Driving home tonight, music cranked ridiculously loud, I suddenly realized that
my self-imposed exile from writing is over.
Not that I have much to say at the moment, except that I have missed being here.
And will be back soon.
bs
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Friday, November 24, 2006
block head
All work and no play makes brown shoes a dull woman all work and no play makes brown shoes a dull woman all work and no play makes brown shoes a dull woman all work and no play makes brown shoes a dull woman all work and no play makes brown shoes a dull woman all work and no play makes brown shoes a dull woman all work and no play makes brown shoes a dull woman all work and no play makes brown shoes a dull woman all work and no play makes brown shoes a dull woman all work and no play makes brown shoes a dull woman aaarrrggghhhI cannot get over my writer's BLOCK!!!
HAPPY THANKSGIVING ALL - bs
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
It's dark out here
Fall has arrived, bringing colder weather and the ever-earlier falling of night.
For some reason (hmmm, let me guess) every flood and motion-detector light
in our general area - the Inferno, the tattoo place, Mether Roger's neighborhood
the abandoned theater and our common alley - no longer works.
This leaves our 'back yard' in a pool of blackness
that makes us jumpy and fearful; willing to go out back
for a smoke only if we go as a group.
Prior to leaving every night, I have to check the doors,
including the back one. Usually I just turn try the lock,
but last night I opened the door and stepped out onto the walkway
just in time to hear this float over from next door:
"Hey, man... you know, uh....
I would love to shed some light on your situation dude,
but in case you haven't noticed, it's DARK out here motherfucker."
amen to that.
bs
For some reason (hmmm, let me guess) every flood and motion-detector light
in our general area - the Inferno, the tattoo place, Mether Roger's neighborhood
the abandoned theater and our common alley - no longer works.
This leaves our 'back yard' in a pool of blackness
that makes us jumpy and fearful; willing to go out back
for a smoke only if we go as a group.
Prior to leaving every night, I have to check the doors,
including the back one. Usually I just turn try the lock,
but last night I opened the door and stepped out onto the walkway
just in time to hear this float over from next door:
"Hey, man... you know, uh....
I would love to shed some light on your situation dude,
but in case you haven't noticed, it's DARK out here motherfucker."
amen to that.
bs
Monday, October 02, 2006
Feeling bushed? Curl up with a warm, cozy decider...
A few days ago, I called my brother to see if there was anything he needed. Some new socks maybe, or more long underwear to lessen the chills that plague him in colder weather.
He listed socks, some fleece sweats and fingerless gloves, and then he said,
"Oh, one more thing. I want an impervious comforter."
Right away, I thought - well, who doesn't?
The days are cold for all of us here on planet freakshow.
And for a few days I carried the concept of that kind of protection around
like my very own old, well-worn 'lovey'.
But the impervious part bugged me a bit, and after a while I began to wonder
if I really grasped the true nature of the word.
So I looked it up, along with the word comforter - and damned if I don't already
have the son of a bitch. And, guess what?
So do you!
Impervious: "incapable of being influenced, persuaded, or affected:
impervious to reason; impervious to another's suffering.
Comforter: a person who reduces the intensity (e.g., of fears) and calms and pacifies;
"a reliever of anxiety"; "an allayer of fears".
Whew. I feel better now.
Don't you?
bs
He listed socks, some fleece sweats and fingerless gloves, and then he said,
"Oh, one more thing. I want an impervious comforter."
Right away, I thought - well, who doesn't?
The days are cold for all of us here on planet freakshow.
And for a few days I carried the concept of that kind of protection around
like my very own old, well-worn 'lovey'.
But the impervious part bugged me a bit, and after a while I began to wonder
if I really grasped the true nature of the word.
So I looked it up, along with the word comforter - and damned if I don't already
have the son of a bitch. And, guess what?
So do you!
Impervious: "incapable of being influenced, persuaded, or affected:
impervious to reason; impervious to another's suffering.
Comforter: a person who reduces the intensity (e.g., of fears) and calms and pacifies;
"a reliever of anxiety"; "an allayer of fears".
Whew. I feel better now.
Don't you?
bs
Friday, September 29, 2006
Ghosts
Strange days in the building where I work.
First, there was that hammering and sawing just beyond the little door to nowhere.
Then, the wooden chair that sits to the left just inside my office
apparently moved itself...
I left the office, locking it and walking away for 20 minutes or so.
Upon my return, I could not get into my office because that chair
had moved over so that about 1/2 of it was somewhat wedged in front of the door.
Inside the office.
Dunno how the hell that could happen, but it gave me the willies.
And finally, last night, 3 of my clients and I were sitting outside in our "back yard".
We all heard someone walking around just inside the building,
but when we went in - no one was there.
We double-checked all 3 floors and found nothing.
Down in the basement, where it is super-spooky (circa 1885),
there were a few areas that were just overwhelmingly...weird.
There was one area where the air seemed peculiarly 'high-altitude' -
and uncomfortable to breathe. Near by, there was a section of wall
that was oddly faded and all scratched up in a vaguely circular pattern.
When I walked by that wall, I had such an overpowering, total feeling of despair
that I almost burst into tears. My heart was pounding, I was nauseated
and all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end.
I tried to appear calm (I was readying to leave for the night and
didn't want to abandon my herd in a state of panic) - but I felt, for a moment,
as though I was breathing another's breath, or being forcibly resuscitated
while still breathing on my own.
My face must have blanched, because the 3 women with me shouted WHAT? WHAT!
swiveling their heads around while running toward the stairs in a mad panic.
The melancholy I felt in that basement was so singular and vast
I cannot even begin to explain it.
I just knowI was disturbed by it all evening,
and the feeling lingers today.
Strange days are also upon the people living in the building.
There is much about the lives of the women I work with
that I sense, but never really see.
They struggle daily, they are haunted by their pasts -
and I, in turn, am haunted by them.
Behind the carefully arranged faces they show to the world,
each harbors a spectral child, whose face sometimes drifts forward
to gaze at out at me with such wistful longing
I feel my heart might stop.
Oh,the weight of history.
The shape of regret.
Ghosts.
First, there was that hammering and sawing just beyond the little door to nowhere.
Then, the wooden chair that sits to the left just inside my office
apparently moved itself...
I left the office, locking it and walking away for 20 minutes or so.
Upon my return, I could not get into my office because that chair
had moved over so that about 1/2 of it was somewhat wedged in front of the door.
Inside the office.
Dunno how the hell that could happen, but it gave me the willies.
And finally, last night, 3 of my clients and I were sitting outside in our "back yard".
We all heard someone walking around just inside the building,
but when we went in - no one was there.
We double-checked all 3 floors and found nothing.
Down in the basement, where it is super-spooky (circa 1885),
there were a few areas that were just overwhelmingly...weird.
There was one area where the air seemed peculiarly 'high-altitude' -
and uncomfortable to breathe. Near by, there was a section of wall
that was oddly faded and all scratched up in a vaguely circular pattern.
When I walked by that wall, I had such an overpowering, total feeling of despair
that I almost burst into tears. My heart was pounding, I was nauseated
and all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end.
I tried to appear calm (I was readying to leave for the night and
didn't want to abandon my herd in a state of panic) - but I felt, for a moment,
as though I was breathing another's breath, or being forcibly resuscitated
while still breathing on my own.
My face must have blanched, because the 3 women with me shouted WHAT? WHAT!
swiveling their heads around while running toward the stairs in a mad panic.
The melancholy I felt in that basement was so singular and vast
I cannot even begin to explain it.
I just knowI was disturbed by it all evening,
and the feeling lingers today.
Strange days are also upon the people living in the building.
There is much about the lives of the women I work with
that I sense, but never really see.
They struggle daily, they are haunted by their pasts -
and I, in turn, am haunted by them.
Behind the carefully arranged faces they show to the world,
each harbors a spectral child, whose face sometimes drifts forward
to gaze at out at me with such wistful longing
I feel my heart might stop.
Oh,the weight of history.
The shape of regret.
Ghosts.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Update
In our last episode, Brown Shoes turned 50...
and while the vast nothingness recently available
on this blog might make you think otherwise -
I did not curl up and die.
Much has happened since I was last able to sit down and write,
but now that I'm here, attempting to do so,
I feel incapable...
afflicted by a curious combination of - oh hell, you do the math:
guilt + perfectionism x resistance + desire - ability = ...
when I add it all up, I'm left with a peculiar paralysis
that leaves me sitting at my keyboard, feeling like a moron.
So, while it may be a cop-out (heh heh),
I'm going to get a little Robert Stackian here and do a simple update:
Trip to Utah in late August - fabulous.
Highlights: windmill fighting with my sister's beagle,
eating the best mole negro on the planet,
and T and I laughing ourselves sick over boxes of hideous family pictures.
New fridge: check. (and this one works!)
New leather couch and chair: ordered in May, arrived in late September.
They are chocolatey and buttery and a little bit intimidating.
Feels odd, as if someone else with taste and cash moved into the house
while we weren't looking.
The Inferno: I have been solo staff member since the first week of September
(my co-worker abruptly left her position),and while I would usually argue
this statement vociferously - one of me is NOT enough.
Highlights: new baby born late August. Another resident in false labor (twice!).
5279 pieces of paperwork - one set of hands.
The flu.
Somehow pissing off the maintainence guy, which has resulted in him launching
a bizarre vendeta against me. Most recent volleys: writing his name on things in my office that belong to me, removing a poster from the wall because he thinks it's ugly, adding his own passive-aggressive quotes to our soberiety-only quote board.
The flu redux.
The ghost: making creepy hacking and sawing noises directly outside the weird door
that goes nowhere (OLD building, crazy remodels over the years left us with a door
that opens onto a 20 foot drop-off).
The rats.
The tattoo people: they apparently imported several bales of supertough pot and
have been hosting smoke-a-thons in an old van that sits directly ouside our back door.
The smell is UNbelieveable.
The other neighbors: Squatters have moved into a vacant building across the alley from us.
They have become best friends with both the tattoo people and all the regulars from
Methder Rogers place.
Things are going to hell in a fertilzer-lined handbasket. In a hurry.
The vibe is changing from annoying and loud to truly frightening.
Pray for peace.
Home: My 19 daughter has moved back.
D. has begun construction of an art studio for me off the back of the house.
My son spent a week here working on it.
Dysfunction junction, but pretty damn cool.
Me?
Overwhelmed.
Overworked.
Exhausted but strangely happy a good bit of the time.
And, as of September 8th - 3 years sober.
Missing all of you, and hoping you are all well and content.
Off to work - again.
bs
and while the vast nothingness recently available
on this blog might make you think otherwise -
I did not curl up and die.
Much has happened since I was last able to sit down and write,
but now that I'm here, attempting to do so,
I feel incapable...
afflicted by a curious combination of - oh hell, you do the math:
guilt + perfectionism x resistance + desire - ability = ...
when I add it all up, I'm left with a peculiar paralysis
that leaves me sitting at my keyboard, feeling like a moron.
So, while it may be a cop-out (heh heh),
I'm going to get a little Robert Stackian here and do a simple update:
Trip to Utah in late August - fabulous.
Highlights: windmill fighting with my sister's beagle,
eating the best mole negro on the planet,
and T and I laughing ourselves sick over boxes of hideous family pictures.
New fridge: check. (and this one works!)
New leather couch and chair: ordered in May, arrived in late September.
They are chocolatey and buttery and a little bit intimidating.
Feels odd, as if someone else with taste and cash moved into the house
while we weren't looking.
The Inferno: I have been solo staff member since the first week of September
(my co-worker abruptly left her position),and while I would usually argue
this statement vociferously - one of me is NOT enough.
Highlights: new baby born late August. Another resident in false labor (twice!).
5279 pieces of paperwork - one set of hands.
The flu.
Somehow pissing off the maintainence guy, which has resulted in him launching
a bizarre vendeta against me. Most recent volleys: writing his name on things in my office that belong to me, removing a poster from the wall because he thinks it's ugly, adding his own passive-aggressive quotes to our soberiety-only quote board.
The flu redux.
The ghost: making creepy hacking and sawing noises directly outside the weird door
that goes nowhere (OLD building, crazy remodels over the years left us with a door
that opens onto a 20 foot drop-off).
The rats.
The tattoo people: they apparently imported several bales of supertough pot and
have been hosting smoke-a-thons in an old van that sits directly ouside our back door.
The smell is UNbelieveable.
The other neighbors: Squatters have moved into a vacant building across the alley from us.
They have become best friends with both the tattoo people and all the regulars from
Methder Rogers place.
Things are going to hell in a fertilzer-lined handbasket. In a hurry.
The vibe is changing from annoying and loud to truly frightening.
Pray for peace.
Home: My 19 daughter has moved back.
D. has begun construction of an art studio for me off the back of the house.
My son spent a week here working on it.
Dysfunction junction, but pretty damn cool.
Me?
Overwhelmed.
Overworked.
Exhausted but strangely happy a good bit of the time.
And, as of September 8th - 3 years sober.
Missing all of you, and hoping you are all well and content.
Off to work - again.
bs
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Reefer Madness
It's official.
Sears (Satan's Evil And Repugnant Servant) has won.
The new refrigerator returned last night to the hell from whence it came,
and we feel much better about not having a fridge
now that we really don't have one sitting in our kitchen anymore.
I seem to recall a few moments of bliss, way back when the thing first arrived.
It was so roomy and functional and well lit that just looking inside
made me feel organized and capable.
And the freezer-on-the-bottom concept was both a pleasing nod to the old days
and a modernization that made me feel...well, modern.
But all that was before we realized that we had purchased the devil's workshop
and hauled it home to the heart of our house.
I'll spare you the gory details and the ugly epitaphs we've hurled -
and just admit that we're back to square one - older, wiser
and armed with holy water
as we depart the castle in search of a working refrigerator.
It's been slim pickins at Chez Shoes for the last month.
When you're not sleeping on the ground surrounded by wilderness
cooking out of a cooler is more annoyance than challenge.
My best friends?
Top Ramen and cereal, with an occasional visit
from funky salad greens
and spongy cheese on toast.
However, I realize that I am still so very lucky, sitting here on my ass,
grousing about inconvenience beneath the safety of my intact roof.
I could have it so much worse...
there are so many who do.
bs
Sears (Satan's Evil And Repugnant Servant) has won.
The new refrigerator returned last night to the hell from whence it came,
and we feel much better about not having a fridge
now that we really don't have one sitting in our kitchen anymore.
I seem to recall a few moments of bliss, way back when the thing first arrived.
It was so roomy and functional and well lit that just looking inside
made me feel organized and capable.
And the freezer-on-the-bottom concept was both a pleasing nod to the old days
and a modernization that made me feel...well, modern.
But all that was before we realized that we had purchased the devil's workshop
and hauled it home to the heart of our house.
I'll spare you the gory details and the ugly epitaphs we've hurled -
and just admit that we're back to square one - older, wiser
and armed with holy water
as we depart the castle in search of a working refrigerator.
It's been slim pickins at Chez Shoes for the last month.
When you're not sleeping on the ground surrounded by wilderness
cooking out of a cooler is more annoyance than challenge.
My best friends?
Top Ramen and cereal, with an occasional visit
from funky salad greens
and spongy cheese on toast.
However, I realize that I am still so very lucky, sitting here on my ass,
grousing about inconvenience beneath the safety of my intact roof.
I could have it so much worse...
there are so many who do.
bs
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Mid August
For anyone still checking back here from time to time,
I have not fallen off the face of the earth.
Those angry tweakers never delivered on their promise to whip my ass,
the heat of summer cooked (but did not kill) me,
and though I often fear I can't -
I am surviving my expanded work week fairly intact.
So why,
you might ask,
don't I write?
I wish I knew.
There are a million little things I could try to use as excuses;
chief among them the notion that this blog is utterly meaningless
in the greater scheme of things.
Yet - it matters to me.
I have made connections with people here
whose thoughts and opinions also matter to me,
so I apologize for my lengthy silence,
and hope it has not been interpreted as anything more
than the major-league fugue it has been.
Thanks to those who have asked about my nephew -
he is doing better, but it will be a slow recovery for him
and there may be some permanent damage.
Turns out he had a blood-alcohol level of .29 when he was admitted to the hospital,
which certainly explains why he "just suddenly" lost conciousness.
Of course, depending on which family member you talk to,
there are reasons for such a reading and they range from medical error
to slow metabolism to total denial that blood levels of any sort were ever checked.
oh,
alcohol....
Otherwise, life continues on.
I am working 4 nights a week now, and still loving my job.
The angry asshat I wrote about a few weeks ago ended up
serving 2 days in jail for trespassing on our property.
He was contrite when he reappeared, but that only lasted until
he got trashed again and then he was back to being a nuisance and a threat.
Luckily for me, he chose to harass the tweakers next door
instead of coming over to the Inferno, and last I heard he was far away,
recovering from bruised ribs and a broken nose.
Gotta love that meth.
The new fridge is slated to be repaired sometime today.
And yes, if you are doing the math,
it has been a few days since it stopped working.
To say that I loathe and detest Sears would be putting it mildly, but I will leave it at that, because to say otherwise would have me complaining for the next 5 or 6 weeks minimum.
Besides, if all goes as promised, in the next 24 hours we'll actually have a place to put perishables again, and that will be a very good thing indeed.
Other positives currently on the horizon:
D has finished demolition on our old back porch and is beginning the remodel/addition
that will eventually be my art studio.
I am battling some guilt over this, because I don't always feel it's totally justified,
but secretly, I am also crazed with excitement about the whole idea.
And, because I will be hitting the big 50 in a few days, I will soon be enjoying
an entire week off work, which I will spend in Utah with my sister,
doing as much nothing as I possible can.
And that, fellow blognosticators, is my story at the moment.
I hope you are all well, and that the rest of August brings you
more good days than bad.
bs
I have not fallen off the face of the earth.
Those angry tweakers never delivered on their promise to whip my ass,
the heat of summer cooked (but did not kill) me,
and though I often fear I can't -
I am surviving my expanded work week fairly intact.
So why,
you might ask,
don't I write?
I wish I knew.
There are a million little things I could try to use as excuses;
chief among them the notion that this blog is utterly meaningless
in the greater scheme of things.
Yet - it matters to me.
I have made connections with people here
whose thoughts and opinions also matter to me,
so I apologize for my lengthy silence,
and hope it has not been interpreted as anything more
than the major-league fugue it has been.
Thanks to those who have asked about my nephew -
he is doing better, but it will be a slow recovery for him
and there may be some permanent damage.
Turns out he had a blood-alcohol level of .29 when he was admitted to the hospital,
which certainly explains why he "just suddenly" lost conciousness.
Of course, depending on which family member you talk to,
there are reasons for such a reading and they range from medical error
to slow metabolism to total denial that blood levels of any sort were ever checked.
oh,
alcohol....
Otherwise, life continues on.
I am working 4 nights a week now, and still loving my job.
The angry asshat I wrote about a few weeks ago ended up
serving 2 days in jail for trespassing on our property.
He was contrite when he reappeared, but that only lasted until
he got trashed again and then he was back to being a nuisance and a threat.
Luckily for me, he chose to harass the tweakers next door
instead of coming over to the Inferno, and last I heard he was far away,
recovering from bruised ribs and a broken nose.
Gotta love that meth.
The new fridge is slated to be repaired sometime today.
And yes, if you are doing the math,
it has been a few days since it stopped working.
To say that I loathe and detest Sears would be putting it mildly, but I will leave it at that, because to say otherwise would have me complaining for the next 5 or 6 weeks minimum.
Besides, if all goes as promised, in the next 24 hours we'll actually have a place to put perishables again, and that will be a very good thing indeed.
Other positives currently on the horizon:
D has finished demolition on our old back porch and is beginning the remodel/addition
that will eventually be my art studio.
I am battling some guilt over this, because I don't always feel it's totally justified,
but secretly, I am also crazed with excitement about the whole idea.
And, because I will be hitting the big 50 in a few days, I will soon be enjoying
an entire week off work, which I will spend in Utah with my sister,
doing as much nothing as I possible can.
And that, fellow blognosticators, is my story at the moment.
I hope you are all well, and that the rest of August brings you
more good days than bad.
bs
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
laboring under a dark and twisted star
Up too early after a fitful night of sweaty half-sleep.
Fortunately, I have a steaming mug of coffee to snap me out of the fog I'm in.
But, wait just a minute...my coffee tastes...strangely foul.
Upon checking the milk, I realize that our brand spanking new fridge - the one
we had to rush out and sell our souls to get after the old one died on one of the hottest
days of the year - is not working. On another of the hottest days of the year.
But while F#@* all annoying, this is not the worst thing that could happen.
And it is not, in fact, the worst thing that has happened today.
My oldest sister called this morning to tell me that my nephew had been having
dizzy spells, possibly related to some hypoglycemic issue.
A few days ago, as he was walking from the street to a friend's house, he fainted.
He fell straight backward, hitting only his head on the concrete curb.
His skull is fractured from the back of his head around to the orbit of his eye,
and there is another fractured area at the base of his brain.
There is bleeding in his brain, and blood and cranial fluid in one of his ears, and he has
lost the majority of his hearing, as well as his sense of smell.
He also has short term memory loss, speech issues,
and they are continuing to test for additional problems...
This is just devastating news for my entire family.
Even though it has been 21 years since my brother J's accident, the words 'brain injury'
still pack an enormous wallop, and bring back memories that are traumatic and sickening.
But, it's still early.
Who knows what the day will bring.
bs
Fortunately, I have a steaming mug of coffee to snap me out of the fog I'm in.
But, wait just a minute...my coffee tastes...strangely foul.
Upon checking the milk, I realize that our brand spanking new fridge - the one
we had to rush out and sell our souls to get after the old one died on one of the hottest
days of the year - is not working. On another of the hottest days of the year.
But while F#@* all annoying, this is not the worst thing that could happen.
And it is not, in fact, the worst thing that has happened today.
My oldest sister called this morning to tell me that my nephew had been having
dizzy spells, possibly related to some hypoglycemic issue.
A few days ago, as he was walking from the street to a friend's house, he fainted.
He fell straight backward, hitting only his head on the concrete curb.
His skull is fractured from the back of his head around to the orbit of his eye,
and there is another fractured area at the base of his brain.
There is bleeding in his brain, and blood and cranial fluid in one of his ears, and he has
lost the majority of his hearing, as well as his sense of smell.
He also has short term memory loss, speech issues,
and they are continuing to test for additional problems...
This is just devastating news for my entire family.
Even though it has been 21 years since my brother J's accident, the words 'brain injury'
still pack an enormous wallop, and bring back memories that are traumatic and sickening.
But, it's still early.
Who knows what the day will bring.
bs
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
"I think everybody's nuts" - Johnny Depp
Whew.
The past few days have been utterly hellish.
105 to 99 and not even the hint of a breeze.
At home, even though we are up in the woods,
it has been miserable and hard to sleep at night.
And in town, especially up in the Inferno, it has been brutal.
Mercifully, today promises to be much cooler, which should
help prevent the meltdown that had been threatening our
fragile peace there at The In.
Speaking of threats to the peace, we had an uncomfortable
experience over the weekend at my workplace.
A friend of the tweaker-neighbors
came over to our house and tried to make trouble.
There is an outdoor area that connects our place
to the one next door, but the boundaries are well known
and have always been respected.
So when this big guy showed up in our area, drunk and high,
we were all a little on edge -but we were trying to enjoy
the tepid night air and did not want to be driven back
into the soul sucking heat of our building.
Long story short - the guy was agitated and became more so,
making derogatory and threatening statements
and trying to physically intimidate me and the other women.
He kept getting up close to my face and saying things like, "Oh yes,
I'm just so sure this is a clean and sober living facility...why?
Why are you like this, I just want to know. I mean, that makes you like,
like fucking vegetarians... or fucking Mormons or something."
After asking him 8 or 10 times to please leave, I got annoyed and called 911.
When two officers arrived, the guy became ridiculously angry.
He started mocking the cops and arguing with them
every bit as stupidly as he'd been arguing with me earlier.
At one point, when one of the cops told him he could be arrested for criminal trespass,
he said, "That's ING man: tres- pass-ING. Watch your tense, man."
After putting up with a full load of his shite, the officers escorted him away,
and we were all relieved to have him gone.
His absence however, was brief - in under 5 minutes he was back - this time
coming through our front door, up our stairs and into our kitchen area.
He sort of chuckled and was in the process of saying, "Ooops, wrong house..."
when the cops (he thought he'd ditched) slapped some handcuffs on him.
If he shows up again, maybe I'll lock him in my office - five minutes in that
sweatbox and he'll be a stain on the floor.
In other news,
the girlfriend from hell wants to have my brothers' baby.
Only problem: she's barren.
But don't despair my friends, Maylene has it all figured out.
She's going to have some of her DNA harvested and then transferred into a
donor egg, which will be fertilized and implanted in a surrogate womb.
I know,
I can feel you -
and believe me when I say that I am thinking the very same thing...
I swear, I don't know when I climbed aboard the AssHat Express,
but I want to get off.
Now.
The past few days have been utterly hellish.
105 to 99 and not even the hint of a breeze.
At home, even though we are up in the woods,
it has been miserable and hard to sleep at night.
And in town, especially up in the Inferno, it has been brutal.
Mercifully, today promises to be much cooler, which should
help prevent the meltdown that had been threatening our
fragile peace there at The In.
Speaking of threats to the peace, we had an uncomfortable
experience over the weekend at my workplace.
A friend of the tweaker-neighbors
came over to our house and tried to make trouble.
There is an outdoor area that connects our place
to the one next door, but the boundaries are well known
and have always been respected.
So when this big guy showed up in our area, drunk and high,
we were all a little on edge -but we were trying to enjoy
the tepid night air and did not want to be driven back
into the soul sucking heat of our building.
Long story short - the guy was agitated and became more so,
making derogatory and threatening statements
and trying to physically intimidate me and the other women.
He kept getting up close to my face and saying things like, "Oh yes,
I'm just so sure this is a clean and sober living facility...why?
Why are you like this, I just want to know. I mean, that makes you like,
like fucking vegetarians... or fucking Mormons or something."
After asking him 8 or 10 times to please leave, I got annoyed and called 911.
When two officers arrived, the guy became ridiculously angry.
He started mocking the cops and arguing with them
every bit as stupidly as he'd been arguing with me earlier.
At one point, when one of the cops told him he could be arrested for criminal trespass,
he said, "That's ING man: tres- pass-ING. Watch your tense, man."
After putting up with a full load of his shite, the officers escorted him away,
and we were all relieved to have him gone.
His absence however, was brief - in under 5 minutes he was back - this time
coming through our front door, up our stairs and into our kitchen area.
He sort of chuckled and was in the process of saying, "Ooops, wrong house..."
when the cops (he thought he'd ditched) slapped some handcuffs on him.
If he shows up again, maybe I'll lock him in my office - five minutes in that
sweatbox and he'll be a stain on the floor.
In other news,
the girlfriend from hell wants to have my brothers' baby.
Only problem: she's barren.
But don't despair my friends, Maylene has it all figured out.
She's going to have some of her DNA harvested and then transferred into a
donor egg, which will be fertilized and implanted in a surrogate womb.
I know,
I can feel you -
and believe me when I say that I am thinking the very same thing...
I swear, I don't know when I climbed aboard the AssHat Express,
but I want to get off.
Now.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Part Two
The dying process begins the minute we are born, but it accelerates during dinner parties.
-- Carol Matthau
For most of my adult life, the standard for awkward social situations
has been a hideous weekend with a friend of D’s way back
in the late seventies – and I would have been more then happy
to keep it that way.
However, life had other plans for me, and those plans arrived a few
weeks ago in the form of one Maylene Throckton: girlfriend from hell.
My brother J (either in spite of or because of his brain injury)
has an eerie ability to attract women - women who are, in one way
or another, needy, dysfunctional and very, very strange.
In the 21 years since his accident, he has gotten quite involved with
a number of these women and - because I am his sister/mother/
life coach/counselor/warden/herd boss/legal guardian - so have I.
First there was the high school sweetheart who felt that their love would
magically bring about a miracle, and punished us all when it did not.
And the nurse who had known him before his injury; she stuck around
until she realized that having a late-life baby with a profoundly disabled
guy was probably not a workable plan.
Next came the angry 460-pound social worker and her 87-year old mother,
followed by the 18 year old in a wheel chair and her angry mother.
Beth from New Jersey actually moved in with J, after creating such misery
with her incessant outbursts and complaints that he was evicted from his
former place. She brought with her a service dog the size of a pony, a boatload
of issues related to her brain injury, and a penchant for calling her lawyer
anytime things didn’t go her way (“He’s a shark I tell ya, a New Jersey shark!”)
Following Hurricane Beth, there was a merciful drought, interrupted only briefly
by Saralee, a retired forensic pathologist involved in animal rescue.
I met her only once, and after sharing with me her passion for dogs,
she returned to the tiny home she shares with 10 of them – never to be heard from again.
Lulled by the calm that usually precedes a storm, I allowed myself to think
that J had finally had his fill; that maybe we were finished with the awful meet-
and-greets that are de rigueur once he begins another doomed affair.
And I held fast to such wishful thinking until one recent night, when he phoned
around 11 pm to tell me that he was ‘entertaining company’ again.
According to J, the story goes like this:
He met her at the library, and after lunch and some coffee, they went
to his house and spent the rest of the day in bed. She is a movie producer
and director, currently filming a thriller she wrote about the ancient
Egyptians and some deep-space aliens.
She presently lives with her sister and her niece (who she is helping to raise),
but she is looking for a big old house where she can raise her own foster daughters (2)
as well as the triplets she recently went to Canada to adopt.
Total bullshit? Uh, yeah…however, (in part because of J’s short term memory deficits)
I was willing to try and suspend my disbelief, at least until I had a chance
to speak with Maylene herself.
I did finally manage a few conversations with her, and each was weirder than
the one that came before. Her voice sounded rather babyish and she spoke
in a singsong manner that made me long to get away from the phone and
rinse out the inside of my head. She echoed the stories J had told me, adding
more fantastic details, and then she made some assertions and assumptions
regarding J that I found a bit alarming, given the brevity of their relationship.
In the end, everything she said seemed slightly off, leaving me absolutely
certain of only one thing: we had a flaming nutbag on our hands.
Last week, my husband D and I decided it was time to face the music,
so we went to see J and meet his ladylove. It was J’s birthday, so we
brought along some gifts and an offer to take them both out to dinner.
Things were scary right from the beginning.
For starters, Maylene was behind the kitchen door when D and I arrived,
and she came out very slowly, like an animal emerging from a cave.
She whispered hello and thrust a folder toward me, saying brightly in her
tinny voice, “Here, I brought a copy of my script for you.”
Then she sank into J and began nuzzling and petting and cuddling him
as though they were alone in the bleachers at the junior high.
We gave J his gifts, and she grabbed them from him, opening each one
and chirping, “Thanks, we needed this.” And when we finally got in the car
to go to dinner, she continued her strange canoodling, while simultaneously
finishing all of J’s sentences for him and regaling us with stories about
meeting celebrities. “Johnny Depp, he’ll either talk to you or he won’t.”
And “When Steven Spielberg read my script he said go for it – so I am!”
Dinner was downright ludicrous, with Maylene cutting J’s food into
little bites and continually caressing him with her pudgy, pale hands.
She sat across from me and, while she looked fairly benign (think
bloated, middle aged Mia Farrow), every once in a while I saw her
taking my measure in a feral way that left me jittery and chilled.
At one point, when Maylene was gassing on about the “huge factory
high in the Ozarks” she bought so her brother would have a job, I
leaned over to D and whispered, “Hey, remember the Silver Pear?”
He nodded, and then he whispered back,” I’d do that ten times in a
row before I’d ever do this again.”
In the days since we endured our dinner with Maylene, I’ve had time to
read her ‘script’ and ponder the claims she’s made.
And while I’ve laughed about how totally bizarre she is, I am also concerned
that she could be a danger to J.
At best she’s a whack job, needy and sad; at worst a pathological liar and con.
Her conversations are peppered with dark comments about her mother,
who she refers to in the past tense much of the time, and vague statements
about the progress of filming her movie.
To date, J has never been to her house or seen where it is.
And even though she says things like, "The triplets just LOVE J - my foster
daughters are always asking when they get to go meet him!", J says he has
never met them- or anyone else in her life.
Her script is a jumbled, pathetic mess – it looks (and reads) like a 5th graders’
rush-job report. There are misspelled words (like ‘seen’ for scene and ‘rapped’
for raped) on every page and an angry, juvenile violence that seems much more
like memory than the plot of a sci-fi flick.
Yesterday J told me that Maylene hates her mother and wouldn’t speak to her
if they passed on the street. Then he told me that they have the same name –
and a little warning flag popped up in my brain. He also told me that she is
pressuring him about marriage, and suggesting that they keep it a secret from me.
I am trying to get some dirt on her – but so far that has proved impossible.
And though I want to try and warn my brother, I have to move cautiously,
because if I even hint that I do not like her, he is likely to find her irresistible.
stay tuned.............
bs
-- Carol Matthau
For most of my adult life, the standard for awkward social situations
has been a hideous weekend with a friend of D’s way back
in the late seventies – and I would have been more then happy
to keep it that way.
However, life had other plans for me, and those plans arrived a few
weeks ago in the form of one Maylene Throckton: girlfriend from hell.
My brother J (either in spite of or because of his brain injury)
has an eerie ability to attract women - women who are, in one way
or another, needy, dysfunctional and very, very strange.
In the 21 years since his accident, he has gotten quite involved with
a number of these women and - because I am his sister/mother/
life coach/counselor/warden/herd boss/legal guardian - so have I.
First there was the high school sweetheart who felt that their love would
magically bring about a miracle, and punished us all when it did not.
And the nurse who had known him before his injury; she stuck around
until she realized that having a late-life baby with a profoundly disabled
guy was probably not a workable plan.
Next came the angry 460-pound social worker and her 87-year old mother,
followed by the 18 year old in a wheel chair and her angry mother.
Beth from New Jersey actually moved in with J, after creating such misery
with her incessant outbursts and complaints that he was evicted from his
former place. She brought with her a service dog the size of a pony, a boatload
of issues related to her brain injury, and a penchant for calling her lawyer
anytime things didn’t go her way (“He’s a shark I tell ya, a New Jersey shark!”)
Following Hurricane Beth, there was a merciful drought, interrupted only briefly
by Saralee, a retired forensic pathologist involved in animal rescue.
I met her only once, and after sharing with me her passion for dogs,
she returned to the tiny home she shares with 10 of them – never to be heard from again.
Lulled by the calm that usually precedes a storm, I allowed myself to think
that J had finally had his fill; that maybe we were finished with the awful meet-
and-greets that are de rigueur once he begins another doomed affair.
And I held fast to such wishful thinking until one recent night, when he phoned
around 11 pm to tell me that he was ‘entertaining company’ again.
According to J, the story goes like this:
He met her at the library, and after lunch and some coffee, they went
to his house and spent the rest of the day in bed. She is a movie producer
and director, currently filming a thriller she wrote about the ancient
Egyptians and some deep-space aliens.
She presently lives with her sister and her niece (who she is helping to raise),
but she is looking for a big old house where she can raise her own foster daughters (2)
as well as the triplets she recently went to Canada to adopt.
Total bullshit? Uh, yeah…however, (in part because of J’s short term memory deficits)
I was willing to try and suspend my disbelief, at least until I had a chance
to speak with Maylene herself.
I did finally manage a few conversations with her, and each was weirder than
the one that came before. Her voice sounded rather babyish and she spoke
in a singsong manner that made me long to get away from the phone and
rinse out the inside of my head. She echoed the stories J had told me, adding
more fantastic details, and then she made some assertions and assumptions
regarding J that I found a bit alarming, given the brevity of their relationship.
In the end, everything she said seemed slightly off, leaving me absolutely
certain of only one thing: we had a flaming nutbag on our hands.
Last week, my husband D and I decided it was time to face the music,
so we went to see J and meet his ladylove. It was J’s birthday, so we
brought along some gifts and an offer to take them both out to dinner.
Things were scary right from the beginning.
For starters, Maylene was behind the kitchen door when D and I arrived,
and she came out very slowly, like an animal emerging from a cave.
She whispered hello and thrust a folder toward me, saying brightly in her
tinny voice, “Here, I brought a copy of my script for you.”
Then she sank into J and began nuzzling and petting and cuddling him
as though they were alone in the bleachers at the junior high.
We gave J his gifts, and she grabbed them from him, opening each one
and chirping, “Thanks, we needed this.” And when we finally got in the car
to go to dinner, she continued her strange canoodling, while simultaneously
finishing all of J’s sentences for him and regaling us with stories about
meeting celebrities. “Johnny Depp, he’ll either talk to you or he won’t.”
And “When Steven Spielberg read my script he said go for it – so I am!”
Dinner was downright ludicrous, with Maylene cutting J’s food into
little bites and continually caressing him with her pudgy, pale hands.
She sat across from me and, while she looked fairly benign (think
bloated, middle aged Mia Farrow), every once in a while I saw her
taking my measure in a feral way that left me jittery and chilled.
At one point, when Maylene was gassing on about the “huge factory
high in the Ozarks” she bought so her brother would have a job, I
leaned over to D and whispered, “Hey, remember the Silver Pear?”
He nodded, and then he whispered back,” I’d do that ten times in a
row before I’d ever do this again.”
In the days since we endured our dinner with Maylene, I’ve had time to
read her ‘script’ and ponder the claims she’s made.
And while I’ve laughed about how totally bizarre she is, I am also concerned
that she could be a danger to J.
At best she’s a whack job, needy and sad; at worst a pathological liar and con.
Her conversations are peppered with dark comments about her mother,
who she refers to in the past tense much of the time, and vague statements
about the progress of filming her movie.
To date, J has never been to her house or seen where it is.
And even though she says things like, "The triplets just LOVE J - my foster
daughters are always asking when they get to go meet him!", J says he has
never met them- or anyone else in her life.
Her script is a jumbled, pathetic mess – it looks (and reads) like a 5th graders’
rush-job report. There are misspelled words (like ‘seen’ for scene and ‘rapped’
for raped) on every page and an angry, juvenile violence that seems much more
like memory than the plot of a sci-fi flick.
Yesterday J told me that Maylene hates her mother and wouldn’t speak to her
if they passed on the street. Then he told me that they have the same name –
and a little warning flag popped up in my brain. He also told me that she is
pressuring him about marriage, and suggesting that they keep it a secret from me.
I am trying to get some dirt on her – but so far that has proved impossible.
And though I want to try and warn my brother, I have to move cautiously,
because if I even hint that I do not like her, he is likely to find her irresistible.
stay tuned.............
bs
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Ground Control to Major Tom, take your protein pills and put your helmet on...
Once upon a time back in 1977 - before D. and I were married - he got a phone call out of the blue from an old friend he hadn't seen in 4 or 5 years. This guy had tracked D. down, and wanted to get together to "share some big news". Plans were made, but when the day of the visit arrived, D. discovered that he had to work, so I was left alone to greet his long lost buddy.
When the knock came at the door of my tiny apartment, I was a little uncomfortable, but D. had told me enough about the guy that I figured - hey, what could go wrong? We'd hang out and shoot the breeze and everything would be fine.
Except - when I opened my door, there was a 500 pound guy standing there.
I panicked, because noone had said a word about the guy being bigger than Andre the Giant, and my apartment was two rooms and a closet with nowhere to sit except the bed - which had a large wicker chest full of fragile stuff crammed underneath it.
The guy and I milled around for a bit, making really small talk in my really small kitchen - until he asked, "Can we just sit down?"...which we did, avoiding eye contact as the sound of breaking glass filled the silence in the room.
The visit went downhill from there; it was a 24 hour binge of bizarreness that included
meeting the guy's mistress in the evening, and his 18 year old fiancee the next day.
His mistress was 57 or 58 (he was 23); she was ravaged and hard, like an extra
from that Mickey Rourke movie "Barfly". And his fiancee was 18, straight out of an
ABC After School Special about that lonely girl who keeps making all the wrong choices.
Somehow, D. and I got trapped into an 'engagement' brunch for these people,
at a place called The Silver Pear - which is really where this post has been heading all along.
That dismal engagement brunch, featuring D., me, the fiancee and the giant,
took place in a dusty, dimly-lit place that felt more like a funeral parlor than
"the place you'll want to be when it's time to celebrate."
Hideous foiled wallpaper glared from every wall, and there was enough
gaudy silver plate to sink a battleship. Fake ivy, festooned with (you guessed it)
silver pears was draped and wrapped and crawling all over,
and I swear that even the grains of salt in the shakers were engraved
with a cloying plea to "let us create YOUR silver lining."
Somewhere between the staff's robotic peppiness
and our hosts incessant groping and wedding goo-goo-gooing ,
D. and I realized that we might be the only human beings there.
There was so little common ground (most of which had to be avoided anyway), that conversation began a slow, agonizing death that promised to go on forever.
Sitting there, on our ridiculously dainty wrought-iron chairs, eating damp little triangles
of wallpaper paste and toast, D. and I were like alien abductees; chained together in abject misery, frantic to return to planet Earth.
And until yesterday - that experience has remained my most awkward
social experience.
The pinnacle, bar none.
Tune in tomorrow for part two - Where brown shoes learns a painful life truth:
once an abductee, always an abductee....
When the knock came at the door of my tiny apartment, I was a little uncomfortable, but D. had told me enough about the guy that I figured - hey, what could go wrong? We'd hang out and shoot the breeze and everything would be fine.
Except - when I opened my door, there was a 500 pound guy standing there.
I panicked, because noone had said a word about the guy being bigger than Andre the Giant, and my apartment was two rooms and a closet with nowhere to sit except the bed - which had a large wicker chest full of fragile stuff crammed underneath it.
The guy and I milled around for a bit, making really small talk in my really small kitchen - until he asked, "Can we just sit down?"...which we did, avoiding eye contact as the sound of breaking glass filled the silence in the room.
The visit went downhill from there; it was a 24 hour binge of bizarreness that included
meeting the guy's mistress in the evening, and his 18 year old fiancee the next day.
His mistress was 57 or 58 (he was 23); she was ravaged and hard, like an extra
from that Mickey Rourke movie "Barfly". And his fiancee was 18, straight out of an
ABC After School Special about that lonely girl who keeps making all the wrong choices.
Somehow, D. and I got trapped into an 'engagement' brunch for these people,
at a place called The Silver Pear - which is really where this post has been heading all along.
That dismal engagement brunch, featuring D., me, the fiancee and the giant,
took place in a dusty, dimly-lit place that felt more like a funeral parlor than
"the place you'll want to be when it's time to celebrate."
Hideous foiled wallpaper glared from every wall, and there was enough
gaudy silver plate to sink a battleship. Fake ivy, festooned with (you guessed it)
silver pears was draped and wrapped and crawling all over,
and I swear that even the grains of salt in the shakers were engraved
with a cloying plea to "let us create YOUR silver lining."
Somewhere between the staff's robotic peppiness
and our hosts incessant groping and wedding goo-goo-gooing ,
D. and I realized that we might be the only human beings there.
There was so little common ground (most of which had to be avoided anyway), that conversation began a slow, agonizing death that promised to go on forever.
Sitting there, on our ridiculously dainty wrought-iron chairs, eating damp little triangles
of wallpaper paste and toast, D. and I were like alien abductees; chained together in abject misery, frantic to return to planet Earth.
And until yesterday - that experience has remained my most awkward
social experience.
The pinnacle, bar none.
Tune in tomorrow for part two - Where brown shoes learns a painful life truth:
once an abductee, always an abductee....
Friday, June 30, 2006
Alex, I'll take Haunting Questions for $1000.
I was so overheated tonight at work
that I actually thought I might faint.
After a full day of sun beating down on it,
our building was hotter than the hinges of hell,
and every moment I spent in my coffin of an office
seemed to last for five hundred years.
Right before I left for the night, I went out back
to check the walkways and lock the rear door.
Standing in the darkness, wishing for a breeze,
I could hear somebody running in the alley.
Whoever it was stopped for a second and then
yelled out very loudly, "Hey, hey - I just gotta know -
what's a man gotta do to get some tenderness in this world?"
that I actually thought I might faint.
After a full day of sun beating down on it,
our building was hotter than the hinges of hell,
and every moment I spent in my coffin of an office
seemed to last for five hundred years.
Right before I left for the night, I went out back
to check the walkways and lock the rear door.
Standing in the darkness, wishing for a breeze,
I could hear somebody running in the alley.
Whoever it was stopped for a second and then
yelled out very loudly, "Hey, hey - I just gotta know -
what's a man gotta do to get some tenderness in this world?"
Summertime, and the livin' is easy
Woah.
I just flew in from the coast, and man, are my arms tired.
Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck…
But seriously folks,
after working 8 of the last 10 night shifts, I am ready for a break.
It has been in the low 90’s here the past few days, so being in my “office”
(an airless box, sulking about midsection in a steaming heap
we’ll call The Inferno Building) has been absolute misery.
Summer has arrived in the Pacific Northwest, and the people are free
after eight long months beneath heavy cloud cover.
The spray-on tanners and the light bed users are out in force,
flaunting their head start in the sea of marshmallows and dough balls
now flooding the streets and everybody seems a little crazed by the sun.
From the front window of The Inferno, two floors up, I can see much of
what happens down on Main Street.
Little brown twigs in neon floss ignore the crosswalks, darting between cars
in schools of five or six, while pillowy mothers bunch together at the light,
spilling out of their tank tops as they wait for permission to walk.
Warmer weather has brought some complications to the women here at The In.
Sobriety is a winter sport; summer means fun – and fun means partying.
Our little ‘Safe and Sober Living Environment’ shares a small city block
with five bars, three rooming houses and a tattoo parlor, and all of them are
jumping by the time I get to work.
Live music pours from the pub down the street, mixing with the nightly
screaming from the tweakers who live next door. The tattoo guys have begun
to use the alley out back as their private living room, where they charcobroil
huge slabs of meat and share endless joints while their reggae music blares.
Across the street at the motorcycle bar smokers stand out front, their drinks in hand,
calling out to anyone who happens to pass by.
In the eye of this storm, struggling to stay clean, the women I work with are edgy.
There are spats over laundry, cigarettes and missing food.
The bathroom stinks of mildew and the kitchen fan won’t work.
Superheated air makes the babies sweat and fuss, and the phone –
always a bone of contention - has brought a plague of minor infractions
for ignoring the ten-minute rule.
I love what I am doing - don’t get me wrong - but sometimes I feel consumed
by the atmosphere I’m in.
I was just sitting at my desk, typing this out and gloating over the fact that I am
actually OFF for an entire day - when my phone rang. The other caseworker at
The Inferno has had a medical emergency and I am going back in less than 4 hours.
Shit.
Stay tuned....
bs
I just flew in from the coast, and man, are my arms tired.
Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck…
But seriously folks,
after working 8 of the last 10 night shifts, I am ready for a break.
It has been in the low 90’s here the past few days, so being in my “office”
(an airless box, sulking about midsection in a steaming heap
we’ll call The Inferno Building) has been absolute misery.
Summer has arrived in the Pacific Northwest, and the people are free
after eight long months beneath heavy cloud cover.
The spray-on tanners and the light bed users are out in force,
flaunting their head start in the sea of marshmallows and dough balls
now flooding the streets and everybody seems a little crazed by the sun.
From the front window of The Inferno, two floors up, I can see much of
what happens down on Main Street.
Little brown twigs in neon floss ignore the crosswalks, darting between cars
in schools of five or six, while pillowy mothers bunch together at the light,
spilling out of their tank tops as they wait for permission to walk.
Warmer weather has brought some complications to the women here at The In.
Sobriety is a winter sport; summer means fun – and fun means partying.
Our little ‘Safe and Sober Living Environment’ shares a small city block
with five bars, three rooming houses and a tattoo parlor, and all of them are
jumping by the time I get to work.
Live music pours from the pub down the street, mixing with the nightly
screaming from the tweakers who live next door. The tattoo guys have begun
to use the alley out back as their private living room, where they charcobroil
huge slabs of meat and share endless joints while their reggae music blares.
Across the street at the motorcycle bar smokers stand out front, their drinks in hand,
calling out to anyone who happens to pass by.
In the eye of this storm, struggling to stay clean, the women I work with are edgy.
There are spats over laundry, cigarettes and missing food.
The bathroom stinks of mildew and the kitchen fan won’t work.
Superheated air makes the babies sweat and fuss, and the phone –
always a bone of contention - has brought a plague of minor infractions
for ignoring the ten-minute rule.
I love what I am doing - don’t get me wrong - but sometimes I feel consumed
by the atmosphere I’m in.
I was just sitting at my desk, typing this out and gloating over the fact that I am
actually OFF for an entire day - when my phone rang. The other caseworker at
The Inferno has had a medical emergency and I am going back in less than 4 hours.
Shit.
Stay tuned....
bs
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Father's Day
3. If I'm walking the streets of a city
covering every square inch of the continent
all its lights out
and empty of people,
even then
you are there
If I'm walking the streets
overwhelmed with this love for the living
I will still be a blizzard at sea
Since you left me at eight I have always been lonely
star-far from the person right next to me, but
closer to me than my bones you
you are there
from 'Flight" by Franz Wright
I am missing you today Papa,
as I do nearly every day.
bs
Thursday, June 15, 2006
This, that and then some
Having no great fascination of my own to blather about,
I think I'll make do today with a few secondhand stories
and the ubiquitous complaint (or two).
Stolen moment Numero Uno:
So - you think you can dance?
Late last Friday night, my sister T. was home alone.
Walking into her dark kitchen to put a cup in the sink, she saw an eerie,
glowing light skittering around outside. As she moved toward the window
to get a better look, the light moved jerkily up off the ground, seeming to
'swish' sideways a bit and then settle closer to the ground. It was an odd
greenish glowing orb, and moved continually - out around the front of
her house and then off toward the side and her back door.
"Oh my god," she said aloud, "Mother was right - there ARE aliens!"
And then ran to make sure her back door was locked.
Just as she got to the door, she heard a noise that made the hair stand up
on the back of her neck. "Whssssshhhhh. Whsssssshhhhh."
Intending to test the lock, she was reaching silently for the doorknob
when a loud voice cried out, "GOT 'IM!"
In a panic, she flipped on the outside light to find the kid from next door,
standing in her carport - holding a chicken.
Turns out that one of her neighbor's many kids is a senior in high school,
and had recieved a most unusual invitation to the prom: a chicken, with a
glow-in-the-dark bracelet around its neck bearing a note that read
'Don't be chicken, go to the prom with me'. The invitation, chicken attached,
had escaped and flapped all over - turning my sister's neighborhood into
Area 51 for a brief period of time.
Dunno if the invite was a success or not, but one has to applaud the effort.
Numero Dos - How do you say, "squeal like a pig?"
My son and some friends went camping, ending up in a remote
and sparsely occupied campground. Late their first night,
they built a fire and sat around it talking and telling tales.
After an hour or so, they began to be aware of little sounds,
off in the brush beyond the light of their fire.
The noises were intermittent, and so vague it was impossible to tell
what they might be, but bothersome enough that finally, one of the guys
turned from the fire and yelled, "Helloooo?"
Suddenly, lights blared on, illuminating 3 men sitting on ATVs.
"Oh man," my son's friend J said to me later, "It was like that movie."
"There was spookytooth boy and three-finger man and knife-wielding, torn shirt dude."
One of the men asked directions to some place in the area, and J said to him,
"Uh, that's hard to explain - you probably wouldn't be able find it in the dark."
The men mumbled and grunted, and then one replied, "You can find
all kinds of things....in the dark."
There was a long, awful silence, and then the three men slowly backed
into the blackness - and were gone.
"What did you do?" I asked my son, "You didn't stay there did you?"
"Well, we sat there for a minute, waiting for the banjo music to start,"
my son said. "And then we just hauled ass outta there."
"We're not stupid mom -we've all seen the movie"
And now - a complaint:
When, oh when can we stop hearing about celebrity babies????
Even when I'm minding my own, albeit it mundane business,
up pops this info on my hotmail site: "Woody Harrelson completes
"GoddessTrilogy with birth of 3rd daughter."
Enough.
Please.
STOP.
bs
I think I'll make do today with a few secondhand stories
and the ubiquitous complaint (or two).
Stolen moment Numero Uno:
So - you think you can dance?
Late last Friday night, my sister T. was home alone.
Walking into her dark kitchen to put a cup in the sink, she saw an eerie,
glowing light skittering around outside. As she moved toward the window
to get a better look, the light moved jerkily up off the ground, seeming to
'swish' sideways a bit and then settle closer to the ground. It was an odd
greenish glowing orb, and moved continually - out around the front of
her house and then off toward the side and her back door.
"Oh my god," she said aloud, "Mother was right - there ARE aliens!"
And then ran to make sure her back door was locked.
Just as she got to the door, she heard a noise that made the hair stand up
on the back of her neck. "Whssssshhhhh. Whsssssshhhhh."
Intending to test the lock, she was reaching silently for the doorknob
when a loud voice cried out, "GOT 'IM!"
In a panic, she flipped on the outside light to find the kid from next door,
standing in her carport - holding a chicken.
Turns out that one of her neighbor's many kids is a senior in high school,
and had recieved a most unusual invitation to the prom: a chicken, with a
glow-in-the-dark bracelet around its neck bearing a note that read
'Don't be chicken, go to the prom with me'. The invitation, chicken attached,
had escaped and flapped all over - turning my sister's neighborhood into
Area 51 for a brief period of time.
Dunno if the invite was a success or not, but one has to applaud the effort.
Numero Dos - How do you say, "squeal like a pig?"
My son and some friends went camping, ending up in a remote
and sparsely occupied campground. Late their first night,
they built a fire and sat around it talking and telling tales.
After an hour or so, they began to be aware of little sounds,
off in the brush beyond the light of their fire.
The noises were intermittent, and so vague it was impossible to tell
what they might be, but bothersome enough that finally, one of the guys
turned from the fire and yelled, "Helloooo?"
Suddenly, lights blared on, illuminating 3 men sitting on ATVs.
"Oh man," my son's friend J said to me later, "It was like that movie."
"There was spookytooth boy and three-finger man and knife-wielding, torn shirt dude."
One of the men asked directions to some place in the area, and J said to him,
"Uh, that's hard to explain - you probably wouldn't be able find it in the dark."
The men mumbled and grunted, and then one replied, "You can find
all kinds of things....in the dark."
There was a long, awful silence, and then the three men slowly backed
into the blackness - and were gone.
"What did you do?" I asked my son, "You didn't stay there did you?"
"Well, we sat there for a minute, waiting for the banjo music to start,"
my son said. "And then we just hauled ass outta there."
"We're not stupid mom -we've all seen the movie"
And now - a complaint:
When, oh when can we stop hearing about celebrity babies????
Even when I'm minding my own, albeit it mundane business,
up pops this info on my hotmail site: "Woody Harrelson completes
"GoddessTrilogy with birth of 3rd daughter."
Enough.
Please.
STOP.
bs
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
pasta al dental
I went to lunch with an old friend Monday -
we ate at a cool little diner called Irises.
The food was wonderful, the ambience comfortable
and the decor entertainingly eclectic.
As we sat there, eating our smoked mozzarella pasta
and curried chicken salads, conversing quietly and
and soaking up the atmosphere, an orthodontic convention
of two was taking place a scant few feet away.
Dr. Gingerhair was holding forth, both vigorously
and loudly, on all things dental-related
"Well, in my 14 years of ortho, I don't think I've EVER seen
a tooth CRACK like that. The person must have had cracked-tooth syndrome"
"Ya know, if you scrape the GARBAGE down deep below the gum line,
there's BOUND to be BLEEDING going on... I guess you can leave the build up
or you can go ahead and REMOVE it."
His enthusiasm was admirable - I would find plaque a difficult thing to truly embrace -
but I could have done without an in-service on teeth
while I was in the middle of using my own to ENJOY FOOD.
At another table, a very handsome man and his equally lovely girlfriend
were sitting quietly, their food untouched on the plates in front of them.
Suddenly, handsome got on his cell phone and began discussing
someone's surgical procedure. "You're okay then? Okay.
Be careful driving yourself home.
"Oh, Jean's with me," handsome continued,
"She says hello and send much love."
Meanwhile, Jean was looking at herself in a small round mirror -
and if she was sending love, it wasn't to the person on the far end of the cell phone.
bs
we ate at a cool little diner called Irises.
The food was wonderful, the ambience comfortable
and the decor entertainingly eclectic.
As we sat there, eating our smoked mozzarella pasta
and curried chicken salads, conversing quietly and
and soaking up the atmosphere, an orthodontic convention
of two was taking place a scant few feet away.
Dr. Gingerhair was holding forth, both vigorously
and loudly, on all things dental-related
"Well, in my 14 years of ortho, I don't think I've EVER seen
a tooth CRACK like that. The person must have had cracked-tooth syndrome"
"Ya know, if you scrape the GARBAGE down deep below the gum line,
there's BOUND to be BLEEDING going on... I guess you can leave the build up
or you can go ahead and REMOVE it."
His enthusiasm was admirable - I would find plaque a difficult thing to truly embrace -
but I could have done without an in-service on teeth
while I was in the middle of using my own to ENJOY FOOD.
At another table, a very handsome man and his equally lovely girlfriend
were sitting quietly, their food untouched on the plates in front of them.
Suddenly, handsome got on his cell phone and began discussing
someone's surgical procedure. "You're okay then? Okay.
Be careful driving yourself home.
"Oh, Jean's with me," handsome continued,
"She says hello and send much love."
Meanwhile, Jean was looking at herself in a small round mirror -
and if she was sending love, it wasn't to the person on the far end of the cell phone.
bs
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
coyote
Strange times, here at the house of shoes.
One day, I’m minding my own business
up in the silent, green woods, and the next
I’m ‘herd boss’ for a building full of children
and their struggling-to-stay drug free moms.
Of course, life being the ever-unfolding
story within a story that it insists upon being,
a new job (where I’m over my head in lives
torn to pieces by multi-generational addiction),
is simply not enough. So, for fun, throw
my sister into the mix – her and her second
trip down vodka-plus-vicodin boulevard.
Overwhelmed barely begins to describe
the state I find myself in today.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m ecstatic about my job.
To feel capable and deserving of any work outside
my own little world is something I’ve longed for,
and something I’ve worked hard to achieve.
And knowing my own experiences might help
other women takes the ugliest of my past
and makes it meaningful and worthwhile.
Yet, witnessing and documenting the dysfunction
of addiction is a bit like looking in a mirror – I
often dislike much of what I see.
My sister’s downward spiral weighs heavily
on me, and I can’t help seeing the many similarities
between my own family’s story and those of all
the women currently under my care.
It’s like we all fell into the same dark sea,
and while some of us know how to swim –
none of us truly recognize the shore.
I saw a trickster this morning, down near the cemetery,
all sinew and instinct and those calculating eyes.
He rose out of some tall grass as if to cross the road,
but - thinking better of it, melted out of sight.
Was he the coyote of incessant demands,
a reminder of recklessness and impulse and greed?
Or was he bringing light, stolen from the stars,
an illumination in the darkness I keep trying to outrun?
bs
One day, I’m minding my own business
up in the silent, green woods, and the next
I’m ‘herd boss’ for a building full of children
and their struggling-to-stay drug free moms.
Of course, life being the ever-unfolding
story within a story that it insists upon being,
a new job (where I’m over my head in lives
torn to pieces by multi-generational addiction),
is simply not enough. So, for fun, throw
my sister into the mix – her and her second
trip down vodka-plus-vicodin boulevard.
Overwhelmed barely begins to describe
the state I find myself in today.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m ecstatic about my job.
To feel capable and deserving of any work outside
my own little world is something I’ve longed for,
and something I’ve worked hard to achieve.
And knowing my own experiences might help
other women takes the ugliest of my past
and makes it meaningful and worthwhile.
Yet, witnessing and documenting the dysfunction
of addiction is a bit like looking in a mirror – I
often dislike much of what I see.
My sister’s downward spiral weighs heavily
on me, and I can’t help seeing the many similarities
between my own family’s story and those of all
the women currently under my care.
It’s like we all fell into the same dark sea,
and while some of us know how to swim –
none of us truly recognize the shore.
I saw a trickster this morning, down near the cemetery,
all sinew and instinct and those calculating eyes.
He rose out of some tall grass as if to cross the road,
but - thinking better of it, melted out of sight.
Was he the coyote of incessant demands,
a reminder of recklessness and impulse and greed?
Or was he bringing light, stolen from the stars,
an illumination in the darkness I keep trying to outrun?
bs
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
crazy
...Yeah, I was out of touch
But it wasn't because I didn't know enough
I just knew too much
Does that make me crazy
Does that make me crazy
Does that make me crazy
Probably....
Update:
Sister’s visit a success.
Menu included (but sadly, not limited to)
cheese enchiladas, BBQ, bacon/bleu cheese potato salad,
spinach walnut salad with grapes, sun dried tomato/avocado spring rolls
with tamarind/saffron/cashew/honey sauce and vast amounts of chili verde.
Kitchen (and intestines) still recovering.
2 of 7 days spent with brother,
where weather put a damper on the festivities.
HEAVY clouds of guilt and sorrow hanging overhead
obscured any good view of joy, and the passage of time,
mixed with distance (both measurable and immeasurable)
left my sister with a nasty stain that even the best dry cleaners
back home will not be able to get out.
Brain injury – the gift that keeps on giving.
Highlight: Covert clean-up of the toxic waste site in brother’s cupboards.
5 trash bags full of bulging, weeping canned goods, including some
Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup with a pull date of 1984.
Other recent occurrences:
Daughter’s graduates from high school - celebration limited
to huge amounts of pumpkin pie and whipped cream,
followed by an infusion of gifts, and some money.
Much joy all around regarding the end of high school,
compounded by the simultaneous completion of 2 years
of college through “Running Start’ program.
Pride and relief and fear vying for first place in heart of Mom
as plans for more college in Seattle gather steam.
Brown Shoes gets a JOB.
A real, send out the resume, fill-out-the-paperwork job.
First such job since 1988 (selling art, designing and maintaining gardens
and tending infants do not, while challenging and exhausting, qualify
as “real jobs” apparently. Must figure out why this is so…).
Official title – case manager for women and children
in transitional living facility.
Unofficial title, given by clients – “Captain Killer” –
hmmm, must be the tattoos?
Older sister hits rock bottom, loses job and makes
dreaded 11 p.m. ‘I can’t live like this anymore’ phone call.
Hilarity ensues.
And continues.
Further information will be made available
when the telephone is surgically removed from my ear.
How I have missed writing here,
and perusing my little community,
however questionable some might find
that definition to be.
bs
But it wasn't because I didn't know enough
I just knew too much
Does that make me crazy
Does that make me crazy
Does that make me crazy
Probably....
Update:
Sister’s visit a success.
Menu included (but sadly, not limited to)
cheese enchiladas, BBQ, bacon/bleu cheese potato salad,
spinach walnut salad with grapes, sun dried tomato/avocado spring rolls
with tamarind/saffron/cashew/honey sauce and vast amounts of chili verde.
Kitchen (and intestines) still recovering.
2 of 7 days spent with brother,
where weather put a damper on the festivities.
HEAVY clouds of guilt and sorrow hanging overhead
obscured any good view of joy, and the passage of time,
mixed with distance (both measurable and immeasurable)
left my sister with a nasty stain that even the best dry cleaners
back home will not be able to get out.
Brain injury – the gift that keeps on giving.
Highlight: Covert clean-up of the toxic waste site in brother’s cupboards.
5 trash bags full of bulging, weeping canned goods, including some
Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup with a pull date of 1984.
Other recent occurrences:
Daughter’s graduates from high school - celebration limited
to huge amounts of pumpkin pie and whipped cream,
followed by an infusion of gifts, and some money.
Much joy all around regarding the end of high school,
compounded by the simultaneous completion of 2 years
of college through “Running Start’ program.
Pride and relief and fear vying for first place in heart of Mom
as plans for more college in Seattle gather steam.
Brown Shoes gets a JOB.
A real, send out the resume, fill-out-the-paperwork job.
First such job since 1988 (selling art, designing and maintaining gardens
and tending infants do not, while challenging and exhausting, qualify
as “real jobs” apparently. Must figure out why this is so…).
Official title – case manager for women and children
in transitional living facility.
Unofficial title, given by clients – “Captain Killer” –
hmmm, must be the tattoos?
Older sister hits rock bottom, loses job and makes
dreaded 11 p.m. ‘I can’t live like this anymore’ phone call.
Hilarity ensues.
And continues.
Further information will be made available
when the telephone is surgically removed from my ear.
How I have missed writing here,
and perusing my little community,
however questionable some might find
that definition to be.
bs
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Mighty Manfred the wonder dog
Huge excitement here at Chez Shoes -
My little sister is coming for a visit!!
If you had known us growing up, my joy over her visit
would leave you confused - we have not always been close.
Back in the day, she was a 'good' girl: cheerleader, social butterfly,
our mother's favorite daughter.
And me?
I was not.
However, as is perhaps the case with many sisters and brothers,
the alchemy of death and calamity and the passing of time
changed almost everything, and we now find in one another
that ideal friend who knows your entire past and loves you anyway.
Realistic sanctuary - a true gift.
This visit, though I hesitate to even say it, will be the first
one in years that does not revolve around a hospital,
a rehab center, or the dreaded funeral home.
If we can keep it that way, this week will be a lot of fun.
Our schedule currently looks like this:
1. Make cheese enchiladas
After that - who cares.
My sister's nickname is Mani (or festus),
short for manifest destiny - which was itself a bastardization
of the original Mighty Manfred, the wonder dog - (no idea why).
One might think that would make me Tom Terrific, but such is not the case.
I too am Mani, or Clem - which is short for nothing
but has cleared us a booth more than once in the
bars and restaurants of Wyoming and Colorado.
The ferry arrives at 1 p.m. -
I cannot wait!
bs
Oh - many thanks again for all the kind wishes re
'Operation Inner Sanctum'.
I am doing well, and appreciate the good thoughts immensely.
Yikes - I am in such a good mood it's almost sickening.
My little sister is coming for a visit!!
If you had known us growing up, my joy over her visit
would leave you confused - we have not always been close.
Back in the day, she was a 'good' girl: cheerleader, social butterfly,
our mother's favorite daughter.
And me?
I was not.
However, as is perhaps the case with many sisters and brothers,
the alchemy of death and calamity and the passing of time
changed almost everything, and we now find in one another
that ideal friend who knows your entire past and loves you anyway.
Realistic sanctuary - a true gift.
This visit, though I hesitate to even say it, will be the first
one in years that does not revolve around a hospital,
a rehab center, or the dreaded funeral home.
If we can keep it that way, this week will be a lot of fun.
Our schedule currently looks like this:
1. Make cheese enchiladas
After that - who cares.
My sister's nickname is Mani (or festus),
short for manifest destiny - which was itself a bastardization
of the original Mighty Manfred, the wonder dog - (no idea why).
One might think that would make me Tom Terrific, but such is not the case.
I too am Mani, or Clem - which is short for nothing
but has cleared us a booth more than once in the
bars and restaurants of Wyoming and Colorado.
The ferry arrives at 1 p.m. -
I cannot wait!
bs
Oh - many thanks again for all the kind wishes re
'Operation Inner Sanctum'.
I am doing well, and appreciate the good thoughts immensely.
Yikes - I am in such a good mood it's almost sickening.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Unfortunately, happiness isn’t a little cake which we can cut up to suit our desires.
Up a bit late, under the spell of "All This, and Heaven Too"
(perhaps one of Bette Davis' finest performances).
As I was lying about on this too-warm evening, I realized that I have been
neglectful in not offering a single word about my early-birthday cruise.
I'll try not to bore you with too much information, but below is my assessment of the trip.
In a word: EXHAUSTING.
For a longer version - see below.
The ship is a 77,000-ton, 1,970-passenger vessel with 2 full service restaurants
and 5 other eating venues. There are 5 bars, a theater, a spa, a casino,
3 swimming pools and several hot tubs, as well as an art gallery of sorts,
a few fine jewelry and porcelain stores and both a golf and a basketball 'zone'.
There are nine (12?) stories accessible to passengers, and miles
(did I mention MILES) of deck and hallway.
My friend C is a veteran cruiser, and knew what to expect,
but my antiquated visions of lazing about poolside
while some loyal, besotted crew man hand-fed me grapes
died a hideous death after my first fifty mile trot to the bow and back.
The trip from Vancouver, B.C. back to Seattle was a lovely gesture on C's part,
and featured incredible scenery, unbelieveable people-watching opportunities
and a staggering amount of good food (anything you want/anytime you want it).
My faves?
Fresh pinneapple and cornflake-crumb encrusted French Toast ala James Beard
The crew represented over 300 countries, and every last one was
remarkably kind and friendly and cheerful. The song and dance routines were
so awful they were wonderful, and our private veranda was enchanting
but in truth, I don't think I am really cruise material.
I felt awkward being waited on 24/7, and a bit taken aback by the avarice
and the waste I saw all around me.
And I missed my stuff - the tools and materials to keep my hands and mind busy ,
since I wasn't much caught up in any of the entertainments available to me on board.
I loved talking, and sitting near the water in the sun, but I can do that at home.
I realize it may expose me as a dullard, but I must admit that my travel jones has faded.
I only want to journey if it's short and sweet and I can stay close to the ground.
I did love the train trip (Seattle to Vancouver) - it was every bit the way I remembered.
We wound along the water, and along the backside of every town we passed through,
so I had plenty of rusty, decrepit warehouses, decaying ports and hollow-eyed shanty dwellers
to keep me totally mesmerized. We also passed an eagle breeding area, where we saw
hundreds of eagles in all stages of growth. They were eating, flying, wading in the water,
resting on the rocks and generally being magnificent. Every person in our car was thrilled,
which was oddly touching - all those adults, chattering in their train seats like school children.
And that, my friends, is that.
In other news - Elliot has left the Idol, crushing my hopes for that rare,
deserving-underdog win. I have loved watching his confidence grow,
and his taste in music was refreshing. He managed to introduce Donny Hathaway
to some new listeners, which makes him a huge winner in my book.
On Invasion, it appears that that, if she lives, the ranger's wife will soon be a hybrid...
I wonder when we will get to see what happens next.
Over on the Sopranos, all things dark and ominous are hurtling toward New Jersey.
I am confused by the focus on Vito - but it's obvious that he is going to be a catalyst
for all sorts of merda to hit the fan. The threatening atmosphere of these episodes is
almost nauseating, with everybody exposing their nasty underbelly while they pretend
to love, honor and respect. The final denouement should be epic.
Speaking of epic - this post feels a bit lengthy...let's blame it on pain meds, extreme
cramping, bloating, vomiting and too much of the heating pad.
I had my surgical moment today, and so far all is just as advertised.
I don't remember much beyond getting undressed, putting on a hospital gown
and talking to D while the world spun away. When I woke up, I thought I was
in somebody's basement. I tried to sit up and and find out why I was there,
and someone called out "You're in recovery". From what, I wanted to know,
but I couldn't seem to stay awake to hear the answer.
My biggest horror - nothing from midnight Tuesday night until 1 p.m. today.
No coffee at 7 in the a. of m. No water at the crack of noon.
Nada.
But, I did get pineapple juice when fluids were again allowed.
2 fantastic little cans, beautifully chilled, with bendable straws cut short to fit.
At this point, I am just thrilled that the procedure (D/C, ablation and something else
I can't recall now) is over and I am at home in my woods where I belong.
And where I will now go attempt to sleep out from under
the strangely agitating effects of anesthesia and pain killers.
I only hope this tome does not prove to have the same effect on you.
bs
(perhaps one of Bette Davis' finest performances).
As I was lying about on this too-warm evening, I realized that I have been
neglectful in not offering a single word about my early-birthday cruise.
I'll try not to bore you with too much information, but below is my assessment of the trip.
In a word: EXHAUSTING.
For a longer version - see below.
The ship is a 77,000-ton, 1,970-passenger vessel with 2 full service restaurants
and 5 other eating venues. There are 5 bars, a theater, a spa, a casino,
3 swimming pools and several hot tubs, as well as an art gallery of sorts,
a few fine jewelry and porcelain stores and both a golf and a basketball 'zone'.
There are nine (12?) stories accessible to passengers, and miles
(did I mention MILES) of deck and hallway.
My friend C is a veteran cruiser, and knew what to expect,
but my antiquated visions of lazing about poolside
while some loyal, besotted crew man hand-fed me grapes
died a hideous death after my first fifty mile trot to the bow and back.
The trip from Vancouver, B.C. back to Seattle was a lovely gesture on C's part,
and featured incredible scenery, unbelieveable people-watching opportunities
and a staggering amount of good food (anything you want/anytime you want it).
My faves?
Fresh pinneapple and cornflake-crumb encrusted French Toast ala James Beard
The crew represented over 300 countries, and every last one was
remarkably kind and friendly and cheerful. The song and dance routines were
so awful they were wonderful, and our private veranda was enchanting
but in truth, I don't think I am really cruise material.
I felt awkward being waited on 24/7, and a bit taken aback by the avarice
and the waste I saw all around me.
And I missed my stuff - the tools and materials to keep my hands and mind busy ,
since I wasn't much caught up in any of the entertainments available to me on board.
I loved talking, and sitting near the water in the sun, but I can do that at home.
I realize it may expose me as a dullard, but I must admit that my travel jones has faded.
I only want to journey if it's short and sweet and I can stay close to the ground.
I did love the train trip (Seattle to Vancouver) - it was every bit the way I remembered.
We wound along the water, and along the backside of every town we passed through,
so I had plenty of rusty, decrepit warehouses, decaying ports and hollow-eyed shanty dwellers
to keep me totally mesmerized. We also passed an eagle breeding area, where we saw
hundreds of eagles in all stages of growth. They were eating, flying, wading in the water,
resting on the rocks and generally being magnificent. Every person in our car was thrilled,
which was oddly touching - all those adults, chattering in their train seats like school children.
And that, my friends, is that.
In other news - Elliot has left the Idol, crushing my hopes for that rare,
deserving-underdog win. I have loved watching his confidence grow,
and his taste in music was refreshing. He managed to introduce Donny Hathaway
to some new listeners, which makes him a huge winner in my book.
On Invasion, it appears that that, if she lives, the ranger's wife will soon be a hybrid...
I wonder when we will get to see what happens next.
Over on the Sopranos, all things dark and ominous are hurtling toward New Jersey.
I am confused by the focus on Vito - but it's obvious that he is going to be a catalyst
for all sorts of merda to hit the fan. The threatening atmosphere of these episodes is
almost nauseating, with everybody exposing their nasty underbelly while they pretend
to love, honor and respect. The final denouement should be epic.
Speaking of epic - this post feels a bit lengthy...let's blame it on pain meds, extreme
cramping, bloating, vomiting and too much of the heating pad.
I had my surgical moment today, and so far all is just as advertised.
I don't remember much beyond getting undressed, putting on a hospital gown
and talking to D while the world spun away. When I woke up, I thought I was
in somebody's basement. I tried to sit up and and find out why I was there,
and someone called out "You're in recovery". From what, I wanted to know,
but I couldn't seem to stay awake to hear the answer.
My biggest horror - nothing from midnight Tuesday night until 1 p.m. today.
No coffee at 7 in the a. of m. No water at the crack of noon.
Nada.
But, I did get pineapple juice when fluids were again allowed.
2 fantastic little cans, beautifully chilled, with bendable straws cut short to fit.
At this point, I am just thrilled that the procedure (D/C, ablation and something else
I can't recall now) is over and I am at home in my woods where I belong.
And where I will now go attempt to sleep out from under
the strangely agitating effects of anesthesia and pain killers.
I only hope this tome does not prove to have the same effect on you.
bs
Monday, May 15, 2006
Mother's Day
anniversary
having been the unexpected
stubborn
lump of coal
I outlasted your years of polish.
first in line to toss my handful of dirt
duly
I sang dust to dust
shaking
with relief.
now
in the free world
I find memory persists.
sometimes I see the pale stem of your arm
rising bravely through the morphine
your beautiful fingers
reaching out
for
me.
wiping sullen tears from my own daughter's face
I find it is your voice
that whispers
hush
hush.
only today
I found a box
filled with your hairpins and combs.
rising
as I lifted the lid
was the soft, familiar scent of your skin.
once
you must have
pressed against me
just because I was yours
needing to shape me
just enough
to fit
into your arms.
for Clara 1919 - 1988
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Thursday
I've been a bit incommunicado the past week –
gardening my arse off now that we've had a break in the rain.
The past few weeks of warmth and light were long overdue,
and my days of late have been filled to bursting with the riches
of living in the backwoods.
I shared this morning’s cup of coffee with ravens, hummingbirds,
a hawk and several evening grosbeaks, while a couple of pileated woodpeckers
traded drum rolls back and forth across the ravine.
One of them currently prefers pounding on D’s iron truck rack,
and the noise is ridiculous at 7 a.m.
From my front porch, I look out into a world of green,
interrupted here and there by hot pink salmonberry blossoms,
and pendulous, creamy clusters of red elderberry blooms.
My honeysuckle, lilac and sweet cicely are also flowering,
and at the end of the day, the evening air is heavy with a perfume
that is positively intoxicating.
Speaking of intoxication, there are few things that make me miss alcohol
like spending the day in my yard, because that is where I did the majority of my drinking.
Trust me when I say that nothing takes the edge off of being poor and isolated
like swilling wine from a coffee cup while working like a mule.
It was almost perfection: hot sun, cold wine; a mental vacation
from every last thing that made me unhappy or stressed.
And the alcohol worked like jet fuel, allowing me to push myself
beyond my endurance while making even the most mundane chores
seem almost like fun.
But, do I miss everything about it?
Hmmmmmm…
How fun was it the day I overshot the refuse pile,
plummeting into the ravine along with a wheelbarrow full of blackberry canes?
The day I jumped off the porch and tore all the ligaments in my ankle?
Or that time I ran over myself with my own car (not an easy thing to do
no matter what your mental state)?
Well hell yes, some of that was fun – and funny – but none of it can compare
to the wholeness of my days as a sober woman.
Seriously drunken time does not flow, it is jagged,
and breaks down into bits about the size of each glass you pour.
And while it seems to be about freedom and the loosening of inhibitions,
there is nothing more inhibiting to a good time than constant reliance
on anything you must procure, conceal or measure out to manufacture ‘release’
(unless you count being tanked while gardening topless and looking up
just in time to see the Jehovah’s Witnesses backing down your driveway at 60 mph).
Well.
This is not at all what I sat down to write.
Normally, I avoid even the most basic “back when I was…” stories because,
I suppose, they still sting a little bit.
And perhaps because – no matter what side you come from - alcoholism is a touchy subject, complicated as it is by shame and humiliation and judgment and regret.
But ultimately, it is what it is.
And like the dirt I dig in and the life that teems around me, it changes everyday.
Which is a good thing.
A suprising thing.
And of all my current riches, the one I prize the most.
Oh - tomorrow at 6 a.m. (good god), I crawl onto the train to Vancouver.
Once there, I'll step aboard my first ever cruise ship, where I'll be until Saturday morning.
My tune may change after 24 hours on a floating gin joint...
bs
gardening my arse off now that we've had a break in the rain.
The past few weeks of warmth and light were long overdue,
and my days of late have been filled to bursting with the riches
of living in the backwoods.
I shared this morning’s cup of coffee with ravens, hummingbirds,
a hawk and several evening grosbeaks, while a couple of pileated woodpeckers
traded drum rolls back and forth across the ravine.
One of them currently prefers pounding on D’s iron truck rack,
and the noise is ridiculous at 7 a.m.
From my front porch, I look out into a world of green,
interrupted here and there by hot pink salmonberry blossoms,
and pendulous, creamy clusters of red elderberry blooms.
My honeysuckle, lilac and sweet cicely are also flowering,
and at the end of the day, the evening air is heavy with a perfume
that is positively intoxicating.
Speaking of intoxication, there are few things that make me miss alcohol
like spending the day in my yard, because that is where I did the majority of my drinking.
Trust me when I say that nothing takes the edge off of being poor and isolated
like swilling wine from a coffee cup while working like a mule.
It was almost perfection: hot sun, cold wine; a mental vacation
from every last thing that made me unhappy or stressed.
And the alcohol worked like jet fuel, allowing me to push myself
beyond my endurance while making even the most mundane chores
seem almost like fun.
But, do I miss everything about it?
Hmmmmmm…
How fun was it the day I overshot the refuse pile,
plummeting into the ravine along with a wheelbarrow full of blackberry canes?
The day I jumped off the porch and tore all the ligaments in my ankle?
Or that time I ran over myself with my own car (not an easy thing to do
no matter what your mental state)?
Well hell yes, some of that was fun – and funny – but none of it can compare
to the wholeness of my days as a sober woman.
Seriously drunken time does not flow, it is jagged,
and breaks down into bits about the size of each glass you pour.
And while it seems to be about freedom and the loosening of inhibitions,
there is nothing more inhibiting to a good time than constant reliance
on anything you must procure, conceal or measure out to manufacture ‘release’
(unless you count being tanked while gardening topless and looking up
just in time to see the Jehovah’s Witnesses backing down your driveway at 60 mph).
Well.
This is not at all what I sat down to write.
Normally, I avoid even the most basic “back when I was…” stories because,
I suppose, they still sting a little bit.
And perhaps because – no matter what side you come from - alcoholism is a touchy subject, complicated as it is by shame and humiliation and judgment and regret.
But ultimately, it is what it is.
And like the dirt I dig in and the life that teems around me, it changes everyday.
Which is a good thing.
A suprising thing.
And of all my current riches, the one I prize the most.
Oh - tomorrow at 6 a.m. (good god), I crawl onto the train to Vancouver.
Once there, I'll step aboard my first ever cruise ship, where I'll be until Saturday morning.
My tune may change after 24 hours on a floating gin joint...
bs
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor...
Four-Hour Standoff Ends Peacefully Yesterday, a 74 year old man went off his rocker and started shooting up the countryside.
Police arrived, but when they approached the man, he refused to surrender his weapon,
and shot at various law enforcement officers -
who shot back at him as they tried to subdue him.
A SWAT team was called in, and eventually he was taken into custody.
Now this isn't necessarily a huge event as far as crime goes -
but I took particular note of it because my house is just through the woods
you see on the right side of this picture.
In fact, D. and I were standing outside, discussing all the sirens
and the helicopter hovering overhead when shots rang out
in the area directly behind us.
Ever the voice of reason, D. said, "You know,
in the area directly behind us.
Ever the voice of reason, D. said, "You know,
we probably shouldn't stand out here anymore."
And it was strange suddenly, to feel unsafe,
And it was strange suddenly, to feel unsafe,
up here in the sheltering greenness of home.
Much later that night,
Much later that night,
I was startled awake in the middle of a troubling dream.
There in my soft bed, beneath my favorite blanket,
There in my soft bed, beneath my favorite blanket,
I thought about the sound of gunfire, and the lonely silence that comes next.
And I stayed awake for a very long time
And I stayed awake for a very long time
remembering that safety is - in large part,
an illusion.
bs
an illusion.
bs
Friday, April 28, 2006
Don't Look Now
Dear Blogsters -
One just never knows what the day will bring.
Picture this: I'm sitting in my car, in the left turn lane, waiting for the light to change. A small, older truck lurches up on my right, seeming to hesitate a little as it pulls next to me.
I glance over - the driver is alone -
and, let's just say....
she has come to a full stop.
I must have looked agog because she brought her hands up to cover her face,
and then threw them upward in a shrug and looked away.
Mercifully, the light changed,
I made my turn and that was that.
Except - my mind can't seem to leave it alone.
I've been through lists of movies (Coming Home, Guess Who's Coming to Dinner,
Comes A Horseman, Come Back, Little Sheba), then music (Here Comes the Bride,
Come Together, Slow Train Comin', Comin' 'Round the Mountain) and finally books -
stopping myself with "Something Wicked This Way Comes"...
Maybe I'm naive, but I've truly never considered that sort of multi-tasking while driving.
Perhaps I don't get out enough.
Forgive me if this post is too off-color for any of you,
but some experiences are like gaseous fumes and
must be dispersed to be dispelled.
Sincerely,
Your ever-intrepid observer
bs
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Next week: Everything I have ever put into my mouth
Yesterday brought the first full day of heat and light
we’ve had here since…oh, 1962.
I spent hours digging in the dirt, and by late afternoon
had weeded the gardens nearest the house – and a few inside my head.
A real relief that; I’ve got some overgrowth that needs to be pruned.
Working hard is as close as I ever get to meditation, and even then I
seem to require a subject on which to center myself. Apparently there’s
no shutting off my mind; only a refining of the usual mad roar.
My distillation this day: hands.
I’ve had the same pair of hands for almost 50 years.
They’re fairly unremarkable, rather blunt; some might say mannish.
The nails are horrid, chewed ragged more often than not, and my knuckles
are usually bruised or cut from some job I’ve used the wrong tools to do.
They are just hands, two flappy, fleshy wings hanging from my wrists,
old and used and similar to millions of others all around the world.
But they do have a story all their own.
They’ve made art, made love, made quilts and dioramas and
shoes out of yellow duct tape. They’ve held brand new babies,
washed the face of death, uncovered hidden treasure and offered sacrament.
With them, I’ve fed deer and goats and horses and a crow, shaved legs
and faces and parts of a sheep. Made bread and pasta, jam and stew,
smashed spiders and flies and one diamond engagement ring.
Caught a trout in a creek, chopped my hair off in a rage,
played the piano badly while my teacher smacked my knuckles with a ruler,
broken every plate in the house and grabbed a red-tailed hawk
as it hung tangled in a mist-net.
My hands have wiped up blood and shit and mercury, written hate mail,
poetry and three paragraphs to present to the Utah State Legislature.
They’ve held up evidence for the jury in a federal court trial,
taken a stolen oil lamp back from a shoplifting Hell’s Angel,
and one of them has helped to artificially inseminate a cow.
They once held a pound of pot, a human lung,
and the Nazi flag my father pulled
from a storefront somewhere during the war.
Over the years, my hands have folded and mutilated,
tweezed and braided, burned, doused, slapped, cradled, lent,
borrowed, stolen, returned, ruined, rescued, and more.
They’ve slapped the blackened ground
where suicide left a loved one alone to decompose, and later,
flung his ashes into a creek that ran nearby.
They’ve traced petroglyphs carved in stone 9,000 years ago,
taken an award from the poet William Stafford and nearly gotten
me booted out of Seattle's Art Museum by reaching once too often
toward an exhibit marked “DO NOT TOUCH”.
They’ve been dipped in paint, shoved in snow, bathed in wax,
covered in vomit and stuck to the back of a station wagon with super glue.
Whether raised in retaliation, frozen with fear, moved by pity,
wrung with anguish, clenched in anger or flung wide with abandon -
they continue to do whatever I ask. How incredible is that?
How miraculous, how grand.
I began writing this late Sunday, and received the following message from my daughter yesterday.
“Dear Mom – Did you read what happened to DG? His Bradly tank got
blown up in Iraq. He has third degree burns on 90% of his body, and his
legs were too burned and the doctors cut them off.
Now one of his hands has been cut off too. Mom, he is only 19 years old.”
I could take the time to comment here on so many issues – but really, what’s the point? I think, instead, I’ll dedicate this ‘ode to hands’ to DG, with a prayer that his journey through agony be blessedly brief.
bs
we’ve had here since…oh, 1962.
I spent hours digging in the dirt, and by late afternoon
had weeded the gardens nearest the house – and a few inside my head.
A real relief that; I’ve got some overgrowth that needs to be pruned.
Working hard is as close as I ever get to meditation, and even then I
seem to require a subject on which to center myself. Apparently there’s
no shutting off my mind; only a refining of the usual mad roar.
My distillation this day: hands.
I’ve had the same pair of hands for almost 50 years.
They’re fairly unremarkable, rather blunt; some might say mannish.
The nails are horrid, chewed ragged more often than not, and my knuckles
are usually bruised or cut from some job I’ve used the wrong tools to do.
They are just hands, two flappy, fleshy wings hanging from my wrists,
old and used and similar to millions of others all around the world.
But they do have a story all their own.
They’ve made art, made love, made quilts and dioramas and
shoes out of yellow duct tape. They’ve held brand new babies,
washed the face of death, uncovered hidden treasure and offered sacrament.
With them, I’ve fed deer and goats and horses and a crow, shaved legs
and faces and parts of a sheep. Made bread and pasta, jam and stew,
smashed spiders and flies and one diamond engagement ring.
Caught a trout in a creek, chopped my hair off in a rage,
played the piano badly while my teacher smacked my knuckles with a ruler,
broken every plate in the house and grabbed a red-tailed hawk
as it hung tangled in a mist-net.
My hands have wiped up blood and shit and mercury, written hate mail,
poetry and three paragraphs to present to the Utah State Legislature.
They’ve held up evidence for the jury in a federal court trial,
taken a stolen oil lamp back from a shoplifting Hell’s Angel,
and one of them has helped to artificially inseminate a cow.
They once held a pound of pot, a human lung,
and the Nazi flag my father pulled
from a storefront somewhere during the war.
Over the years, my hands have folded and mutilated,
tweezed and braided, burned, doused, slapped, cradled, lent,
borrowed, stolen, returned, ruined, rescued, and more.
They’ve slapped the blackened ground
where suicide left a loved one alone to decompose, and later,
flung his ashes into a creek that ran nearby.
They’ve traced petroglyphs carved in stone 9,000 years ago,
taken an award from the poet William Stafford and nearly gotten
me booted out of Seattle's Art Museum by reaching once too often
toward an exhibit marked “DO NOT TOUCH”.
They’ve been dipped in paint, shoved in snow, bathed in wax,
covered in vomit and stuck to the back of a station wagon with super glue.
Whether raised in retaliation, frozen with fear, moved by pity,
wrung with anguish, clenched in anger or flung wide with abandon -
they continue to do whatever I ask. How incredible is that?
How miraculous, how grand.
I began writing this late Sunday, and received the following message from my daughter yesterday.
“Dear Mom – Did you read what happened to DG? His Bradly tank got
blown up in Iraq. He has third degree burns on 90% of his body, and his
legs were too burned and the doctors cut them off.
Now one of his hands has been cut off too. Mom, he is only 19 years old.”
I could take the time to comment here on so many issues – but really, what’s the point? I think, instead, I’ll dedicate this ‘ode to hands’ to DG, with a prayer that his journey through agony be blessedly brief.
bs
Thursday, April 20, 2006
multiple choice tests
Hallelujah, let me sock it to ya
praise the lord and pass the mescaline….
Translation: a long week of doctorin’ has finally come to an end!!
It’s been a blast running all over the county,
laying down huge bank to disrobe for utter strangers –
but every party must eventually come to an end.
I’ll spare you all the grisly details; except to say that
so far I have aced all the really ugly tests.
In other news, spring has finally come to Walton Mountain,
and we are all running around like crazed, naked mole rats
stunned by the glare of the sun.
bs
praise the lord and pass the mescaline….
Translation: a long week of doctorin’ has finally come to an end!!
It’s been a blast running all over the county,
laying down huge bank to disrobe for utter strangers –
but every party must eventually come to an end.
I’ll spare you all the grisly details; except to say that
so far I have aced all the really ugly tests.
In other news, spring has finally come to Walton Mountain,
and we are all running around like crazed, naked mole rats
stunned by the glare of the sun.
bs
Monday, April 17, 2006
easter
I know - silly. But it still makes me laugh.
Hope you all found a way to enjoy the day...
we had chicken and spinach salad - and red velvet cake for dessert.
bs
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Denial
Here is Dill, relaxing in a shoebox -even if it kills him.
His refusal to align his thinking with his reality
comforts me tonight; for I am wanting to indulge
in some of the same myself.
The next week will be filled with visits to
doctors - and no matter which way I turn,
I cannot seem to find a good fit for myself
in any of that.
So - I will hide in my own little box,
where I will be comfortable...
I will, I will, I will.
bs
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Little wooden head
I was thinking today about Pinocchio,and how fast he plunged downhill after he
met up with Lampwick. One day, he’s dressed
in happy pants and heading off to school –
the next he’s a dropout, bound for an island
stuffed with chain-smoking losers, where he’ll soon begin to turn into a repulsive little burro.
My point here?
I can relate.
Last week D. and I had dinner out;
a little place downtown where the Mexican food is good. We got a booth, and as we plowed through our chips and salsa, D. asked if I would mind if he had some Merlot with his meal. After we ordered, D. went to the bathroom, so I was alone when the waiter brought the wine. I raised up my arm to say oh no – over there – and somehow the glass ended up in my hand.
I wish I could say that it didn’t really matter,
that without a second thought I simply set that glass aside.
Or better yet that I could say I also had a glass –
and the world stayed on its axis,
and everything was fine.
But the truth is,
I replay that evening often.
The way I loved that glass,
the way it spoke to me.
C’mon Pinocc,
live a little, wooden head.
And I hear the way I answer,
the way I always answer:
I want to,
I want to.
I swear,
I really do.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Crazy Quilt
Continuing on with my quest to clean up and clear out,
I purged my e-mail today. Why did I still have mail
saved from 1963? I do not know… but going through it
gave me an idea. What follows is a patchwork of 'used'
chunks of e-mail; held together only by the fact
that I received every piece in the last year or so.
I added nothing – except for the* that
identifies each individual bit.
Dear BS:
*Might I point out the curcial facts that lurk here?
*We discovered that Human filth is rapidly shared when
certain conditions are met.
*And, You are my sister, so I hope that we can co-exist civilly
in the same state, (if not the identical state of mind.)
*Please understand that the survival of either of us would be
the most advantageous outcome here, and remember
*I am both spleen less, & devoid of the appendix,
and I am a recipient of a synthetic zeugmatic arch.
*So, I am replying against my better judgement,
in fact against the advice of my sisters and close friends.
*You know, there were questions that used to haunt me when I
was younger. These days, being older, I'm haunted still.
*I am not trying to excuse what I did, or said - (what did you hear?)
'cause I don't remember saying anything untoward...............
*So now, please answer my one question. Do you surely must agree that
America is employing pot as a political whipping boy?
*Now, granted my social demenor does surely want for modification
at crutical times....
*But, Be it thusly Dear heart,
*remove the infection, flush it with 10 liters of anti-biotic fluid,
pack it with slow release anti-biotic beads
(I din't even know they had such things)… and sew her up.
*I am now, even a little more than usual, pissed off.
I need some new pants.
*But, trying on underwear is such a fuckin drag.
*And, the most disturbing element to our society is that we Americans
praise the effort & skill taken to create such rube goldberg'esque contraptions.
*Regarding ethics, charisma and diggety dank, it’s safe to say that
even if your current employers doubled your salary, I would hate
to think of you garnering success while surrounded by a fetid pool
of rotting leaves and monkey urine.
*So, Thank you for the kind words, but as a rule of thumb
it is generally a poor idea to send an email to my work that
talks about how my employers are assholes and I should leave them.
*In closeing, I'd greatly appreciate knowing that my own flesh & bloody blood held me in enough regard to remember these pertenant things:
*2. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
6. Sarchasm: the gulf between the author of sarcastic wit
and the person who doesn’t get it.
17. Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
*P.S. Re: BARBARA'S SKULL: What happened to the picture?
Oh, I have a feeling that thing will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Somewhat nonsensical, but an amusing exercise nonetheless.
Or...maybe not.
In other, likely more interesting news - I saw part of Smoke Signals again today. I had forgotten how much I liked that movie, and how much I loved
the book (The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven.).
I also re-watched the Sopranos "Fleshy Part of The Thigh, and
have a few ideas about what the hell is going on in Jersey.
Basically - the lie is out, the curtain is lifted and people are going
to be forced to look at who and what they really are.
Paulie is not a loving son, Vito is not a macho gangster,
A.J is none of the things Carmella says he is - and Tony
is neither a stand-up bossman or a hard-working dad/husband.
There is no loyalty, no respect, no 'family bond'...
It's like a nest of lies inside of lies...
My predictions: A.J. kills somebody and goes to prison.
Paulie dies - soon.
Christopher screws Tony over big time.
And Tony - I think maybe he turns state evidence.
Oh, and speaking of liars and predictions - I told D.
long ago that future generations would look back at Bush
and his administration as one of the most dishonest in history.
Newest weasel - Brian J. Doyle - (Homeland Security's
deputy press secretary/on-line-kid-seducer).
Pathetic.
Or - to steal one last line from my purged e-mails:
* I think …. To summarize………… he is a freaky creep.
Okay - enough postulating..
bs
I purged my e-mail today. Why did I still have mail
saved from 1963? I do not know… but going through it
gave me an idea. What follows is a patchwork of 'used'
chunks of e-mail; held together only by the fact
that I received every piece in the last year or so.
I added nothing – except for the* that
identifies each individual bit.
Dear BS:
*Might I point out the curcial facts that lurk here?
*We discovered that Human filth is rapidly shared when
certain conditions are met.
*And, You are my sister, so I hope that we can co-exist civilly
in the same state, (if not the identical state of mind.)
*Please understand that the survival of either of us would be
the most advantageous outcome here, and remember
*I am both spleen less, & devoid of the appendix,
and I am a recipient of a synthetic zeugmatic arch.
*So, I am replying against my better judgement,
in fact against the advice of my sisters and close friends.
*You know, there were questions that used to haunt me when I
was younger. These days, being older, I'm haunted still.
*I am not trying to excuse what I did, or said - (what did you hear?)
'cause I don't remember saying anything untoward...............
*So now, please answer my one question. Do you surely must agree that
America is employing pot as a political whipping boy?
*Now, granted my social demenor does surely want for modification
at crutical times....
*But, Be it thusly Dear heart,
*remove the infection, flush it with 10 liters of anti-biotic fluid,
pack it with slow release anti-biotic beads
(I din't even know they had such things)… and sew her up.
*I am now, even a little more than usual, pissed off.
I need some new pants.
*But, trying on underwear is such a fuckin drag.
*And, the most disturbing element to our society is that we Americans
praise the effort & skill taken to create such rube goldberg'esque contraptions.
*Regarding ethics, charisma and diggety dank, it’s safe to say that
even if your current employers doubled your salary, I would hate
to think of you garnering success while surrounded by a fetid pool
of rotting leaves and monkey urine.
*So, Thank you for the kind words, but as a rule of thumb
it is generally a poor idea to send an email to my work that
talks about how my employers are assholes and I should leave them.
*In closeing, I'd greatly appreciate knowing that my own flesh & bloody blood held me in enough regard to remember these pertenant things:
*2. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
6. Sarchasm: the gulf between the author of sarcastic wit
and the person who doesn’t get it.
17. Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
*P.S. Re: BARBARA'S SKULL: What happened to the picture?
Oh, I have a feeling that thing will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Somewhat nonsensical, but an amusing exercise nonetheless.
Or...maybe not.
In other, likely more interesting news - I saw part of Smoke Signals again today. I had forgotten how much I liked that movie, and how much I loved
the book (The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven.).
I also re-watched the Sopranos "Fleshy Part of The Thigh, and
have a few ideas about what the hell is going on in Jersey.
Basically - the lie is out, the curtain is lifted and people are going
to be forced to look at who and what they really are.
Paulie is not a loving son, Vito is not a macho gangster,
A.J is none of the things Carmella says he is - and Tony
is neither a stand-up bossman or a hard-working dad/husband.
There is no loyalty, no respect, no 'family bond'...
It's like a nest of lies inside of lies...
My predictions: A.J. kills somebody and goes to prison.
Paulie dies - soon.
Christopher screws Tony over big time.
And Tony - I think maybe he turns state evidence.
Oh, and speaking of liars and predictions - I told D.
long ago that future generations would look back at Bush
and his administration as one of the most dishonest in history.
Newest weasel - Brian J. Doyle - (Homeland Security's
deputy press secretary/on-line-kid-seducer).
Pathetic.
Or - to steal one last line from my purged e-mails:
* I think …. To summarize………… he is a freaky creep.
Okay - enough postulating..
bs
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Sunday Evening News
Woah…. whadda week.
In a nutshell - 7 exhausting days of people
and their tragedies – culminating in a mass
effort to move our friend from the country
to the city.
As is usually the case, moving day was fraught
with upset and stress, but this day was made all the
more strained by the eerie presence of the ex-husband,
(who owns the house and was none-too-patiently waiting
to move back in). He showed up uninvited at 7 a.m.,
walked over to a huge cedar tree near the edge of the yard –
and stood there until 11:45. His ex went out and pleaded
with him not to do that, but he said “You can’t stop me.”
and that was that.
All of us movers had been friends of his at one point
(before he went off the deep end and became
threatening and kind of crazy), so it was fairly wretched
watching him watch us carting bits of his old life away.
There was a lot of laughter and beer drinking and rushing
around throughout the day, but there was also always him,
off to the side, alone beneath a tree in the rain.
I know I could have found a metaphor somewhere in all of that –
but for once I was happy just to go home and crawl into
my own bed, where I slept like the dead for 12 fabulous hours.
Which I think I will head off now and try to do again.
Peace like a river to all you fine blogooligans -
until we meet again.
bs
In a nutshell - 7 exhausting days of people
and their tragedies – culminating in a mass
effort to move our friend from the country
to the city.
As is usually the case, moving day was fraught
with upset and stress, but this day was made all the
more strained by the eerie presence of the ex-husband,
(who owns the house and was none-too-patiently waiting
to move back in). He showed up uninvited at 7 a.m.,
walked over to a huge cedar tree near the edge of the yard –
and stood there until 11:45. His ex went out and pleaded
with him not to do that, but he said “You can’t stop me.”
and that was that.
All of us movers had been friends of his at one point
(before he went off the deep end and became
threatening and kind of crazy), so it was fairly wretched
watching him watch us carting bits of his old life away.
There was a lot of laughter and beer drinking and rushing
around throughout the day, but there was also always him,
off to the side, alone beneath a tree in the rain.
I know I could have found a metaphor somewhere in all of that –
but for once I was happy just to go home and crawl into
my own bed, where I slept like the dead for 12 fabulous hours.
Which I think I will head off now and try to do again.
Peace like a river to all you fine blogooligans -
until we meet again.
bs
Thursday, March 30, 2006
beauty
Wow.
Death really puts a damper on things.
And yet, I awoke to to sun on my face
and the fine, white hyacinth shoes of spring
left under my lone pear tree.
There is still so much to celebrate,
in spite of loss, love remains.
Perhaps tomorrow I'll feel more like writing -
till then,
let the poets do the work:
My heart is moved by all I cannot save:
so much has been destroyed
I have to cast my lot with those
who age after age, perversely,
with no extraordinary power,
reconstitute the world.
-from Natural Resources
Adrienne Rich
Today I was given a little book to borrow -
The Hidden Messages in Water by Masaru Emoto
It is touching and fascinating, and a good thing to swallow up right now.
bs
Death really puts a damper on things.
And yet, I awoke to to sun on my face
and the fine, white hyacinth shoes of spring
left under my lone pear tree.
There is still so much to celebrate,
in spite of loss, love remains.
Perhaps tomorrow I'll feel more like writing -
till then,
let the poets do the work:
My heart is moved by all I cannot save:
so much has been destroyed
I have to cast my lot with those
who age after age, perversely,
with no extraordinary power,
reconstitute the world.
-from Natural Resources
Adrienne Rich
Today I was given a little book to borrow -
The Hidden Messages in Water by Masaru Emoto
It is touching and fascinating, and a good thing to swallow up right now.
bs
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
The father of my friend C.
Ned, fine husband
magnificent father and friend,
died last night at the age of 76.
He leaves behind his wife of 58 years,
his daughter, who at 54 has never gone a week without speaking to him,
and a sea of friends and loved ones now bereft of his welcoming shore.
I will miss his stories, his rough Scottish brouge,
and the way I loved being just who I was
whenever I spent time with him.
Until we meet again, Ned
God Bless us for there's none like us.
bs
magnificent father and friend,
died last night at the age of 76.
He leaves behind his wife of 58 years,
his daughter, who at 54 has never gone a week without speaking to him,
and a sea of friends and loved ones now bereft of his welcoming shore.
I will miss his stories, his rough Scottish brouge,
and the way I loved being just who I was
whenever I spent time with him.
Until we meet again, Ned
God Bless us for there's none like us.
bs
Monday, March 27, 2006
A charaid, mar sin leibh an-dràsda
Rest now, Ned
You pure and generous soul.
You absolute prince among men.
For All the Sad Rain
O my friends why are we so weak
In winter sunlight why do our knees knock,
Why do we walk with small steps, ugly
And spindly as baby birds
Whose world do we think this is?
O my friends take it,
O my friends don’t look at each other
Or anyone else before you speak.
I have had enough of scared field mice
With trembling pink ears,
I have had enough of damp
Diffident handshakes,
Do you think I haven’t been stepped on by giants?
Do you think my teachers didn’t stand me in a corner
For breathing, do you think my own father didn’t burn me
With the wrath of a blast furnace for wanting to sit on his knee?
Indeed I have been pressed between steamrollers,
I have had both my feet cut off, and the pancreas
And the liver and the lungs of the one I love
Have been sucked out of my life and the air around me
Has turned to cereal, how will I stand up,
What opinions can I offer but I will not be silent,
There are dogs who keep their skinny tails
Permanently between their legs
But also there are sleek horses, as easily as there are curs
There are squash blossoms that flower around fountains
Like white butterflies, there is courage everywhere,
For every reluctant nail-biter
There are a hundred raised fists, for every broken broomstick
There are millions of bent grasses snapping
Back and forth at the sky, beating the blue carpet
As hard as they can, with the frail tassels of their hair
For every pair of eyes squeezed tight
Under colorless lids there are thousands of others
Wide-open, on the proud columns of their necks turning,
Observing everything like King Radar,
O my friends for all the sad rain in heaven
Filling our dinner plates you have ten fingers of honey
Which are your own, stretch them, stick them up
And then wave to me, put your arms around each other’s shoulders
When we meet in a field with no fences
The horizon is yours, and the books and all the opinions
And the water which is wine and the best bed
You can possibly think to lie in.
- Patricia Goedicke
You pure and generous soul.
You absolute prince among men.
For All the Sad Rain
O my friends why are we so weak
In winter sunlight why do our knees knock,
Why do we walk with small steps, ugly
And spindly as baby birds
Whose world do we think this is?
O my friends take it,
O my friends don’t look at each other
Or anyone else before you speak.
I have had enough of scared field mice
With trembling pink ears,
I have had enough of damp
Diffident handshakes,
Do you think I haven’t been stepped on by giants?
Do you think my teachers didn’t stand me in a corner
For breathing, do you think my own father didn’t burn me
With the wrath of a blast furnace for wanting to sit on his knee?
Indeed I have been pressed between steamrollers,
I have had both my feet cut off, and the pancreas
And the liver and the lungs of the one I love
Have been sucked out of my life and the air around me
Has turned to cereal, how will I stand up,
What opinions can I offer but I will not be silent,
There are dogs who keep their skinny tails
Permanently between their legs
But also there are sleek horses, as easily as there are curs
There are squash blossoms that flower around fountains
Like white butterflies, there is courage everywhere,
For every reluctant nail-biter
There are a hundred raised fists, for every broken broomstick
There are millions of bent grasses snapping
Back and forth at the sky, beating the blue carpet
As hard as they can, with the frail tassels of their hair
For every pair of eyes squeezed tight
Under colorless lids there are thousands of others
Wide-open, on the proud columns of their necks turning,
Observing everything like King Radar,
O my friends for all the sad rain in heaven
Filling our dinner plates you have ten fingers of honey
Which are your own, stretch them, stick them up
And then wave to me, put your arms around each other’s shoulders
When we meet in a field with no fences
The horizon is yours, and the books and all the opinions
And the water which is wine and the best bed
You can possibly think to lie in.
- Patricia Goedicke
Monday, March 20, 2006
The Vulgarians
Bonnie and Clyde was on HBO yesterday - still a pretty good movie, 39 years later.
I only saw the end, when the law brings them down in a hailstorm of lead.
The vintage clothing, the bullets and the blood suddenly brought to mind my youth,
and the years when the Vulgarians lived next door.
Actually, they were the Rs - a doctor, his wife and their 4 blonde kids,
but we called them the Vs because that's what they were.
Where I grew up, most families still had dinner together almost every night.
At my own house, there were rules; beds got made, dirty stuff got washed
and sex was a secret (not a verb).
And while I would discover a great deal between then and now,
at the time we seemed 'normal', functional - intact.
Which our neighbors absolutely did not.
Their huge house was cluttered and filthy most of the time.
They walked around naked with no curtains on their windows
while the kids drank vodka and ate from the fridge with their hands.
The doctor was a little man - little beard, little glasses, little hands.
His wife was big; a blowsy blonde - and unless she was cooking,
she spent her time in bed.
In a small farming town, in 1969, these people stood out,
and their presence was a nightmare for parents like mine.
Over at the V's adults slapped each other, and often hit the
kids no matter who was there to see.
They had a 'conversation pit', a free standing wood stove shaped like a saucer,
and books like I Am Curious Yellow in their living room.
I had my first drink there, and saw my first naked man
(and naked woman - together).
I watched people pass out drunk, smoke pot and inject drugs,
wipe their snot on the walls and pee in the bathtub because they could.
For Easter, they made eggs that said "fuck" and "Cum on daddy"
and instead of mowing their field, they set it on fire while their horses
went crazy runnning through the smoke and flames.
They got a dog one winter, by spring she'd had 8 puppies.
Dr. V made them stay in the garage, where he ran over two of them
while rushing off to work.
He never slowed down, just called from his office later
with instructions for his son: "Clean up that mess and while you're at it,
take the the rest of those bastards and bury them out in the field."
It was the first time I ever saw a boy cry.
People talked about the Vs (and talked a lot), but they were forbearing;
at least until the spring of the Bonnie and Clyde extravaganza.
It was a dress-up party, "Come as a gangster and BYOB."
For atmosphere, Dr. V got an old Ford coupe towed out from town,
and left it half-slid off the drive in front of their house.
Somebody made dummies that looked like Bonnie and Clyde,
dumping him just outside the car, and slumping her over behind the wheel.
Just before the party, when everything was in place, Dr. V went to his garage
and came back with a rifle.
He turned toward the car, and without a word, just started blazing away.
He shot up the car, the windshield, the tires - he even shot Bonnie and Clyde.
Then he brought out the bags of blood he'd taken from the hospital and
splattered that everywhere.
All us kids were beside ourselves, this was extreme insanity!
This was theft and gunfire and blood for God's sake - in our town, in our own back yard!
Not long after that the party started, by dark it was in overdrive.
It ballooned from their living room into the night, (which I only got to hear about,
since the kids all got shipped to the drive in).
Music and shouting and clothes coming off, drunks running wild
through the alkali-covered sagebrush fields,
and doing unspeakable things.
It was legendary stuff for Cowtown, USA.
By summer, Dr. V had lost his hospital privileges,
all that blood was a major mistake -
Mrs. V and the kids disappeared.
Sometime near Christmas, a new wife showed up,
younger and stranger than the first.But after her second arrest
(for running down the highway half-naked and tripping on acid),
the house went on the market and eventually sold to a middle-aged couple
who taught English and raised dogs.
I had all but forgotten the Vs until today - it's sad how legends fade....
You’ve read the story of Jesse James
Of how he lived and died
If you’re still in need of something to read
Here’s the story of Bonnie and Clyde....
From heartbreak some people have suffered
From weariness some people have died
But all in all, our troubles are small
'Til we get like Bonnie and Clyde.....
bs
I only saw the end, when the law brings them down in a hailstorm of lead.
The vintage clothing, the bullets and the blood suddenly brought to mind my youth,
and the years when the Vulgarians lived next door.
Actually, they were the Rs - a doctor, his wife and their 4 blonde kids,
but we called them the Vs because that's what they were.
Where I grew up, most families still had dinner together almost every night.
At my own house, there were rules; beds got made, dirty stuff got washed
and sex was a secret (not a verb).
And while I would discover a great deal between then and now,
at the time we seemed 'normal', functional - intact.
Which our neighbors absolutely did not.
Their huge house was cluttered and filthy most of the time.
They walked around naked with no curtains on their windows
while the kids drank vodka and ate from the fridge with their hands.
The doctor was a little man - little beard, little glasses, little hands.
His wife was big; a blowsy blonde - and unless she was cooking,
she spent her time in bed.
In a small farming town, in 1969, these people stood out,
and their presence was a nightmare for parents like mine.
Over at the V's adults slapped each other, and often hit the
kids no matter who was there to see.
They had a 'conversation pit', a free standing wood stove shaped like a saucer,
and books like I Am Curious Yellow in their living room.
I had my first drink there, and saw my first naked man
(and naked woman - together).
I watched people pass out drunk, smoke pot and inject drugs,
wipe their snot on the walls and pee in the bathtub because they could.
For Easter, they made eggs that said "fuck" and "Cum on daddy"
and instead of mowing their field, they set it on fire while their horses
went crazy runnning through the smoke and flames.
They got a dog one winter, by spring she'd had 8 puppies.
Dr. V made them stay in the garage, where he ran over two of them
while rushing off to work.
He never slowed down, just called from his office later
with instructions for his son: "Clean up that mess and while you're at it,
take the the rest of those bastards and bury them out in the field."
It was the first time I ever saw a boy cry.
People talked about the Vs (and talked a lot), but they were forbearing;
at least until the spring of the Bonnie and Clyde extravaganza.
It was a dress-up party, "Come as a gangster and BYOB."
For atmosphere, Dr. V got an old Ford coupe towed out from town,
and left it half-slid off the drive in front of their house.
Somebody made dummies that looked like Bonnie and Clyde,
dumping him just outside the car, and slumping her over behind the wheel.
Just before the party, when everything was in place, Dr. V went to his garage
and came back with a rifle.
He turned toward the car, and without a word, just started blazing away.
He shot up the car, the windshield, the tires - he even shot Bonnie and Clyde.
Then he brought out the bags of blood he'd taken from the hospital and
splattered that everywhere.
All us kids were beside ourselves, this was extreme insanity!
This was theft and gunfire and blood for God's sake - in our town, in our own back yard!
Not long after that the party started, by dark it was in overdrive.
It ballooned from their living room into the night, (which I only got to hear about,
since the kids all got shipped to the drive in).
Music and shouting and clothes coming off, drunks running wild
through the alkali-covered sagebrush fields,
and doing unspeakable things.
It was legendary stuff for Cowtown, USA.
By summer, Dr. V had lost his hospital privileges,
all that blood was a major mistake -
Mrs. V and the kids disappeared.
Sometime near Christmas, a new wife showed up,
younger and stranger than the first.But after her second arrest
(for running down the highway half-naked and tripping on acid),
the house went on the market and eventually sold to a middle-aged couple
who taught English and raised dogs.
I had all but forgotten the Vs until today - it's sad how legends fade....
You’ve read the story of Jesse James
Of how he lived and died
If you’re still in need of something to read
Here’s the story of Bonnie and Clyde....
From heartbreak some people have suffered
From weariness some people have died
But all in all, our troubles are small
'Til we get like Bonnie and Clyde.....
bs
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Everything must go
For the past 2 days, I've been helping my friend J. get ready for her
post-divorce/pre-moving garage sale.... and listening as my old friend C.
struggles to accept that her father will be dead by June.
Meanwhile, the weather continues to be erratic: some sun, some rain -
then wind and gloom, followed by a sudden 50 degree afternoon.
Change - it's everywhere.
J. says she feels okay about it all: the divorce, the sale, the move,
and I think she mostly does. But it has been bittersweet,
watching her untangle herself from her husband of 19 years.
C. says she's ready, she sees the writing on the wall -
but there will be no untangling herself from what comes next.
What to keep, what to let go of - if only those questions were less painful to ask.
Or easier to answer.
In my free time, I keep cleaning out my closets;
some literal,
some figurative,
all too full of what I cannot keep.
In the end, everything must go.
We all know that,
it's just easier to live as if we don't.
bs
post-divorce/pre-moving garage sale.... and listening as my old friend C.
struggles to accept that her father will be dead by June.
Meanwhile, the weather continues to be erratic: some sun, some rain -
then wind and gloom, followed by a sudden 50 degree afternoon.
Change - it's everywhere.
J. says she feels okay about it all: the divorce, the sale, the move,
and I think she mostly does. But it has been bittersweet,
watching her untangle herself from her husband of 19 years.
C. says she's ready, she sees the writing on the wall -
but there will be no untangling herself from what comes next.
What to keep, what to let go of - if only those questions were less painful to ask.
Or easier to answer.
In my free time, I keep cleaning out my closets;
some literal,
some figurative,
all too full of what I cannot keep.
In the end, everything must go.
We all know that,
it's just easier to live as if we don't.
bs
Monday, March 13, 2006
Wicked heavy
Finally - the Sopranos are back in town, opening with H.L. Mencken and sliding straight into
an excerpt from
William Burroughs' "The Western Lands".
That, my friends is heavy; wicked heavy.
I keep thinking about the Burroughs' monologue - his eerie, worn-out voice droning about death as the major players give us a peek at where they've been for the past 2 years - and I know he was singing us a road map of the final 18 months there in Jersey.
I realize that it's "only television" - but I am thrilled to be caught up and held captive by such literate and compelling writing and acting.
(And it certainly helps with the oily stain that American Idol is leaving in my mind...)
Mayhem, murder, corruption and greed: finally the real stuff that Sundays were made for!
Aside from the shivery excitement of season 6, not much has been happening here in the land
that time forgot. Springtime is struggling to turn that final corner, and I don't think it can happen soon enough. We need some light and some heat and we need it now.
bs
an excerpt from
William Burroughs' "The Western Lands".That, my friends is heavy; wicked heavy.
I keep thinking about the Burroughs' monologue - his eerie, worn-out voice droning about death as the major players give us a peek at where they've been for the past 2 years - and I know he was singing us a road map of the final 18 months there in Jersey.
I realize that it's "only television" - but I am thrilled to be caught up and held captive by such literate and compelling writing and acting.
(And it certainly helps with the oily stain that American Idol is leaving in my mind...)
Mayhem, murder, corruption and greed: finally the real stuff that Sundays were made for!
Aside from the shivery excitement of season 6, not much has been happening here in the land
that time forgot. Springtime is struggling to turn that final corner, and I don't think it can happen soon enough. We need some light and some heat and we need it now.
bs
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Sick
Headache from the depths of hell.
Gastric distress.
Body aches.
And all of this on the eve of my first ever real-time,
HBO-in-da-house Sopranos episode...
At this rate I'll be lucky to be up and dressed -
and forget about my hair and make-up.
What if Tony looks out of the t.v and sees me?
I'll never be a mafia wife now.
bs
Gastric distress.
Body aches.
And all of this on the eve of my first ever real-time,
HBO-in-da-house Sopranos episode...
At this rate I'll be lucky to be up and dressed -
and forget about my hair and make-up.
What if Tony looks out of the t.v and sees me?
I'll never be a mafia wife now.
bs
Monday, March 06, 2006
"Mom, where did all the classy people go?"
Oscar night has come and gone, and the world continues to turn.
I was really looking forward to it, as I have every year since I was a kid -
but somehow, the magic just wasn't there for me last night.
Maybe it was all those flesh-colored gowns, draped across all that flesh-colored flesh...
or the endless thanking of bankers and lawyers and agents and corporations...
Perhaps I looked into the future and saw Oprah's best friend Gail,
(dressed like a movie-star and interviewing movie stars
for Oprah's EXCLUSIVE INSIDE post-Oscar movie-star autopsy show),
and became so annoyed by how much Gail sounded like Oprah sounding like Maya Angelou
that I was rendered incapable of ever enjoying anything, ever again.
Or... maybe the magic died when I read this:
"According to the Seattle Times, the company Distinctive Assets partnered with Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas to offer a $45,000 gift bag for the non-winning nominees of the six major categories (picture, director, actor, actress, supporting actor/actress).
And if you win an Oscar? Good heavens! Some place the value of the winner's bags in excess of $110,000, which encompasses "...a $10,000 gift certificate to any Exclusive Resorts location, a Revlon Red Carpet Bag stuffed with beautifying tools tagged at $2,500, products from the new Los Angeles-based unisex skin-care line GINGI, an HDTV package from VOOM and Samsung, black pearl jewelry and $12,000 worth of lingerie, fragrances and accessories from Victoria's Secret."
From the Daily Trojan Online/student newspaper of So.Cal.
I mean - really?
The idea of that much ridiculous bling being tossed at people
already too stuffed to jump just roasts my ass.
After the montage of film noir clips, when my daughter asked me
about the 'classy people' - I told her they all died.
Such bitterness toward the stars is unbecoming, I know;
I'll have to work on that.
Overheard on my trip into town today:
"Dude! my whole fuckin' childhood was like the one fuckin' guy
in a fuckin' jungle of fuckin' women, dude." - phillips 66 gas statio
"Which would mean ME driving someone else's car for about 20 minutes,
and she would hafta give me head all night long for me to agree to that." - grocery store
"whattya want?" - coffee stand
Where did all the classy people go?
bs
Oh - important news flash:
I, Brown Shoes, will be joining the magical realm
of those who can watch The Sopranos in real time!
Every other year, I have watched them weeks after they actually aired.
My friend C.'s parents in L.A. would tape them, send them to C. -
who would watch them and then pass them on to me.
It was actually kind of cool - the parents were into it, and every epsiode
was that much more exciting because it had been imported...
But, in the centuries between now and when the Sopranos were last on,
VHS has practically become a thing of the past; I don't even know if my machine
works anymore. And more importantly, one of the parents has fallen ill,
which puts exporting thugs and godfathers onto the way-back burner.
So - I guess I am going to crawl toward the 21st century by getting HBO
for the first time. Maybe I'll go stark raving modern and get TIVO while I'm at it.
Wish me luck.
I was really looking forward to it, as I have every year since I was a kid -
but somehow, the magic just wasn't there for me last night.
Maybe it was all those flesh-colored gowns, draped across all that flesh-colored flesh...
or the endless thanking of bankers and lawyers and agents and corporations...
Perhaps I looked into the future and saw Oprah's best friend Gail,
(dressed like a movie-star and interviewing movie stars
for Oprah's EXCLUSIVE INSIDE post-Oscar movie-star autopsy show),
and became so annoyed by how much Gail sounded like Oprah sounding like Maya Angelou
that I was rendered incapable of ever enjoying anything, ever again.
Or... maybe the magic died when I read this:
"According to the Seattle Times, the company Distinctive Assets partnered with Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas to offer a $45,000 gift bag for the non-winning nominees of the six major categories (picture, director, actor, actress, supporting actor/actress).
And if you win an Oscar? Good heavens! Some place the value of the winner's bags in excess of $110,000, which encompasses "...a $10,000 gift certificate to any Exclusive Resorts location, a Revlon Red Carpet Bag stuffed with beautifying tools tagged at $2,500, products from the new Los Angeles-based unisex skin-care line GINGI, an HDTV package from VOOM and Samsung, black pearl jewelry and $12,000 worth of lingerie, fragrances and accessories from Victoria's Secret."
From the Daily Trojan Online/student newspaper of So.Cal.
I mean - really?
The idea of that much ridiculous bling being tossed at people
already too stuffed to jump just roasts my ass.
After the montage of film noir clips, when my daughter asked me
about the 'classy people' - I told her they all died.
Such bitterness toward the stars is unbecoming, I know;
I'll have to work on that.
Overheard on my trip into town today:
"Dude! my whole fuckin' childhood was like the one fuckin' guy
in a fuckin' jungle of fuckin' women, dude." - phillips 66 gas statio
"Which would mean ME driving someone else's car for about 20 minutes,
and she would hafta give me head all night long for me to agree to that." - grocery store
"whattya want?" - coffee stand
Where did all the classy people go?
bs
Oh - important news flash:
I, Brown Shoes, will be joining the magical realm
of those who can watch The Sopranos in real time!
Every other year, I have watched them weeks after they actually aired.
My friend C.'s parents in L.A. would tape them, send them to C. -
who would watch them and then pass them on to me.
It was actually kind of cool - the parents were into it, and every epsiode
was that much more exciting because it had been imported...
But, in the centuries between now and when the Sopranos were last on,
VHS has practically become a thing of the past; I don't even know if my machine
works anymore. And more importantly, one of the parents has fallen ill,
which puts exporting thugs and godfathers onto the way-back burner.
So - I guess I am going to crawl toward the 21st century by getting HBO
for the first time. Maybe I'll go stark raving modern and get TIVO while I'm at it.
Wish me luck.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Notes from Friday
People of the Northwest...why all the ugly hats?
The sun appears after weeks of rain and you all get chapeau méchant fever.
Cable knit ballcaps with bills: just say no.
That plaid Gilligan job I saw at the Post Office: hat of the living dead.
American-flag-do-rags on white guys: please don't.
Pith helmet? Pith off.
And the worst offender - the ubiquitous condom-top, complete with reservoir tip.
(insert obvious next line here)
Spring cannot get here soon enough.
Sunday is Academy Award night - when I burn up the phone lines with
cruel, yet witty comments on the beautiful people.
Below are my votes and predictions for this year.
Picture:
“Brokeback Mountain” my prediction
“Capote”
“Crash” – my vote
“Good Night, and Good Luck”
“Munich”
Actor
Philip Seymour Hoffman, “Capote”
Terrence Howard, “Hustle & Flow”
Heath Ledger, “Brokeback Mountain” – my vote/my prediction
Joaquin Phoenix, “Walk the Line”
David Strathairn, “Good Night, and Good Luck.”
Actress
Judi Dench, “Mrs. Henderson Presents”
Felicity Huffman, “Transamerica” - my vote
Keira Knightley, “Pride & Prejudice”
Charlize Theron, “North Country”
Reese Witherspoon, “Walk the Line” – my prediction
Supporting actor
George Clooney, “Syriana”
Matt Dillon, “Crash” – my vote/my prediction
Paul Giamatti, “Cinderella Man”
Jake Gyllenhaal, “Brokeback Mountain”
William Hurt, “A History of Violence”
Supporting actress
Amy Adams, “Junebug”
Catherine Keener, “Capote”
Frances McDormand, “North Country”
Rachel Weisz, “The Constant Gardener”
Michelle Williams, “Brokeback Mountain – my vote/my prediction
Director
Ang Lee, “Brokeback Mountain” – my vote/my prediction
Bennett Miller, “Capote”
Paul Haggis, “Crash”
George Clooney, “Good Night, and Good Luck”
Steven Spielberg, “Munich”
Foreign film
“Don’t Tell,” Italy
“Joyeux Noel,” France
“Paradise Now,” Palestine
“Sophie Scholl — The Final Days,” Germany
“Tsotsi,” South Africa. – my vote/my prediction
Documentary – Murderball my vote/my prediction
(a tremendous film, by the way.)
bs
The sun appears after weeks of rain and you all get chapeau méchant fever.
Cable knit ballcaps with bills: just say no.
That plaid Gilligan job I saw at the Post Office: hat of the living dead.
American-flag-do-rags on white guys: please don't.
Pith helmet? Pith off.
And the worst offender - the ubiquitous condom-top, complete with reservoir tip.
(insert obvious next line here)
Spring cannot get here soon enough.
Sunday is Academy Award night - when I burn up the phone lines with
cruel, yet witty comments on the beautiful people.
Below are my votes and predictions for this year.
Picture:
“Brokeback Mountain” my prediction
“Capote”
“Crash” – my vote
“Good Night, and Good Luck”
“Munich”
Actor
Philip Seymour Hoffman, “Capote”
Terrence Howard, “Hustle & Flow”
Heath Ledger, “Brokeback Mountain” – my vote/my prediction
Joaquin Phoenix, “Walk the Line”
David Strathairn, “Good Night, and Good Luck.”
Actress
Judi Dench, “Mrs. Henderson Presents”
Felicity Huffman, “Transamerica” - my vote
Keira Knightley, “Pride & Prejudice”
Charlize Theron, “North Country”
Reese Witherspoon, “Walk the Line” – my prediction
Supporting actor
George Clooney, “Syriana”
Matt Dillon, “Crash” – my vote/my prediction
Paul Giamatti, “Cinderella Man”
Jake Gyllenhaal, “Brokeback Mountain”
William Hurt, “A History of Violence”
Supporting actress
Amy Adams, “Junebug”
Catherine Keener, “Capote”
Frances McDormand, “North Country”
Rachel Weisz, “The Constant Gardener”
Michelle Williams, “Brokeback Mountain – my vote/my prediction
Director
Ang Lee, “Brokeback Mountain” – my vote/my prediction
Bennett Miller, “Capote”
Paul Haggis, “Crash”
George Clooney, “Good Night, and Good Luck”
Steven Spielberg, “Munich”
Foreign film
“Don’t Tell,” Italy
“Joyeux Noel,” France
“Paradise Now,” Palestine
“Sophie Scholl — The Final Days,” Germany
“Tsotsi,” South Africa. – my vote/my prediction
Documentary – Murderball my vote/my prediction
(a tremendous film, by the way.)
bs
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
O brother, where art thou?
Once, almost a lifetime ago, I had a golden brother.
He was late and unexpected, the twilight child of older parents
already drowning in a sea of unruly daughters.
He was sturdy and fiesty and we spent our days together
while time swept the sagebrush fields of our youth.
Years later, on a hot summer night, after our father was dead
and we were all older and scattered apart,
my brother climbed onto his bike.
He rode down a hill, just a block from his house,
and I never saw him again.
There were some newspaper stories,
a lawsuit of sorts, and medical bills that long ago
soared beyond the 2 million dollar mark.
But what remains of my brother
are some basic facts
that illuminate a stranger I once knew:
41 year old male with severe closed head injury.
Left-side hemiparesis. Speech and vision impaired.
Extreme short-term memory loss, concrete thinking, perseveration.
IQ well below normal.
I went to his house yesterday;
struggling as usual to walk that fine line
between sister and mother, case worker and friend.
Does it matter if he has 37 jugs of water sitting on his kitchen floor?
Who's it hurting if the drawers of Dad's rolltop desk have split from the weight
of the useless paper compulsively stuffed into them?
Strange food rots in the fridge next to fresh squeezed juice and yams.
Thirteen boxes of herbal tea sit in a row in the cupboard,
each one the same and each one purchased mindless of the ones that came before.
Yet, his bed is made and his houseplants thrive and in the midst of a spat,
he sings me a snippet of the theme from the Brady Bunch.
Everywhere, everywhere are contradictions,
and opportunities to collide with the past.
D. tells me often that my brother doesn't necessarily carry the
same sorrows and burdens that I do. He says that I worry too much.
Maybe so.
Right before I left yesterday, I picked up a notebook
that was lying under the kitchen table.
Scrawled across the top page was a journal entry of sorts;
a message perhaps to those of us who worry - and those who do not.
It read, in part:
"The odds are AGAINST YOU! You live here too.
just remember, a neurologic injury cuts the wire -
& it NEVER NEVER NEVER comes back."
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Time for a change extrahoardinaire
My son's girlfriend's mother is a hoarder
(I KNOW - fantastic first sentence for an editor, right?).
So, being the helpful sod that I am, I went on-line
to read up on hoarders and how they operate.
Imagine my surprise, and my horror, when I found
something of myself between those cyber-pages.
I am a hanger-on-er, a pack-rat, a death grip.
I have a personal relationship with packing crates -
some of which I filled back in the stone age and have
been carting around ever since.
And so: today a new age is dawning, my pasty friends.
an age of freedom and release...
an age we will call Good Lord, Mama Done Gone On A Rampage
and Burnt Up ALLA Her Shit.
In truth, GLMDGOARABUAHS dawned yesterday, but I was just too
exhausted to tell anyone about it.
And, in keeping with my desire to keep the differences between me
and James Frey as clear as possible, I must also admit that I am
making way more visits to the St. Vinsonian than I am to the burn pile -
but burning sounded just a bit more cleansing, if you know what I mean.
The klieg lighting in this new age is brutal; it shines directly
into my heart sometimes. Look - there are my unresolved feelings
about the sudden death of dad, stuffed between those boxes
marked 'suicide' and 'Mother, the early years'.
Seeing the potential in everything is a huge part of my artist's nature,
but some of the stuff I have carried is ugly, and simply cannot be made
otherwise; not with all the paint and glue and beaten copper in this world.
With closets and cases and arms filled with this...weight,
what is it I am saving, and what have I turned away because
we're just too full at the inn?
It's filthy work, this, and I must go slowly so I can be thorough.
But it feels good and I'm flexing muscles I forgot I had.
They strain and burn deliciously,
right there, in that spot where dreams and reality collide.
Oh!
I cannot leave the subject of smoldering refuse
without adding a few topical trash bags to the pile.
I would love to get rid of the following:
** Insanely beautiful women trapped in shit jobs - I have worked some
of those jobs and trust me - when I lived in North Country,
there were NO Charlize Therons.
** Bob Costas - Frog Mouth...'nuff said.
** This: "Are you disappointed you only won a bronze?"
Hey - the guy just hauled his carcass around a sheet of glass
at 80 miles an hour wearing a pair of razor blades.
He didn't even have socks on! Olympic commentators:
Please, please shut up.
** Oprah. There is only one Maya Angelou, and even she is beginning to
get on my 99th nerve. Besides, you have acknowledged her as your
"spiritual mother" so you cannot be her, because that would make
you your own daughter and...well, you are Oprah, so maybe
I'm in the wrong with this one.
** The pending sale of shipping operations at six major U.S. seaports to a state-
owned business in the United Arab Emirates. Uh - no.
** I'd add Bush - but burning petroleum-based products is strictly
prohibited in my county.
My hectic television schedule has been killing me, and tonight will be no different.
Ice Skating, Invasion, American Idol (I know - I am pathetic and ashamed)...
I don't know if I can keep up the pace much longer.
TIVO - maybe we need to talk.
bs
(I KNOW - fantastic first sentence for an editor, right?).
So, being the helpful sod that I am, I went on-line
to read up on hoarders and how they operate.
Imagine my surprise, and my horror, when I found
something of myself between those cyber-pages.
I am a hanger-on-er, a pack-rat, a death grip.
I have a personal relationship with packing crates -
some of which I filled back in the stone age and have
been carting around ever since.
And so: today a new age is dawning, my pasty friends.
an age of freedom and release...
an age we will call Good Lord, Mama Done Gone On A Rampage
and Burnt Up ALLA Her Shit.
In truth, GLMDGOARABUAHS dawned yesterday, but I was just too
exhausted to tell anyone about it.
And, in keeping with my desire to keep the differences between me
and James Frey as clear as possible, I must also admit that I am
making way more visits to the St. Vinsonian than I am to the burn pile -
but burning sounded just a bit more cleansing, if you know what I mean.
The klieg lighting in this new age is brutal; it shines directly
into my heart sometimes. Look - there are my unresolved feelings
about the sudden death of dad, stuffed between those boxes
marked 'suicide' and 'Mother, the early years'.
Seeing the potential in everything is a huge part of my artist's nature,
but some of the stuff I have carried is ugly, and simply cannot be made
otherwise; not with all the paint and glue and beaten copper in this world.
With closets and cases and arms filled with this...weight,
what is it I am saving, and what have I turned away because
we're just too full at the inn?
It's filthy work, this, and I must go slowly so I can be thorough.
But it feels good and I'm flexing muscles I forgot I had.
They strain and burn deliciously,
right there, in that spot where dreams and reality collide.
Oh!
I cannot leave the subject of smoldering refuse
without adding a few topical trash bags to the pile.
I would love to get rid of the following:
** Insanely beautiful women trapped in shit jobs - I have worked some
of those jobs and trust me - when I lived in North Country,
there were NO Charlize Therons.
** Bob Costas - Frog Mouth...'nuff said.
** This: "Are you disappointed you only won a bronze?"
Hey - the guy just hauled his carcass around a sheet of glass
at 80 miles an hour wearing a pair of razor blades.
He didn't even have socks on! Olympic commentators:
Please, please shut up.
** Oprah. There is only one Maya Angelou, and even she is beginning to
get on my 99th nerve. Besides, you have acknowledged her as your
"spiritual mother" so you cannot be her, because that would make
you your own daughter and...well, you are Oprah, so maybe
I'm in the wrong with this one.
** The pending sale of shipping operations at six major U.S. seaports to a state-
owned business in the United Arab Emirates. Uh - no.
** I'd add Bush - but burning petroleum-based products is strictly
prohibited in my county.
My hectic television schedule has been killing me, and tonight will be no different.
Ice Skating, Invasion, American Idol (I know - I am pathetic and ashamed)...
I don't know if I can keep up the pace much longer.
TIVO - maybe we need to talk.
bs
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Come back, Little Sheba
Okay.
I am returned.
Bless you for your kind concern
and thank you for missing me.
It's almost like I was swallowed by a whale...
except I wasn't.
Winter kills, my friends,
winter just kills.
And so -
what, you might wonder,
has been happening of late -
here in my "rain-soaked life"?
Firstly - art has been happening...just a little.
I finished Number One of the 13 collages I must complete
for the international competition I plan to enter.
And, I discovered that the collage I donated to
the Paint It Pink Project is currently part of a traveling
exhibit and can sort-of be seen on their website.
Normally, it is unlike me to brag this way - but I have struggled
so desperately with my creativity since I stopped drinking
that I just cannot stop myself.
However - 'nuff said.
Nextly - I got another haircut,
thus bringing to an end the reign of the $60.00 head (sigh).
And finally - while the mystery bus of my early posts has not returned,
strange hijinks are afoot in that general area, so I have been poking my
nose where it least belongs in an effort to discover just what the hell
is happening 'round there.
I live in the woods - and my neighbors do likewise.
So, when I see a car driving through said woods - it catches my eye.
I mean - this car drove around inside the woods,
and then parked between two big trees.
I was on the road (where, oddly, I drive MY car) so I stopped to watch.
The driver; a bulbous, balding guy in a filthy t-shirt and jeans, got out
and was just shiffling and milling around.
After a moment, I unrolled my window and asked if he needed any help.
He said, "Naaaaw, I'm just kickin' it."
Just kickin' it?
It was 20 degrees at best.
It was dusk.
Who kicks it alone, in the middle of the woods?
Since then, I have seen this same guy, doing the same thing, several times.
I have discovered that he is a relative of the actual mystery bus people,
and that he has also been spotted (apparently still kickin' it)
sans car, up on a knoll behind another neighbor's house.
And finally, I heard that the bus-folk have surveilance equipment
all over their property...
hmmmm, whaddya suppose is going on over there?
Stay tuned, for when I happen upon an unknown the size of this one,
I am like a crazy ferret-woman, and I will not stop until I know more
than is likely healthy for me to know.
In other news - the Olympics seem as if they have been on since television was invented. I have enjoyed parts, but the commercials are endless!
Invasion has been fantastic (I love you Sherrif, I hate you Sherrif)
and tonight I rewatched part of Frida, falling in love all over again with those
manly caterpillar brows.
Forgive the rust all over this post -
I have missed writing so much, but I am out of shape!
back atcha tomorrow.
bs
I am returned.
Bless you for your kind concern
and thank you for missing me.
It's almost like I was swallowed by a whale...
except I wasn't.
Winter kills, my friends,
winter just kills.
And so -
what, you might wonder,
has been happening of late -
here in my "rain-soaked life"?
Firstly - art has been happening...just a little.
I finished Number One of the 13 collages I must complete
for the international competition I plan to enter.
And, I discovered that the collage I donated to
the Paint It Pink Project is currently part of a traveling
exhibit and can sort-of be seen on their website.
Normally, it is unlike me to brag this way - but I have struggled
so desperately with my creativity since I stopped drinking
that I just cannot stop myself.
However - 'nuff said.
Nextly - I got another haircut,
thus bringing to an end the reign of the $60.00 head (sigh).
And finally - while the mystery bus of my early posts has not returned,
strange hijinks are afoot in that general area, so I have been poking my
nose where it least belongs in an effort to discover just what the hell
is happening 'round there.
I live in the woods - and my neighbors do likewise.
So, when I see a car driving through said woods - it catches my eye.
I mean - this car drove around inside the woods,
and then parked between two big trees.
I was on the road (where, oddly, I drive MY car) so I stopped to watch.
The driver; a bulbous, balding guy in a filthy t-shirt and jeans, got out
and was just shiffling and milling around.
After a moment, I unrolled my window and asked if he needed any help.
He said, "Naaaaw, I'm just kickin' it."
Just kickin' it?
It was 20 degrees at best.
It was dusk.
Who kicks it alone, in the middle of the woods?
Since then, I have seen this same guy, doing the same thing, several times.
I have discovered that he is a relative of the actual mystery bus people,
and that he has also been spotted (apparently still kickin' it)
sans car, up on a knoll behind another neighbor's house.
And finally, I heard that the bus-folk have surveilance equipment
all over their property...
hmmmm, whaddya suppose is going on over there?
Stay tuned, for when I happen upon an unknown the size of this one,
I am like a crazy ferret-woman, and I will not stop until I know more
than is likely healthy for me to know.
In other news - the Olympics seem as if they have been on since television was invented. I have enjoyed parts, but the commercials are endless!
Invasion has been fantastic (I love you Sherrif, I hate you Sherrif)
and tonight I rewatched part of Frida, falling in love all over again with those
manly caterpillar brows.
Forgive the rust all over this post -
I have missed writing so much, but I am out of shape!
back atcha tomorrow.
bs
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