some time to figure out what this is, what you’re up against. Forget about the Henderson deal for now. I’ll talk to Roger about getting on the finances for that. The team can spare you for a couple of days while you find out what’s going on.”

“I know what’s going on. I’m gonna die.”

“John.”

“No, really, Walt. This spot’s tryin’ to kill me. I oughta call it Sancho. Ya know who Sancho is, Walt? Sancho is the guy that screws yur wife and plays with yur kids, gettin’ ‘em to call him Daddy and walks yur dog, so all the neighbors can see. He does all this shit while yur in prison. Except this time, Sancho’s not even waitin’.”

“Why don’t you sit down a minute? ... William, please come in here a second, would you?”

“Yeah?”

“You keep a schedule of John’s appointments, don’t you?”

“Yeah?”

“Where is his regular doctor?”

“Huh?”

“Where’s his office?”

“Oh, on Fortney, in that yellow-brick med building.”

“John, can I take you to the doctor now? Would you like me to go with you? Look at me, John! Do you want me to go with you?”

“I dunno … maybe … yeah … okay.”

“Good! Okay, let me wrap up a couple of things and we’ll go.”

“But, Sancho’s not goin'.”

“WHAT?”

“I said, SANCHO’S ... NOT ... GOING.”

“John, for godsake, you’re not making any sense!”

“He’s not coming.”

“William! Come back here, NOW, please.”

“Yeah?”

“Call an ambulance.”

“I don’t need any goddamn ambulance!”

“You’re sick, John.”

“I know. I KNOW. I told you I’m gonna die.”

The Coffee Room is deserted, except for John and Walter. Walter stands with his back against the doorjamb, holding John in and keeping the rest of the office out. John is hunched in the chair, pulling at his head, covering and uncovering his left eye with his hand. The office is humming with the anticipation of the action that is to come. It has broken the monotony of the business day. It has disrupted John’s life. It has made Walter scared for his friend’s sanity. It has kept William busy. It has roused the EMTs from their afternoon nap.

If I Win Glass Nickel's "FREE PIZZA FOR A YEAR" Giveaway

2010-01-02T14:17:00.000-06:00

Three locations of Glass Nickel Pizza are running an insanely cool promotion with the top prize of one free 14" specialty or four-topping pizza per week for an entire year. The scratch tickets for this were given to my husband and I the end of November to be returned any time in January, 2010.

The time is tonight, but this got me thinking. Not that it is probable, but what if we win that top prize worth $920? How would I show my gratitude? Since I am several years past the college freshman diet, how would I adjust to accommodate the regular increase in calories? What would give this single event, with a potential for a year's worth of events, meaning for me? Here is my list of "Free Glass Nickel Pizza Resolutions":

#1 - I will not eat any meat, but fish, the rest of the week.

#2 - I will find a way to have Glass Nickel pizza every week, even when I am out of town. (How this will be accomplished, I'm not sure, but I will find a way.)

#3 - I will blog about, tweet from, and post pictures of my friends, husband, and I enjoying the pizza, as well as any and all of whatever is going on at the time.

#4 - The tips will always reflect the full value of our meal and service received.

The chances are slim, but it sure doesn't hurt to be prepared.

http://twitter.com/GNpizza

http://www.glassnickelpizza.com/About-Us/about-us.html

You Mean, You Really Need To Know This?

2009-12-18T05:43:00.000-06:00

No doubt, if you have email and Facebook, you all get these at some time or another — the "What's your favorite color?" and "What stripper name would you like?" questions — the running lists of trivial information that your friends and relatives just cannot live without knowing. Since this information is never sensitive, and I believe that a total stranger will be just as disinterested in my results as any of those close to me, I've decided to post all questions and answers to my blog from here on out. This may include warts and all, as in, font color and size changes, random italicization, and the crappiest grammar EVER. So, here is the maiden ship voyage of the U.S.S. Information (Useless Suzanne Sarah Information):

Welcome to the Christmas edition of getting to know your friends. Okay, here's what you're supposed to do, and try not to be a SCROOGE!!! Just copy (not forward) this entire email and paste into a new e-mail that you can send. Change all the answers so that they apply to you. Then send this to a whole bunch of people you know, INCLUDING the person that sent it to you...'Tis the Season to be NICE!

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? the lesser of a choking hazard

2. Real tree or Artificial? neither, prefer "New Car" scent

3. When do you put up the tree? every time I get a car wash, yearly

4. When do you take the tree down? ❆ see answer #3

5. Do you like eggnog? If it's got brandy in it, I don't like it, I LOVE IT.

6. Favorite gift received as a child? my 135 IQ score

7. Hardest person to buy for? my overly analytical, 135 scoring self

8. Easiest person to buy for? Not people … dogs; cripes, they eat poo!

9. Do you have a nativity scene? The dogs have a scene every day.

10. Mail or email Christmas cards? No! My stamps!

11. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? poo from the dogs

12. Favorite Christmas Movie? π

13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? I shop for Jesus all year.

14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? ❆ see answer #11

15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? crow

17. Favorite Christmas song? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wH2umxtA_sc

18. Travel at Christmas or stay home? By all means, please travel ... far away from me.

19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer's? Dokken, Dashboard, Pacecar, Viagra, Cometh, Cuspid, Dunder, Blintzes, and Rudolph Giuliani

20. Angel on the tree top or a star? rearview mirror (❆ see answers #3 & #4)

21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? Who cares, when you have egg-schlog? *hic*

22. Most annoying thing about this time of the year? cleaning up, not clearing out

23. Favorite ornament theme or color? dead opossum

24. Favorite for Christmas dinner? ❆ see answers #15 & #23, braised

25. What do you want for Christmas this year? world peas (if exists, probably at Trader Joe’s)

26. Who is most likely to respond? Me. Duh! Though why, I have no clue.

Fruitcake Toss

2009-12-02T07:50:00.000-06:00

I'm one of those non-believers you've (not) heard so much about. My enjoyment of this time of year is two-fold. Please, let me explain ...

First, I appreciate how warm and fuzzy most people become. Philanthropists "philanthrople" their brains out. Everyone smiles as a neonate spits up on a tittering new mom's bosom. Everyone fancies themselves comedic, especially when tipsy. Fun!

Second, I gather, appreciate, and create parody of non-religious Christmas/Chanukah/Winter Solitice/Kwanzaa traditions (my guilty pleasure for which I feel absolutely no remorse). Check out this visual manual for building a Mountain Dew can Christmas tree I found on the web yesterday: http://www.eatliver.com/i.php?n=5078

The things I find disturbing about this time of year are two-fold, as well ...

Those same folks that fancy themselves comedic when tipsy often turn into jackasses when soused ... and you can't take their keys and leave 'em at the bar because they're in your living room. The baby's spit-up turns out to be not from breast milk satiation, but from Winter Flu. And, those corporate donors are only giving as much as they need to qualify for federal tax credits and to keep their name on the plaque above the door leaving programs flailing and gasping for breath.

The Christmas tradition that seems to do the most damage is that of notion that there must be an excess of EVERYTHING — food, booze, gifts, seats at the table, party invites, holiday cards coming in, late nights, and decorations — excessive stress and debt are the two consequences of all these shenanigans.

So, I propose that we keep it simple this year. Philip and I will be hosting a fruitcake toss in March. What is this, you ask? Well, take that cake gift or buy one on sale after Christmas, open up that tin lid, and let your cake get good and stale. The only difference between your cake and a discus is the cake should still be a little sticky. Let us know if plan to participate and we'll send details.

A Very, Very Rough Draft of NaNoWritMo Work

2009-11-03T09:08:00.000-06:00

Grandma’s Watch

Teresa

I keep a claim ticket beneath my bed for a silver watch of my grandmother’s that was pawned. She didn’t know I had it, or that I had found it. I suppose I was where I shouldn’t have been. Maybe my grandfather had actually pawned the watch. It had, as its cutoff date, September 27, 1965. It is now September 01, 2005. I suppose that it is probably gone by now. The pawnshop is probably gone by now. I certainly know that my grandmother, and my grandfather, are gone by now. Maybe I should look for the watch. Maybe I should look for the shop. Maybe I should not be looking in places that I do not belong. I know where and what I am from, but I cannot possibly know where it is that I am going without some answers to all these questions.

Grandmother cut hair for a living. She put my grandfather through pilot’s training by the price of multiple dead cells from the scalps of gossips. She did their nails, also. They took full advantage of the stereotype of the hairdresser as counsel. She would return home with stiffened, gnarled hands; she winced while washing dishes, ironing, vacuuming, sewing, cooking, parenting, and such; basically anything you could add an ing to, they sucked and sucked. All these tasks, all these people, everything, sucked my grandmother dry. She did not even bleed when she died, because there was no life left in her.

My grandfather was a maintenance engineer, which is a fancy name for a janitor. He was actually a pilot, bent on crop dusting, but there were so many pilots that returned from the war who wanted an American daredevil job that my grandfather was shit out of luck. So, because he could not have what he wanted out of life, he was hell-bent on no one in his immediate family having what they wanted either. Bitter. He never took to drinking. He never verbally abused anyone. His abuse was silence: no advice, no support, and no substance to his character. He was utterly and completely non-participatory except when it came to securing his own financial well-being. My guess is that he would have thought nothing of pawning that watch. He had no concept of “sentimental value,” or anything relating to the passing on of a legacy. Come to think of it, he most definitely had no idea of “value” past how much a dollar was worth. This is why I never liked him.

I believe my father starved for the first eight years of his life. He said that when he went over to his friends’ houses, the first thing that he did was raid the fridge. He constantly came home with food poisoning, unable to discern between what had been there a week and what had been there a day. He could never ask and, he said, his buddies always found his vomiting amusing. Today, my mother and I are the only ones who do not seem to find his struggles amusing. He scrapes and scrapes away at the pot, trying to eke out a living, trying to support his family and trying to keep from being sick from the stagnant and bitter aftertaste of the soured milk and honey he’s been fed throughout his life. He is the most hopeful and hopeless person I have ever known. It is very hard to think of my father in this way. It sometimes makes me cry. It never makes me laugh.

My mind constantly wanders away to the questions surrounding the watch. I am not even sure that it was my grandmother’s. It might have been my grandfather’s. It could have been a pocket watch, engraved to his father, or even to my great great grandfather. Who cherished this watch? I cherish this watch, because it links me to them, if only through questions. I cherish this watch. I love this watch. Maybe a new person cherishes it now. I wonder if it still sits in the shop waiting for me to come and bring it home where it belongs, with me.

I work at the Route 61 River Mart selling gas, and milk, and cigarettes, and Lotto tickets. I’m doing my part to contribute to my community. I give people what they need. Or, at least what they think they need when I set it out by the counter … like an afterthought. (I think my managers call it impulse buys, but I call it the Stupid, Because I’m Drunk and Don’t Know What the Hell I’m Doing But I’ll Buy It, Eat It, Smoke It, Pretend That It’s My Girlfriend, Cry On It, Hope That If I Ignore It, It Will Go Away purchase.)

I know how to value things. By things, I am referring to family, goods, services, and ideas. Money is only valuable in theory. My friend, Bob, who comes in to see me at the Route 61 River Mart, thinks the same way I do about money. Bob is a good fifty years older than I am. He comes in for his cigarettes, because we are located around the corner from his home at the assisted living care facility. He’ll buy his pack, I give him a book of matches with the Route 61 River Mart logo, and he’ll talk with me for a little while if I am not busy. After our talk, he’ll limp out front to the ashtray by the door and proceed to smoke at least half the pack, one after the other, with no break except to pull another from the pack and strike another match. After he has smoked his fill, he will come back in, give me the remaining half of his pack and the remainder of the book of matches, and tell me to take them to the bar with me for some down and out person. The finale is what I look forward to most, his parting words of wisdom. Two weeks ago was the one that I was referring to about the money, “Money can’t buy you happiness, but it sure can put a lot of misery in escrow.” Ain’t that the truth! I wonder if all of these sayings come directly out of his head, or if his family passed him these words to entertain his listeners. His conversations help my shift go by faster and more pleasantly. This easy conversation reminds me of my high school friend Lizzie.

When I was fifteen, I was not supposed to wear make-up. My mother wouldn’t let me, but I snuck out of the house and put it on at school. My friend Lizzie and I liked to hang out at the dock. If we were not on the small, dockside beach, we were at the arcade where her boyfriend, Leonard, hung out with his crowd. Leonard was so very cool and he had a lot of cute friends that seemed to like me. He had one friend who lived next door to him, but Mel didn’t even give me the time of day. I swam under the dock with Mel once. He called me Hannah. I had to correct him with “ my name isn’t Hannah, it’s Teresa.” He said, “Whatever.” He didn’t even care that he got my name wrong. That hurt me deep, but I still liked him. Somehow, I felt I’d been robbed of something, but damned if I can’t nail down what it was.

I wonder how badly my grandparents needed the money. Why did they so needlessly pawn it? The reason I say needlessly is because it couldn’t possibly have been that bad, so bad I have nothing but this ticket. Bob’s grandkids make sure that he is well taken care of at the home. He tells me about their visits. I would have taken care of my grandparents. I could have picked up extra hours here at the store. If the watch kept correct time, I would never be late. I bet the pawning of that watch killed them both. I sometimes have a picture in my head of my younger grandmother standing outside the shop, staring at the silver watch with the sapphire on the stem wrapped delicately about her swollen wrist, watching the minutes tick by with her tears keeping the seconds, and wishing, wishing that my grandfather would run up to her and tell her not to go in. He would have done something like this when they were boyfriend and girlfriend because, when they were dating, they had been in love. What happened to that connection that Bob always talks to me about, the one line of thought for two minds, which seems so easily established with the right person, even in the wrong environment? I’ve never felt this type of connection. I would believe that this type of relationship was a farce, a myth, or the stuff of urban legends, had Bob not told me, very emphatically, that this is what he had shared with his beloved Lilly. Lilly is the flower that blooms constantly in his conversation. She blooms in his memory.

What’s in a name? Currently, my boyfriends generally have run-of-the-mill names like Kevin or Jack. Names never seem to develop and bloom in my mind, although I try to ensure they never have the name John. Ever since I found out that a John is a guy who sleeps with hookers, that name just gives me a funny feeling. So, I won’t go out with anyone who is named John. Maybe that’s weird, but I know you understand. Sometimes, people develop quirky traits that only hold rhyme and reason for them.

When I was eighteen, I met Pal. It sounds like a dog’s name, but it’s not, he was a boy, a man, actually. His five-o’clock shadow worked abrasive and deep, and his bodily attentions worked better than pumice at scraping off dead skin, unneeded skin, until it was raw with pleasure. He was my first and I was his … oh gosh! I have an idea I was probably off the fingers and toes list. I was the one that was “The One” that was going to change him, but he didn’t know that. Pal met another girl, a woman, actually, and dumped me for her. I was broken, so I wrote him a song that went something like this:

Chorus:

I’ve got what you need … you confused and lonely boy.

I’ve got what you need … I’m not like her. I’m no decoy!

I’m real … I’m everything she’s not.

Don’t you understand that I got what she ain’t got?

I never got a chance to sing him that song because he ran off and married that tart (I like this old-time terminology for a wanton woman, or a woman who is loose, or, a most contemporary of terms, a slut) that he thought was so fantastic for her long nails and salon-tanned skin. I’m very glad that I never did, because she had a baby eight months after getting together with him and he was stupid enough to believe that it was his. He never was very adept at keeping track of time.

Except for Bob, men seem to easily forget what it is that makes a good thing, don’t they? Pet you here and compliment you there; it’s quite all the same to them in my eyes. I lapse into my old self at any point and then, quite promptly, forget what myself is about. My self keeps changing and I can’t keep up. My men keep changing in foul conjunction with myself. My current list never gets long enough to necessitate the use of an Oxford Comma. “What is an Oxford Comma?” you ask. Well, this comma comes before the and in a list of three or more. So what I get is: one was nice and smart; another was handsome and rich; yet another was everything and more; and the last was nothing and knew it. I’m never left breathless.

The last relationship I had that even remotely resembled a boyfriend/girlfriend type of connection was with Grant. This felt so very wrong for the last three months we were together, only because he was more like a brother than a boyfriend. We laughed, we cried, we did the crossword together. He got all the answers and I agreed with him. The passionate embraces we had experienced in the beginning were exchanged for bouts of pouting on opposite ends of the couch in his apartment. He teased me mercilessly about my taste in art and music. He said I lacked the fundamentals. He went limp every time we were nude. My nakedness somehow distressed him. I began to stress on his distressedness. I began to write new lyrics in my head that had the hero running far, far away from the heroine, intentionally, to spare her the agonies of his issues. He dumped me, thank goodness, and thoroughly disappeared from my day-to-day habits. I think that he might have been gay.

I only date now. I talk with the friends that I want to talk to. I avoid the people that I don’t want to talk to very much. I never want to marry. I don’t want my husband to pawn my things that I worked so hard to get. I don’t want my potential husband to forget my name is Teresa, or leave me for someone who looks good on the outside, but is really some gold-digger. Tracking my life. I feel as though I’m following the footsteps of a life I have already led. Repeating History, as they might say. I’ve inherited this. This seems to be the legacy I am to have, which I certainly cannot pawn off on to someone else.

Now I just go out with my girlfriends to the clubs and dance with strange men until it feels like my back is snapping in two, right at the hips. My friends constantly have to save me, because I am the quintessential moron magnet. I’m not saying that the guys are bucktoothed, or that they smell bad. All I’m saying is that their personalities leave much to be desired. Maybe, they are a little too clingy right off the bat. Or, they get too far into my personal space with their mouths constantly open, jabbering away about nothing particularly interesting at volume ten because of the music, their dental work flashing like a mirrored disco ball. I should not complain so much, because I see quite a few women hovering around my encounters with these losers with jealous, wilted looks on their faces. If they only knew the half of what was coming out of those mouths they would not be quite so jealous, I guarantee it. The guys who don’t seem to me to be losers sit at the bar and watch me suffer. I find questions begin to beat in my mind with the rhythms of the music and the steps of the people … and this syncopated questioning keeps time. Grandma probably stared mutely at her watch, observing the minute hand continue to tick, bypassing minutes where every one of them escapes, making it harder and harder to believe that her situation might somehow change. She probably never understood that you have to make change happen. You have to educate yourself.

I spend all of my truly quality time with myself, reading or thinking, remembering how things used to be and thanking Fate that it is not that way anymore. I’ve always enjoyed these activities. Even when I was a kid, my favorite place was my neighbor’s attic where his family kept every book ever bought by anyone as far back as, from what I can gather, the 1860s. There was no room for anything else in that space. It had ceased to be a space and had become like a collection of ant mounds. It was a maze, but I learned my way around in it all better than any member of his family ever did. I loved that attic; it was better than my home. It’s where I learned all the things my friends call “BIG WORDS” and the various bits of literary trivia that I dish out, sporadically, amongst those I feel can comprehend the ideas I wish to impart. If I judge my social repartee by Bob’s standards, my knowledge is a veritable plethora of trivial information mixed with the common sense of a true street thug. This is all that I think is really needed to relate to people: the trivia for entertainment value, the thuginess to strong-arm the listener, and the ability to mix the two into the golden flow of conversation. Conversational alchemy. It’s all rather academic, really.

I like to work in the relatively stress-free environment that I have built for myself. I just jet home from my job, change clothes, and wander wherever my feet might take me. Most times it is to the bar down the street, where I take all of Bob’s half-packs of cigarettes. My neighbors congregate there to talk about their various sexual exploits or to create new ones. I have partaken in a few of these myself, but they leave me feeling spent when whatever conquest of the night before wanders into the Route 61 River Mart in search of edibles (or, more likely, my attention), like this guy, Doug.

Doug will come by and promise me anything he thinks that I might want as a woman — cars, jewelry, and trips to Cancun — if I’ll just be with him on a regular basis, that is, when he’s in town. Doug’s a busy guy. He’s a salesman for a national frozen food company. He’s not in town very often, but he lives here. Whenever he comes to the bar, he sits in my seat so I’ll know he’s back. I was only with him once, but that was enough. Doug travels too much. I would need my man to stick around. I’m not a book to be checked out or shelved. I don’t want some guy to have to blow the dust off me in order to take me out.

Sometimes, I go to the bookstore. I never go to the library, because I want to own the book; I want it to be mine. It won’t wander off and fall into the wrong hands only to be abused and then discarded. I want to create my own attic for little children to play and learn in. This will be my legacy to pass on to my neighbors’ kids because, as I said, I do not intend to marry. That means that I do not intend to have children of my own.

I want to talk about legacies. The books, Bob’s wisdom, and a lot of questions about my own background would be the only tangible, and intangible, things that I have to pass on. I am comfortable with this on the one hand, but on the other, I believe that I might somehow fail society in only contributing these things. This is what I truly and deeply consistently worry over. I want to make a difference. I do not want to leave a claim ticket full of questions as to what I thought, knew and loved. I do not always want to be known as the seller of impulsive thoughts. I do not ever want people to think that I gave up trying to understand where I came from and where I was going. Conversely, I do not want them to somehow conclude that I tried to make a better life for myself by shedding the skin of my past. I am happy being passive and I am very gladdened when I think that my passiveness can be of some use to meet some end (such as with my job at Route 61 River Mart, with the customer service and all). But, you can’t leave a legacy of passiveness. It’s too static. It does not transmit. It sits like a rock embedded in the shifting sands of my personality. One day, the perfect wisdom to address this issue of my passiveness will be emitted from Bob’s mouth and I will be there listening.

I bet the shop is filled to the rafters with people’s disinherited legacies. Time probably coats the items with the fine dust of the forgotten. The tickets for all pawned legacies have journeyed from booklet to pocket to mirror crevice (where it sits for months, maybe years, contemplated, cried over, crumpled, and nicotine stained) to landfill. The money exchanged was probably placed into the hands of loan sharks (or groceries, or hardware stores, or offspring, or girlfriends and so on). This is the only time I wish that I was rich. I would go to that store that one of my grandparents exited with a claim ticket so long ago and retrieve not only my watch (stopwatch, wristwatch, pocketwatch, pinwatch), but also all the other orphaned items cast out and banished from the hope chests intended for future generations. I would adopt them all as my own. I would place them in reliquaries to be turned to in times of crises as harbingers of the miracles of family and place of belonging in the world. I want to fill my attic with them and pile them up like ant mounds into constructions of productive and collective life. I want to use them as bookends to uphold and support knowledge and History. I want children to not be afraid to touch them and learn what it means to be part of a community — a larger family than just Mom, Dad, Bro, and Sis — and to feel the presence of the blood that beats its time into their sense of self, so that they may feel the strength of their descendents’ influences.

I asked my father about the watch. He had no recollection of ever having seen either his father or his mother with any sort of timepiece past two alarm clocks on their respective bedside tables (they slept in separate rooms as far back as he could remember) and a wall clock with a face to which several gnats hung dead and a stray bit of lint floated atop the hour hand, nothing dislodging with the slow pace of movement from one hour to the next. He quickly feigned loss of interest in my questions. He does not like to talk about his parents. I can certainly understand in that I do not particularly feel any degree of comfort in discussing my dad’s life with others.

I wanted to call the number on the claim ticket, but the number was from a time when you were connected through an operator, and they prefaced the number with a name, or a word. This has been scratched out on the ticket. Possibly, the storeowner had erased most of it. He might have ordered all these tickets from the printer at a reasonable discount, forgetting that the time of connection, rather than information, operators was coming to a near close, and his number would soon be changing. I can just make out a word that looks like “Wilbury” and the numbers are incomprehensible.

One day last week, I was in the office at work and I decided to look up the shop’s name in the online yellow pages. There was no listing. My thought is that the shop could have changed hands. It is conceivable that a son-in-law, or a daughter with a married name, could have taken over the shop. When I went onto the Internet to a site that had maps, the street came up as no longer in existence. It had been renamed, or built over. My next step will be to look into the city planning and zoning, provided that I can figure out exactly what neighborhood that shop had been in. There has got to be a history online somewhere for the naming and renaming of city streets.

My questions are not being answered. Whenever I reflect deeply on my relationships, and my upbringing, the questions multiple out squared and cubed. I wonder if there will be time to pursue half of the answers. Most times, I just wonder whether it’s even worth it. My passiveness takes over at this point. There is no railing against the “need to know” because the questions will ultimately repeat themselves until they do not seem to matter so much. The one thing that I cannot possible remain passive about is the claim ticket. It whispers to me in an unintelligible and incoherent language that I am beginning to doubt that I might ever understand.

Words Pass Over the Counter At the Route 61 River Mart

Bob has more than a bit of swagger still left in his frame. He is confident, learned, stable, and kind. Everyone he interacts is potentially enlightened to the possibility of a lengthy and epic life. The friendly conversation (that his demeanor dictates he conduct) passes on to the listener cliché, after epigram, after noteworthy quote. Most people want to learn something from Bob; that is why they listen so intently. Teresa is one of those that want to be enlightened, but is somehow unwilling, or unable to get past the words that churn within her mind. She reveres Bob’s outlook, but her attempts to understand it have come to naught.

Teresa has thought of or mentioned the watch and the claim ticket three times to Bob. The first was when Bob told her that his wife, Lilly, had come from a family that had been destitute. Lilly’s extended family had to rob Peter to pay Paul in order to keep them afloat. Teresa could relate to this mode of survival. Teresa did not say anything, but stood at the counter entertaining the idea of morphing into Robin Hood.

The second time the claim ticket came to Teresa’s mind in conversation with Bob, he had just finished telling her that his own family were bushbeaters. When she asked him what that meant, he said that his family beat the bush while another took the birds. The perplexed look on her face prompted Bob to tell her, “Look! I came from a family of farmers who didn’t own their land. They never saw a penny of profit off of the corn and alfalfa they grew to fatten someone else’s cows and the landowner’s wallet. The only thing we had on that farm to feed us was the henhouse. I’ve eaten one plain, soft-boiled egg for breakfast every day of my life, even when I could afford a little Hollandaise to go with it.”

Teresa then told Bob a little about her father’s situation growing up. She told Bob that her father rarely talked about growing up poor, but that she had evidence. This is when she told him about the claim ticket and that she was unsure of where it had come from or what kind of watch it had been. Bob asked, “Would you be willing to bring it in for me to take a look-see? Maybe, I can help. Lord knows, I have seen a few claim tickets in my time.”

The third time the claim ticket was discussed was when Teresa brought the ticket in for Bob to take a look-see. He turned it over and over in his hand as though it were a Fabergé egg. He put on his half glasses and tried to read the blurred writing. If one were to have witnessed Bob and Teresa in this scrutinizing process, one would see a very old man and a young, attractive woman head-to-head on either side of the Route 61 River Mart counter fingering a slip of paper that looked like a receipt. “Well, young lady, I’m not quite sure why they didn’t put a description of the watch on here. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? But, I suppose that’s why they call them pawnbrokers and not professors. And, what’s more, there is no way of telling from this ticket who is the borrower and who is the receiver. Obviously, someone needed the money. That is a situation that you — a bright, industrious, and pleasant young woman — may never have the misfortune of having to endure.”

Teresa was severely disheartened with Bob’s seemingly dismissive attitude. It made her depressed that her last hope of discovering the mystery of the ticket had been dashed by the one in whom she had held faith to enlighten. Bob merely voiced a string of proverbs that held no meaning for her: whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad; while the grass grows, the steed starves; and give a thing, and take a thing, to wear the devil’s gold ring. He did not bother to explain any of them and, for once, she did not bother to ask. She just did not care. Bob’s wisdom was falling on deaf ears.

Teresa

I had a visitor at the Route 61 River Mart this morning. Bob brought this guy in that he knew from his the farm. This guy’s name was Charley and he had been a feed salesman. Charley said he and my grandfather had been neighbors and good friends. Charley wanted to know if my grandfather was still living and, if so, where he could contact him. I told him that my grandfather had passed away several years ago. Charley then asked after my grandmother. I had to tell him that she, too, was dead, and that she had actually passed on before my grandfather.

Charley looked at me kind of funny, like I was a ghost, like I was floating away. He kept looking at the ceiling. I looked also, but I didn’t see anything up there. Bob was very quiet, so quiet. I wondered what the heck was going on. Charley gave me his condolences and headed for the door. I had never met anyone who’d known my grandparents. I couldn’t let him just leave. It would have been wrong of me to simply let him walk out without saying something.

Right as the bell was ringing above the doorframe, I asked Charley if he knew my father. He came back to the counter and told me that not only did he know my father, but that his own kids and my grandparents’ kids had grown up together. Charley said that my grandmother took care of his children, while he and his wife were at work, and my grandfather took care of his kids at the school where my grandfather was a janitor. Charley said that my grandparents fed, clothed, and financially supported his family for a good four years. Why? Because they were old war buddies.

I had never known that my grandparents were supporting two families. It did not ring true. I asked him if he had known my grandparents when they were poor. He told me that, back then, they were all poor, some more than most, but people who really cared took care of each other. They took care of each other in ways that might bring shame and disgrace upon themselves, like when he had my grandfather pawn his things.

I tell you, I was floored. How? Why? Watch? This wasn’t my watch! This was Charley’s watch! I just had to ask him why he had my grandfather doing the pawning. I was embarrassed and I know I should have probably thought about the sense in asking this question before I went and just blurted it out. I was rude and angry. Charley stammered and blushed when he answered me. He said that he had been a feed salesman who could not have his clients knowing he was flat busted. My grandfather offered to do the deed for him. My grandfather saved his family from starving.

Why did my grandfather have this ticket? Did he steal it from Charley? Did he keep it as a kind reminder of the suffering that can be inflicted on one family to save another? These were new questions, ones that I was not comfortable in asking myself, ones that made me feel ashamed and hurt that I had wasted so much time asking the wrong questions.

This all happened this morning, so I suppose it hasn’t quite sunk in yet. Charley gave me his number for my father to call. I think I might call him myself to find out more about my grandparents. There are so many wasted questions I am mentally tossing out with the trash. I need to identify my legacy. For now, I believe my legacy is to be my good name, because a good name is better than a golden girdle according to Bob. This I understand, unquestionably.

Takin' It to the Streets

2009-10-07T07:58:00.000-05:00

Today, I'm going to be hot-footin' it around my neighborhood delivering a letter to the block captains of our neighborhood association. This type of activity is always a sociologically, psychologically and environmentally interesting exercise. Sociologically, you get to see how people work at living together block-by-block. Psychologically, you can often identify which individuals/families have extricated or isolated themselves. And, environmentally, you can see (up close) which neighbors are participating in sustainable and aesthetically pleasing garden practices. Needless to say, all of these perceptions are fodder for creative thought ... the best medicine for combating writer's block.

Blogs & Websites I Will Like

2009-09-16T11:42:00.000-05:00

Considering the list to the lower right on this page, I'd love to hear some feedback as to all the interesting sites I'm missing and shouldn't live without seeing at least once.

Emoticons & Text Shorthand: Y These Make Me :(

2009-09-11T10:16:00.000-05:00

Allow me to back up a smidge here and tell you how I arrived at this point. Approximately five years ago, my friend sent me a bombardment of "text messages" riddled with acronyms that I did not understand, misspellings and what I perceived to be the strangest uses of punctuation that I had ever encountered. These texts looked something like this at their most benign:

Haha ROLF hope ur hvin gd time 2nite :)

And, texts such as these just about gave me an aneurysm:

hv to b hm bc BF cumin cnt go out ;)~ ill call u l8r

My first reaction to these texts was wide-eyed, slightly open-mouthed, knit-brow perplexity. I was somewhat offended, not only by the fact that her specific messages blatantly conveyed sexual remarks, but she knew damn well:
1) I had no clue what many of the acronyms meant;
2) I did not have text messaging as part of my cellphone package, so would have to pay 10¢-a-pop for this tripe;
3) I was an English major who used punctuation for the traditional uses for which these marks were intended (to mimic patterns of speech);
4) There was so much MISSING punctuation and improper contractions;
5) I did not then, nor would I ever, have any interest in her relationship with her creepy, effeminate, emo boyfriend.

In essence, I felt old at 33, unhip and disconnected. I felt as if I'd never catch up.

Flash forward to the present and I now view these past texts as a form of orientation. I have a text plan included in my cellphone package, as well as Facebook and twitter accounts with the requisite "What are you doing?" status updates. I consistently receive and review communications that often contain what I deem to be the most regrettably heinous abuses of the English language I have ever known from some of the most intelligent, educated, well-rounded and socially dedicated members of my family, friends and colleagues.

I am an amateur orthographer (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orthography). As such, my conflicts with these matters are based in scientific thinking, rather than morality. Have I caught up? I really don't know. Maybe, in deed, but not in thought process. You might ask me if I have ever used ":)" to convey that I was smiling? The answer would be yes, I used this for the first and last time on a twitter post a couple of days ago (I'm still feeling itchy about it). Have I ever used ":(" to convey sadness? I think the title of this post says it all. I am truly conflicted as to what stance I should personally take in defense of, or against, these layers of incongruous meaning created with the text message format. Is this a fast-moving creation of patois where everyone participating has a say at in what colorful embellishments and components of language(s) are stitched together into an ever-evolving state of definition and redefinition? Or, is language being severely bastardized in this genre where everyone participating has their turns at beating it with the ugly stick, making it low and common?

If you have read this post and have a viewpoint you would like to discuss, I am extremely interested to hear what you may be thinking about these matters. As it stands, I feel disheartened by people's inattention and deliberate misuses of grammar in the instant message/email genre. But, that's not to say I object to the current and future forms of communication (otherwise, there would be no point to participating). I fully realize that absolutely none of us have a perfect grade in adherence to the rules in these formats and I am extremely interested in the path that language is taking into the future. Please be thoughtful if you comment and I politely ask that you refrain from baseless personal attacks. I'm greatly interested in what YOU think. Where does my perspective differ from yours, where is there alignment and where are the tangents? What are some related topics? I'm all ears!

Why Would You Do This?

2009-09-10T09:55:00.000-05:00

Now, I ask you, would you do this to a perfectly good beer? This stroke of idiocy even involves planning: http://www.wimp.com/frozenbeer/

Character Shaping

2009-08-18T21:31:00.000-05:00

When I was young, I used to take bits and pieces of junk and fashion them into the shape of an animal or person. I struck a big hit with my cheese wax people and JUJYFRUITS disembodied heads. I failed miserably at making popular the bony owl pellet animals. However, all my creations were not without merit. Each had been laboriously endowed with a personality, sets of moral codes and ethics, a past, and names before destruction. The more complicated the character, the less likely I was going to share this creation with anyone who might reject it.

Now, we skip to my adulthood as an author and I realize that I have not changed from my younger self in this respect. I still attempt to protect these very special characters by never fully integrating them into my stories as main players. There are any number of reasons that I could give you for not placing them in the foreground of the story. The single most telling reason is I do not want the story's environment and plot direction to change the character that I have grown to know so well in my head. This is not an unfounded fear, neither is it irrational. But, I am taking a pledge right here and now that I will no longer allow myself to indulge in this behavior with my writing. So, we will see what is to come from here on out. We will see how close I can get to making my people literary flesh and blood from what, at first glance, seems to be cognitive garbage.

Garfield Park Conservatory Tomorrow

2009-08-13T15:35:00.000-05:00

Philip, his grandmother, and I will be headed to Garfield Park Conservatory tomorrow. They are currently celebrating their 100th year and the garden is still (unbelievably) free to the public.

http://www.garfield-conservatory.org/

The Home Corner

2009-08-11T11:02:00.000-05:00

He purposefully and continuously seeks this corner on which to set up his magazine tables, so he can attract business and attention from north, south, east and westbound pedestrians in the Village. They stop to buy his trash-picked magazines for two or three bucks and throw their condescending faces forward toward the rest of their day never giving his life a second thought. They never think about how he would have to sleep on this same corner, or hire a placeholder, in order to save his spot for the next day. He knew this to be true.

He looks at them in tailored black and white and sweat-free city clothes, business casual, strolling in slingbacks and loafers away from his table thinking these people can even transform garbage and that’s how I make my way everyday.

He calls out to the women “My goodness, your beautiful! You looks just like one of these women in this here French Elle, but I sure don’t think they have anythin’ on you. Come take a look here. Go on! Take a look!” and the women purse their lips and lower their eyelids halfway in judgment of the situation and the jolt to the impracticality of their path being interrupted. They never quickly step forward to accept his compliments. He doesn’t take this as an affront to his blackness. The women are simply being New Yorkers and they are still inferior to him, because he really knows how to take care of himself. They usually end up buying the magazine. He knows they want it, they just didn’t know it until he showed them.

At the newsstand stand across the street, some of these imported magazines and catalogues could cost between fifteen and twenty-five dollars, but if his customers can wait until he found them in the bundled recycle piles in the street far below nine-hundred thousand dollar lofts, then they can have them for three or five. One rich, white person’s trash is another entrepreneurial black man’s food, shelter, clothing and freedom from the restrictions he might encounter in dealing with the bureaucracy of the social welfare system. There are too many drug addicts and alcoholics in the same profession. They give him a bad name with their shady dealings and unwashed bodies and pissing right on the sides of buildings, because the restaurants won’t let them use their restrooms. He doesn’t have that problem, because everyone in the Chinese restaurant on the opposite corner knows he’s a respectable man and he frequently plays Mah Jong with the restaurant owner on slow days on the corner of his table. Mr. Feng sits on a milk crate just off to the side so as not to block any customers’ views of the merchandise and Mr. Feng will watch the magazine table while he uses the men’s room at the back of the red silk lanterned and peanut oil smelling room. In this way, he does not have to hire a table watcher, so he can run three blocks north and two blocks east just to take a dump in a rimless and feces-covered toilet surrounded by wads of soiled newspaper and fast food wrappers.

The places are marked on the sidewalk where a table can be placed and the “public character” and the magazine stock must be so many feet from storefronts, so as not to impede the pedestrian’s progress in achieving their lofty goals and midday pursuits. Making eye contact and smiling is the only way he can get their attention and get their money. Necessity dictates than when this potential customer is a man, he must smile in an ingratiating and friendly manner as if to say we’re all men here and we’re all buddies. He might start this off with “Hey there, Guy! That cigar smells great! You mind showin’ me what brand it is in this here Cigar Aficionado? If it’s not in this one, it might be in November’s issue here. They gets all the brands in this issue ... 'cause of Christmas” and the men will step up confidently and reply, “I’m glad you asked me, because … ” and they begin to instruct him on the pleasures of being a man with expendable income. All he is really learning is how to make the sale and all he is achieving is utter and complete ownership of his individual freedom to act and do as he pleases.

Yet, last night he had slept in a hotel because it was cold outside and his placeholder let his tables and stock get confiscated by the police, because his placeholder had taken the half of the nightly fee that he had already paid the placeholder and bought a rock that the placeholder smoked in the park far from the corner. Karl Watts had jumped at the chance to get a table on his corner and now he eyed it from a bad spot, mid-block and across the street. He wanted his corner back. He felt very homeless.

Tracks

2009-08-10T10:41:00.000-05:00

Backstory

The couple took off for Prince Edward Island. One kid was left in Sunnyvale with his great aunt and great uncle to watch Road Warrior everyday while having his lunch. The other kid was left in Palo Alto with her maternal grandparents to have Happy-Hour-At-Home where, at 4:15 p.m. on the nose, she had a Coors Original while her grandmother sipped on two jiggers of Old Crow with a splash of water.

Prince Edward Island

The couple is trying to get to Confederation Bridge to go back to the mainland. She has the crisply unfolded map gripped widthwise, then lengthwise, everywhichway but upsidedown. The signs at the crossroads, every junction being a crossroad, look like something from Looney Tunes: a wooden post with arrowed slats pointing to the various communities of Kilkora, Lower Freetown, Summerside; she tries to reconcile the topography of her view with the AAA map by the slant of the roads. There is yelling.

“We’re going the wrong direction!”

“Whose fault is that?!”

Words are as adversarial blows rather than transmissive devices. He pulls over to the side shouldering a potato field. Both are down for the count and…there is silence, intolerable silence. No verbal darts between the couple. No way to talk around the remarks they really want to make. He switches on the radio and tunes into a BBC game show of word association.

Sunnyvale

He plugs the tape (Memorex) into the VCR (Sanyo) and maneuvers himself back around the TV tray (oak) on which sits a chicken salad sandwich (with grapes and almonds on cracked wheat), carrots (raw, cut into sticks), and a 7-UP (slightly flat, ½ drank). Mel Gibson (Max) flexes (triceps, biceps, his sister, Suzanne, would be impressed) and the dust (powder-fine) flies. He absently picks at the scab (cracked and scaly) on his knee from the previous week’s skateboarding mishap.

His eyes (blue, Daniel) widen as the dune buggies roar toward certain violence (death and destruction). His parents (Harvey and Kay) had a date once where they had dinner in the movie theater’s (The Guild, The Park, The Varsity, he couldn’t remember the name) courtyard followed by a viewing of Road Warrior. He saw what they viewed (death and destruction). They said they had almost lost their dinners (steak or something). His lunch (chicken salad sandwich, carrots, and 7-UP) was staying down quite nicely.

Game Show

[CONTESTANT clears his throat and crosses himself silently, almost without discernable gestures. He stretches his neck forward while widening his eyes. His body becomes rigid and his mouth is drawn. The microphone is positioned approximately six inches from his mouth. The word is MAPS. Pause.]

Contestant: This is something that can come between the closest of friends.

Palo Alto

Looking at the grandmother, a former home economics teacher. Sitting on the couch. The grandmother sitting in a chair. The grandmother having the right hand with the permanently limp fingers resting in the lap. The grandmother having the left hand curling about the sweating cocktail. Both the hands are gripping the can of beer.

There is slow and hesitant talking. Words unfurling from half drooping and quivering lips. The neural networks are tangling as the rest of the body.

There is active and reactive listening. Words are taken in to, into, a growing mind. There is building, and inheriting, of memory, in bits, and pieces.

The grandfather, a former electrical engineer and radio announcer, is in the garage building electrical devices that are somehow connected to radio transmission.

Game Show

[AUDIENCE applause for approximately 10 seconds. Pause.]

Sunnyvale

He thinks that Max (Mel Gibson) is a lot like Dirty Harry (Clint Eastwood). Max is a good guy (Superman, Ronald Reagan, Eddie Van Halen). He thinks there doesn’t seem to be much to save (dirty clothes, dirty houses, dirty roads), but Max (Mel Gibson) still wants to do it.

He pauses the VCR (Sanyo) to get up and go to the bathroom (body moisturizers, seashell shaped soaps, blue toilet water, pink toilet paper).

The hallway (off which there are two bedrooms and one bathroom) is a gallery of family photographs (great aunt and great uncle’s wedding, 1st cousin once removed, the Album family, grandparents, brothers, sisters, unidentifiable family members). The rug is a Persian runner that had formerly lain in his grandparents’ (where Suzanne is) hallway. There are no rugs in the movie (Road Warrior), only rags.

Palo Alto

The grandmother is finishing the drink and dry Cheerios. She is finishing the one and only beer for the day, and the small saucer of mixed nuts whose chill from the freezer had thawed.

The conversation is done. The grandmother is sitting silently licking the lips while she is sitting silently watching the grandmother. She is thinking of the brother at the great aunt and uncle’s house. She is glad that the brother and she cannot fight over such a distance. She is glad the brother is not sitting in the grandparents’ living room. She is bored, so she decides to read one of the mystery books that are lying on the end table, unread, by the grandfather’s chair.

Sunnyvale

He returns to the chair (oak with a floral cushion tied to the seat) in front of the TV (and the oak TV tray that now held the empty plate that had sat under his lunch) and uses the remote control (for the Sanyo VCR) to take the movie (Road Warrior) off pause.

He decides not to watch the movie (Road Warrior) all the way through today (Tuesday, 12:37 p.m.).

Prince Edward Island

There is complete disbelief, followed by laughter. He pulls away from the shoulder while she, with a lingering titter and flap of her hand, guides the map back into its folds. The wounds are sutured, creating another map of sorts, one more appealing to this newly found liberty born of the laughter and release of the resentment.

“Let’s go exploring.”

“Yes, let’s.”

A St. Elmo's Fire Pantoum

2009-08-09T18:12:00.000-05:00

There are massive atmospheric potential differences.
A thunderstorm between queenie and quentin, the variables in this equitable quarrel, are
Charging the electric field outside,
In which they stand as two Highland cattle horns.

A thunderstorm between queenie and quentin, the variables in this equitable quarrel, are
Ionizing the air in the spark gap of argumentative space,
In which they stand as two Highland cattle horns,
Exchanging an electro-luminescent discharge of glances.

Ionizing the air in the spark gap of argumentative space,
As two anodes that are attracting anions of malevolence and
Exchanging an electro-luminescent discharge of glances,
Leading to atomic orbitals of lies becoming separated from the molecule of truth.

As two anodes that are attracting anions of malevolence and
Collecting ions and electrons of charged issues, which are no longer bound to each other,
Leading to atomic orbitals of lies becoming separated from the molecule of truth.
Dealing with the fourth state of this matter,

Collecting ions and electrons of charged issues, which are no longer bound to each other,
The bright bluish-white glow of their denials is cold.
Dealing with the fourth state of this matter,
Their sharply pointed structures emit light at low temperatures.

The bright bluish-white glow of their denials is cold,
Though the electric field of the fight is hotter than Hell:
Their sharply pointed structures emit light at low temperatures,
The light between them, a set of traveling disturbances,

Though the electric field of the fight is hotter than Hell
They are thinking of Helena, the fling, betwixt them,
The light between them, a set of traveling disturbances,
The twins, Pollux and Castor, have become involved.

They are thinking of Helena, the fling, betwixt them,
Charging the electric field outside.
The twins, Pollux and Castor, have become involved.
There are massive atmospheric potential differences.

Too Much Information

2009-08-08T22:35:00.000-05:00

It's important to keep in mind that, within your sphere of capabilities, you need to be able to exercise your inalienable right NOT to know. Sometimes, you must have that courage to tell that certain someone with diarrhea of the mouth that, "I'm not comfortable with you telling me this." Following, you'll be that much happier, I promise.

How Lila Might Lose An Abstract Noun

2009-08-02T22:01:00.000-05:00

"How Lila Might Lose an Abstract Noun"

Last, Lila finds it necessary to define “love” or is it “Love” or, possibly, “LOVE” (and, in ending this sentence, the author/narrator/collaborator with Lila and her fictitious life finds it difficult to decide whether to use a “?” or a “.”) It is, quite possibly, the reader/sympathizer/empathizer’s job to create a meaning for this word. The author/narrator/ collaborator with Lila and her fictitious life is going to abstain from defining this abstract noun; it is not the author/narrator/collaborator with Lila and her fictitious life’s job. At first glance, the reader/sympathizer/empathizer will assign the task of shaping the reader/sympathizer/empathizer’s definition of “love” or “Love” or “LOVE” to be Lila’s responsibility. This cannot possibly be the case as the author/narrator/collaborator with Lila and her fictitious life is going to present Lila in third person (which, at all points in the narrative, will be limited to strictly Lila’s sphere of activity, or environment) and will not be omniscient [all the reader/sympathizer/empathizer will be presented with, or the narrator/author/collaborator with Lila and her fictitious life will present, is physical loss of supposed “love” or “Love” or “LOVE” (which cannot be defined by the reader in terms of Lila because, without the omniscient view from Lila’s perspective, or the imposed meaning displayed by the author/narrator/collaborator with Lila and her fictitious life, it will be up to the reader/sympathizer/empathizer to decide what “love” or “Love” or “LOVE” means to them in terms of Lila’s experiences presented by the author/narrator/collaborator with Lila and her fictitious life)].
At this point in the narrative, which might be offered as a beginning, but is truly an end as well, the narrative style calls to be simplified. The narrative cannot continue to repeat the designated titles that have come to represent the persons and the abstracts in this story (which, as of yet, does not seem to have fashioned, or been fashioned, into any sort of story). From X → (which is to represent ← X), the reader/sympathizer/empathizer will simply be “the reader” [though minus the quotation marks, as they are unnecessary (capitalizing the words “the”, and “reader”, at intervals where appropriate, and, quite possibly, when not)]; the author/narrator/collaborator with Lila and her fictitious life will be known to all as whichever of the three titles (or, conceivably, a combination of two titles, but never all three) is chosen at that particular moment [such as: NOW … when the author (who is a she, but this matters not) chooses the word “author” at this point for the sound quality and dignity it represents, and the agency and authority which it instills in The Reader’s mind]; Lila will remain “Lila” where capitalization is of no consequence as it is constant; and “Love” or “love” will be shown the consideration the noun deserves dependent upon grammatical correctness of beginning, ending, or in the midst of a sentence until completion of the narrative.
Has the story started, yet? Has the narrative begun, yet? Who is responsible for presenting what? Who is responsible for deriving meaning from this? Let all of us (The Reader, The Author/Narrator, and Lila) start with the latest in a series of accounts that occurred (but all will not be recorded), presented in third person.
Travis moved into Lila’s apartment with his two tabby cats (one of which would curl up in her lap while she read, the other at her feet while she slept); his Sonicare® toothbrush with charger (for which he purchased an addition toothbrush for her to charge on alternate days); his air guitar (which he had played for her whenever their favorite headbanging song, Love Screams Your Name From My Toes To My Nose, brushing the air around his right thigh with one hand and fingering his left breast with the other); his toothpicks (that were NEVER used at the table because etiquette dictates that this is rude); his lap blanket; and his blue suede La-z-boy® armchair (in which they had had sex three times, two of which she had been on top with the lap blanket wrapped around their ankles); and numerous other things that fit neatly in, around, and on top of Lila’s things … in the beginning.
This is the beginning of the end after eleven months of living together: Travis lost his job (that abstract/concrete thing that allowed for him to pay for pet food, his half of the rent, his half of the bills, etc.) Instead of attempting to find a new job, he simply stayed in the apartment playing with his tabby cats, brushing his teeth with his Sonicare® toothbrush, playing air guitar and masturbating in his La-z-boy® as evidenced by the rise and fall of the lap blanket. The reader should note at this point that they might feel “sympathy”, or even “empathy”, with Lila (or, quite possibly, Travis, but this is not his story), in which case the reader can identify himself, or herself, with whichever title seems to suit them best. Once having chosen a title, though, it is important to understand “WHY” that particular title was chosen because it is going to determine how one views the outcome of this scenario.
If The Reader sympathizes, becoming The Sympathizer, then one might feel bad that Lila has this boyfriend, Travis, who moved in and now she becomes “Poor Lila” as viewed from the outside. This type of reader may sit happily and hear all of the inactivity that Travis displays now that he is jobless and unwilling to move forward in the narrative. This might be a poor choice as this story’s only concern should be with what Lila does and says contained within this particular set of circumstances.
If The Reader empathizes, becoming The Empathizer, then one might say, “Oh God, something like this happened to me and DAMN did it piss me off and/or make me cry, or got me up off my butt to get my man/woman back on track!” which loudly calls for action on Lila’s part. But, what should Lila do? She cannot wait for Travis to act because his character refuses dynamicism purely through the position he occupies within the narrative. The author/narrator refuses to tell Travis’ tale and recognizes that this story, by all rights, belongs to Lila. But, is this the best approach to the story? This approach would invariably exclude many readers, and that would just not be exercising fairness (another abstract noun to wrap one’s head around).
It is, therefore, the author’s responsibility to write in an action, or set of actions, that ultimately would indicate whether Lila had possessed “love” with Travis, or not. This is a huge hurdle to clear. Will there be an accident of some sort … or the author’s computer going “kaput” before getting it down?
Ah! An idea! There needs to be a very specific scene drawn in which whatever action can take place. Possibly, if the author can formulate this very specific scene, the answer to how Lila should take action will inevitably establish itself.
The author makes a decision to let the narrator side of her profession take the lead where the narrator will be as a camera eye, with no access whatsoever to Lila’s mind. This is the scene the narrator views with complete anonymity and with no prejudice (so, to a certain extent, the narrator IS omniscient, as seeing things from above): Travis lays in the La-z-boy® with the lap blanket pulled up to the middle of his chest and BOTH arms beneath the blanket; one tabby “rrrroowwws” at a standing Lila, alternately looking from her to a nearby chair; the other tabby “rrroowwws” in the hallway by the bedroom door, the proximity to the bedroom door can be discerned by the register of the cat’s voice; Lila stands between the doorway to the family room and the La-z-boy® with a Sonicare® toothbrush in her hand, poised as if to begin to brush; and Lila’s eyes and Travis eyes meet, but only for that moment that the camera eye catches, by pure chance.
This scene leaves the narrative limited; it needs the introduction of one or more new props. Hence, the author decides upon … upon …oh, what does the reader think? Why, this a fine idea the author just had … an unread (as evidenced by its pristine condition, and with the red pencil still lying in the same direction atop, which Lila had placed on it at 6:23 that very morning) Thursday newspaper which, by collective American societal knowledge (Did we forget to mention that this scene takes place in ____, _____, USA?), contains this week’s classified ads which, in turn, contains this week’s job listings which, in turn, contains some singular job listings for which Travis might well be suited.
Conflict!
So, how should Lila react to this scene? We all know (the reader, the narrator, and Lila) that she placed the paper in this spot at 6:23 a.m. with the red pencil (it is inferred, within the text, that as in school days, to call attention to important elements, red pencil might be used to accentuate plausible errors, conflicts, or successes, and could also be used to circle want ads) balanced atop. We all know Travis likes to sit and masturbate in this chair (but, what we all do not know is how often, why, or what he thinks of when doing so) and we all know the cats live in the household (though, we have no clue as to whether they are ever let out, what their names are, and if these are even matters of any relevancy). And, we all can only come to the conclusion that it is relatively close to bedtime because Lila is getting ready to brush her teeth (there are certain clues in fiction that only arise at opportune moments and, let us all, The Reader, The Author/Narrator, face it, brushing your teeth is one of them).
Now would be a fine time for the dialogue that this manuscript has since been lacking.
“What are you doing?”
This seems weak, does it not? The reader and the narrator are not even sure who is speaking. For that matter, The Author is not quite sure either. If given the chance to reflect, any number of people might suggest that this moment, with Lila being human, might well have been rehearsed and would not have sounded so cavalier. So, we MUST start over at the beginning, or is it the middle, and might well be the end (do we use a “?” or a “.”)
The author needs to decide at this juncture whether to have Lila sound like we imagine Barbie® doll sounds when pissed off at Ken (Is this even trademarked? How can the Mattel® corporation go about trademarking the name when it so obviously is short for Kenneth?) ® (the author will place the trademark symbol in the narrative to cover her ass against a lawsuit), or to sound like Jane Fonda, in Barbarella, the movie.
Before the narrative begins anew (or, in the middle) with dialogue that will drive the story forward (or backward) and renewal of the current conflict (or past conflict), a time must be set that Travis has been laying back in the easy chair. From Lila’s perspective it is probably days or weeks. From Travis’ perspective it may be hours or minutes since he got up and say … pissed or snacked out of the fridge. Since this is Lila’s story, let us all assume that he has not moved (except for bed-sleep, pissing, pooping and eating out of the fridge) since the previous week or approximately, six days.
“What are you doing?” (It is the same question! The author cannot decide whether the question has been repeated, or the dialogue is beginning afresh. We all now know that it is Lila who is speaking and, in some way, this question now sounds more loaded with pent animosity, does it not?)
“Nothing.” (An entirely expected response.)
“Well, I can see you’re doing NOTHING NOW, but what did you do today?”
“Looked for a job.”
“What … on the back of your eyelids? With your right hand wrapped around your ding-a ling?”
Ouch! Has Lila REALLY HAD IT, or what? Or, is this just some utter b*tch (The author is very proud of herself for this little pun. The words utter and udder sound not so very different. Get it?) that he moved in with. The Author does not enjoy or condone swearing, so this is how this now definitive word for a female dog when used in reference to a female human will be represented in the text. The author believes that when a person swears, it negates everything said before and everything following.
“No … I looked on-line.”
“We don’t have a computer.”
“ …” (This, with quotations, is to represent a brief, but heavy, pause in the dialogue were either of the two characters may speak following its appearance.)
“I had Chad look on-line for me.” (Who the hell is Chad? Where did he come from? Let us all come to the unanimous decision to oust Chad, for he serves no real purpose.)
“That’s B.S., and you know it!” [Two things are happening in this sentence of which we all should take note: 1) We all find that another fine way to swear is by contraction or acronym, which we all know to be perfectly acceptable in social circles; and A) Lila has insinuated that Travis is a “liar” which we all can only assume to be true because she has, so far, not really given us all any reason to doubt her. (The use of “1” and “A” were intentional in that the author could not make a decision on which to use because both points appeared to be equally important, but one still has to follow the other. The reader may not agree with the degree of importance, but then the reader is not the author, or are they?)]
Should the author have Lila put her toothbrushed hand on her hip and stare him down until he folds? Should the narrator step in and remove the reader from this scene to a wholly new scenario? Should the reader even keep reading with the headache that would inevitably arise from trying to decipher clearly the meaning behind this tale (This story is at its tail, or beginning, which is the end, do not fret!)?
Now is the time for a brief, but heavy, pause (and also, a return to the dialogue).
“ …”
We all now discover that we cannot go back to the dialogue yet, because someone needs to try to define “love.” Questions only appear in lieu of definitions: would Lila speak to Travis in this manner if she had any “love” for him; if Travis has “love” for Lila, would he be making a little more effort not to unduly burden her financially and emotionally; is this Lila’s first “romantic love” that is being soured by Travis’ static bearing; what defines Lila’s “love” anyway? The author chooses a response that seems to fit the story:
“Tomorrow I’ll help you … ‘cause we can’t go on like this.”
“Tomorrow I’m talking to Chad about moving into his place.”
“ …”
Is Lila losing her “love”? Everything goes back to trying to define this word that is an abstract noun, that means something, however slightly or grandly, different to every person in America. Does a word, a singular word, for “love” exist in every language, in every nation, and in every faction of humanity?
And, the author is like a parrot — regurgitating and regurgitating what the parrot mimics (and, parrots NEVER LIE … unless they are fictitious).

FIE YOU, tree roots!

2009-07-29T18:18:00.000-05:00

Robert Burns (1759-1796) wrote in a poem, “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men /Gang aft a-gley;” translation "The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry."

I believe it was General MacArthur who modified this sentiment to state, "The best-laid plans won't survive the enemy."

In this case, the plans were to attend the final of the season's Wisconsin Chamber Orchestra Concerts On the Square. The enemy was a ball of tree roots clogging the exit route for the sewage from my house. The results were a foul cocktail that saturated and ruined my basement carpet and a Persian runner. The terrible reality is, my husband and I have many of these stories that unfold in much the same direction:

*I have a meeting to attend and Sammy pees on Cheddar necessitating an impromtu bath time
*An anniversary camping trip mid-July turns into a chilly, muddy, wet, tick-infested bout of Man versus the Elements and Flora and Fauna and Time and Dimension
*A rare date to see Coraline (in 3-D, no less) turns into a dead car battery in a very reliable car (and, yes, the battery was relatively new ... and, yes, we only have and need ONE car)
*My folks' visit to my new home, after I had worked extreme overtime to accommodate my absence from work, turned into a mad rush to my dying grandfather in San Francisco one day after their arrival (he's still very much alive two months later)

The list of time-consumptive, expensive, irratating, and generally disgusting events goes on and on. I am completely unfamiliar with WHO would INTEND any of THESE events to happen. I think that the moral to be derived from these ramblings is clear ... I should greatly minimize the number of social plans I invest more than a few hours time toward. Philip and I settled for a nice, quick, stress-free dinner at one of his favorite haunts, Tex Tubb's Taco Palace (http://www.foodfightinc.com/textubbstaco.html). It was lovely ... and utterly unplanned.

40 and Lovin' It!

2009-07-25T00:28:00.000-05:00

We attended our friend's fortieth birthday bash tonight. These things are happening more often than not these days. He had a great time, but he told us all about how it was expected. Well duh, he IS turning 40-years-old. Next week we'll surprise you with a vintage Winnabago with four flats or a septic system overhaul. Just you wait and see, Suckas!

With a Name Like ?, It's Got To Be Good ... or Bad

2009-07-23T07:29:00.000-05:00

Something is terribly off when you are worried about product placement in your home.

I have an extremely amiable and non-judgmental friend, Connie, who is coming over today at noon to take me out to lunch to celebrate my job loss. She is very kind and well-meaning, so I just didn't have the heart to tell her that I'd like to spend a day glowering and stewing. Naturally, I'm also a little bent that I have to 'tidy up.'

Not only did the dynamic duo -- namely Cheddar and Ham Sammich (Sammy) -- do a number late last night on several houseplants/pots/dirt and a piggy bank I use to put my swear quarters in, but camping gear from last weekend and all the bags filled with what used to be my office are, quite literally, everywhere. It's also smelling a mite sour in here, as there's aromatic evidence that the pups have had a few accidents in the house while I was away. The kid next door often gets sidetracked into fun summer things and forgets his responsibilities.

While cruising around the front room, dining room (full of the aforementioned camping gear), and kitchen, I find myself hiding things. Now when I do this, I often times end up hiding them from myself and now I am questioning my motive. Why don't I want a very dear friend, a neighbor, or even my husband to know I use this or that? Why stress over something so silly? I'll tell you why, because we market and PR ourselves to no end.

We are very careful not to be seen as offensive or dirty or gluttonous or passive. We foster the illusion of ingenuousness and candidness. We like those who know us, love us or not, to know us as we wish them to know us. We manipulate the details of our environment to tailor our outward appearance to what we wish that person to see of our taste and talent. I am a common enigma. My house is full of objets d'art and products from all over the globe AND I pride myself on my efforts these last few years to become a decent localvore of seasonal food and products of Wisconsin/Midwestern origin.

So, you might ask, "What are you hiding?" Well, in this particular instance, I am stashing away the likes of DVDs I own and plan to watch (Religulous and Magnolia), books I want to read soon (Simple Prosperity), mail order catalogues (AMERICAN SCIENCE & SURPLUS), and any objects brought home from my cubicle (she sits in the next cubicle over).

Now, you might ask, "Why are you hiding these things?" I may answer that the office stuff is pretty obvious. The other stuff ... well ... I have no idea whatsoever. I only know that for some compelling reason, I do not want her to see these things. Self-analysis is futile. I prefer to redirect my atttention toward 'tidying up.'

The next time you find yourself hiding something from someone's view for some unknown reason, just chalk it up to good PR and public image preservation and move on. I know I am and my home will look and smell all the sweeter for it.

St. Valentine's for the Atheist

2006-02-14T20:46:00.000-06:00

So ... my neighbor, Alicia, and I spent the evening watching the Westminster Dog Show and eating pizza. If you had asked me fifteen years ago if I thought that this is where I would be on this Valentine's Day, I would have told you that you were a head case. But, here we are! Take a valium and deal with it.

A couple came into the bar tonight who had their first date at Irish Waters twenty-five years ago. I bought them a piece of cheesecake and wished them luck with the next twenty-five. After my shift, I sat for a couple of wines (whines) with a regular and came home to the aforementioned. There were many lonely hearts at the bar. I felt like telling them all to suck it up and register the fact that it was really sick to be sitting in a bar when they could be watching a kick-ass dog show on T. V. or ironing their outfit for tomorrow.

Strange, I still feel hopeful.