Truepenny, Inc.

Human Sausage Grinder

2009-06-02T10:17:00.006-04:00

After another exceedingly long silence, it seems I am back -- only to talk about the same thing. How dull. And yet it is undeniably true that my life at the moment somehow revolves around food and musical genres which do not help the digestive process. So there you have cookouts and Hall and Oates (sorry to those of you who couldn't view it... well, I'm not really sorry.... it was probably for the best) and here you have congealed chicken and prom (and later "Morning Massacre" and Disco Brunch). Tell me you're not curious.

While my few American readers will have an excellent (if not first-hand and pang-inducing) knowledge of what "prom" is, my even fewer international readers may not. Let me enlighten you. Based on one's geographic location within the US, prom has small variances, but overall, it's a very formal dinner and dance party for teenagers, usually those in 11th and 12th grades. Here on the East Coast, students tend to eat together in one big banquet and go right into dancing at whatever location they have chosen (harbor cruise ships, museums, colonial mansions, etc...). The price is steep, up to $80.00 per student (depending on how diligent their class was about raising money). The boys rent tuxedos, the girls buy dresses and typically spend a fortune on having manicures, pedicures, and their hair styled in complicated, painful "up-dos."

I chaperoned prom last Friday night. Oh my (fanning herself violently). It wasn't the students, really. They were well behaved, they looked and smelled nice (for once). It wasn't the food (a typical prom meal is usually some type of "prom chicken" -- most often Kiev (stuffed with ham and cheese)) -- it was, indeed, slightly cold Chicken Marsala with lots of roasted veggies sitting in a puddle of hardening goo (butter? oil?). It was the dancing. I'm going to sound very middle-aged here, but I have never seen, nor do I hope to ever again see, 100 teenagers gyrating and grinding each other to bastardized, heavy-techno versions of DOA's "You Spin Me Round" and Soft Cell's "Tainted Love." So, like my teenager years... but so not...

The above photo is what it looks like (these are not my students, by the way... just random teens I found on google). A few things I would like to point out: they huddle together like nursing bunnies -- what this photo does not show is the 20 square feet of empty dance floor they are not using. We had a tiny dance floor -- and there was plenty of room for the ostracized and slightly creepy/embarrassing faculty dancing (which I'm proud to say I took part in). Secondly, can you imagine how great it is to be a teenage boy these days?! One of the faculty noted that as a teenager he couldn't even imagine walking into a dance at a gym and not getting an erection, much less having the opportunity to rub and grind up against every half-clad girl in the class. Note especially the couple on the right (yeah, the tubby guy giving the Heimlich to the girl in front of him). This was what amused and confused me the most. At one point, I was doing a rockin' version of "The Microwave" with a female student when a boy came and asked her to dance. And do you know what she did? She turned her back to him, he sidled up behind her, put his hands on her waist and started grinding her! Instead of punching him, she was grinding him back!

The one thing I will say for this kind of dancing is that it encourages more of the boys to dance, and if you really hate your date, you can still get some pleasure without having to face him/her. Also great for kids with bad breath.

Kids today -- they're just so lucky.

Easy ready willing overtime

2009-05-25T20:32:00.003-04:00

I was at a cookout today and this song came up on the playlist. I haven't heard it in years. I don't remember having strong feelings about it either way at the time, but for some reason I loved it when I heard it today. I wonder what it is he (they) can't go for (no can do)? Is it possible I'm becoming nostalgic? Oh god. Anything but that.

Patergarory

2009-05-20T10:32:00.009-04:00

Okay, so I decided to do it. To be fair (or REALLY unfair), I've included two samples of student work. These excerpts/essays are from their final exam in World Literature. These students are seniors, 18 years old. I have left the essays exactly as they were written. These students will both be attending accredited American colleges in the fall. After 12 years of language arts (in their own language!), this is what they can do. I love the idea that I was the last one to "teach" them -- like the thumbprint of God, it is. Tell me you're not impressed with my young scholars.

(Context: the exam question required students to explore the larger cultural implications of the importance of fate and free will as demonstrated in three different works we read over the course of the year.)

Sample One: (one-paragraph excerpt from a four-paragraph essay)
"Although in the story The Inferno, some have the choice to either go to heaven or hell, and others do not. These specific "others" were born before Jesus Christ and must go to hell either way. The people who did have the choice were categorized in cantos. Those who were not sure where they would end up went into Paturgarory, which is where people wait if it is undecided, and how the decision is made is if the people make a name for themselves. In this story, it is a matter of freewill and fate, depending on who it is."

Sample Two: (entire essay)
"I will start this with a quote from the very talented rapper Immortal technique. "I believe man made god out of fear and Ignorance." This shows that humans have complete control of their life I didn't honestly read any of these stories this year but I can tell you that the characters made all their decisions and choose their actions on their own. These storys never actually happened so I dont think this essay question is legit. Its all just made up by a guy who was emo and bored and got lucky that people for some reason cared about their works. Sorry for never paying attention, don't take it personally."

Now, here's a quiz for you. It is multiple choice. You may refer to the above passages at any point during the quiz. The penalty for cheating is a lashing with my ruler. Good luck.

1. The student in Sample One believes:
a. Purgatory is a place where one makes a name for himself.
b. Ms. Ana does not actually read the final exams.
c. those who predated Jesus got the eternal shaft.
d. sinners are sentenced to cantos.
e. all of the above.

2. The student in Sample Two believes all of the following EXCEPT:
a. capitalization rules are for pussies.
b. authors and epic poets are men who work hard at their craft.
c. punctuation is optional.
d. apologies are best followed by imperatives.

3. Which word best describes the writer of Sample One?
a. decisive
b. outraged
c. noncommittal
d. lighthearted

4. Which word would you NEVER use to describe the writer of Sample Two?
a. polite
b. arrogant
c. opinionated
d. long-suffering

5. If I were a teacher and I had worked very hard all year to learn these kids right proper and if this were the final exam I had to grade, I would:
a. give them all A's for trying.
b. join them in the bathroom for a hit off the bong.
c. chain smoke (cigarettes) every day on the drive home.
d. call their concerned parents and work out a plan for their future success.
e. become an alcoholic.

Survey Says...

2009-05-19T21:37:00.003-04:00

Question: would it be cruel of me to post something one of my students wrote? It is not personal in any way and actually only points to my apparent failure as a teacher. I need your opinions on this.

Word to your moms -- I came to drop bombs

2009-05-11T07:39:00.006-04:00

So, obviously, the past month or so has been both wonderful and trying. My rival's disappointment in not getting the job made things very difficult for both of us -- in many ways. That's all I'll say, except that things seem now to be on the mend.

But in the meantime (and perhaps as a result?!), there's been a disturbing development in my musical preferences. There's no way to ease into this, so I'll just come out with it: I am obsessed with 90's white boy rap. For the last month, all I want to listen to is House of Pain's "Jump Around," Cypress Hill's "Insane in the Membrane," and just about anything by the Beastie Boys, but especially "Body Movin'" and "No Sleep Till Brooklyn." What the fuck, I ask?!

To know how funny this is, you have to imagine the whitest of the white girls you know and then make her whiter. I'm an English teacher -- that should automatically put me somewhere near the top of your nerdy scale. Moby Dick is my favorite novel (those who know me know what this means -- it is severe), and don't even get me going on the Metaphysical Poets -- I might have an orgasm.

Why, then, do I find myself cranking the bass every single time I get in the car, sitting slightly lower in the seat and leaning way too far to my right, wrist-steering and turkey strutting my head to the above tunes? I especially love the songs that deal with some kind of rap off, in which bustin' rhymes replaces poppin' caps (e.g., "Feel it, funk it/Amps are a junkin'/And I got more rhymes than there's cops at a Dunkin' Donuts shop" or "You know I don't take a dulo/Lightly/Punks just jealous `cause they can't outwrite me/So kick that style: wicked, wild/Happy face nigga never seen me smile") Yo, it's all about rep, man. Don't get on my poetic turf; I mess you up good, mothah fuckah.

So, here's the deal. It's fine to go to a wedding, hear these songs and tear it up on the dance floor in a fit of nostalgia, but actually listening to them repeatedly? Why do they make me feel so good? I kid you not when I say "Jump Around" HAS to be playing on my iPod when I pull into work every morning. And that's just sad. I never even liked these songs when they came out. Is it possible that I'm getting dumber as I age? That it takes less and less to make me feel alive? Am I reliving some part of my youth I think I may have missed? All I know is that it's a slippery slope ending with a fatal crash into Vanilla Ice. A wobbly-headed infant couldn't even drown in the shallows of my intellect these days.

So, I leave you with the thoughts that run on an unending loop in my head all day long.

1. "I'll serve your ass like John MacEnroe/If your girl steps up, I'm smacking the ho"

and

2. "I got to get my props/Cops/Come and try to snatch my crops/These pigs wanna blow my house down/Head underground/To the next town/They get mad/When they come to raid my pad/And I'm out in the nine deuce Cad'"

Peace out.

Be careful of what you wish for...

2009-05-09T06:52:00.006-04:00

It's a bit late for ecumenical resurrection talk, but I'm back. So it took me more than three days... I'm no Jesus, that's for sure. Thanks to my mad scientist, Bev, and a little reconstructive surgery, life seems back on track (to completely mix my metaphors... I'm in a hurry here. My apologies). And I am a stronger, if not a slightly more evil, version of my old self.

I've been reading all your great blogs and posting comments when I can. I hope to join in again very soon.

There's a thunderstorm coming. I'm off to charge up.

And all was well with the world...

2009-04-18T10:02:00.005-04:00

i got the job

Pink Eye, or Glass Half Empty

2009-03-25T19:04:00.003-04:00

This week has been one big suck. It all started Sunday night when my eye started itching painfully and filling with an unsightly substance. Yeah, as my title has already indicated, the dreaded pink eye (a.k.a., conjunctivitis, a term which actually references the nature of the effluvium that quickly accumulates in the eye socket). I'll let it be known right now that I have never had pink eye; as a matter of fact, I've never had a single problem with my eyes. So you can imagine this came as a disgusting shock. I called the doctor to get the ointment (another unpleasant word) to cure myself, but she told me I had to wait another day, in case it was viral. As we all know, it's easier to get a gun permit than a prescription for an antibiotic these days. And this gatekeeper wasn't about to give me access to the goods until I had suffered long and hard.

It wasn't until I woke up the next morning that I actually realized how unbearably loathsome this ailment is. After I decrusted my eye, I was left with a swollen, bloodshot orb that could not be calmed with ice or make up. Great. So off to work I went, oozing and pussing, to face the 100 students I teach every day, fully prepared to be ostracized in the manner only teenagers are capable of. Thankfully, the school secretary (another gatekeeper) saved me that humiliation by sending me home immediately after she got one look at me (as she simultaneously took three steps back from her desk, an incredulous look on her face. Didn't I know this was a high school? What the hell was I thinking?). The rest of the day was spent trying to get that eye salve, which I eventually did after hours on the phone with the covering nurse who, I am convinced, thought I was trying to obtain it to sell it on the underground market. Jesus.

The next day, cream in eye, I actually made it into the school. Sure, I was still hideously ugly and everyone avoided me, but I made it in. I was experiencing a momentary spike in optimism when I found out that I had been overlooked, yet again, to give the faculty commencement address. And worse, the man who had been chosen is the same man who is going "against" me in a bid for the department chair position next year.

A word about this man, whom I will refer to simply as "my rival." As rivals go, he's one in a million. He's actually just about perfect. My rival is an incredibly creative and demanding teacher, he has a wicked sense of humor, AND he's good looking. Oh, and his wife is a good friend of mine. As you can imagine, the discovery of the new feather in his cap left me (the pariah) feeling more than a little worried about my prospects even as I congratulated him heartily on his newly received honor. And THEN, today, he threw a surprise baby shower for a woman in our department during a meeting. My rival is playing hardball. He even bought her a bottle of gin -- there's that goddamn sense of humor I was talking about -- which tickled everyone to no end. For a moment, I felt like marching myself down to the office and pulling my application. Interviews will be held in the next two weeks, and I thought maybe I could still get out of this with some of my integrity... Is it really better to try than to never know? Smashed egos can be fixed, or so I've heard, but I have this vision of spending the rest of my career being the department loser. On the other hand, I do get to buy a new drop-dead suit for the interview, and Bev has already promised to take me out and get me smashed if I don't get it. What's the worst that could happen? A vomit-covered suit and two more bloodshot eyes?

Pedigree

2009-03-21T19:21:00.004-04:00

When my father was seven, he dug up a dead body.

What?

I know.

But when he was five, he also stole some cigarettes from his father, who blamed the hired hand, who was fired on the spot. And my dad never said a word about it.

This is the gene pool from which I spring. Which is why, I would imagine, I took the family car for a joyride (which ended in an unfortunate crash) when I was four and set ten acres ablaze when I was five. I stole my first cigarette when I was eight, but, fortunately, nobody lost his livelihood as a result. However, when I was five I did leave my "boyfriend" lying on a cold rock after he took a nasty 20-foot fall from a bluff we weren't supposed to be climbing. I thought he was dead. I simply walked home, ate my supper, went to bed, and hoped he would be on the bus the next morning. He was. Phew.

Graverobbing, thieving, lying, joyriding arsonists. What a lovely family crest I could hang on my wall.

C'mon, then, make me feel better. What's in your closet?

Prognostication

2009-03-20T20:38:00.004-04:00

Last weekend Bev, my sister, and I went to a psychic for a tarot card reading. As is my usual experience, the results were half horrifying accuracy and half laughable miscalculation. In the "Accurate" column: there will be future upheaval at work, I have two brothers, one of whom is estranged from the family (and apparently in some kind of trouble), my oldest son is a gem, my youngest, the devil incarnate. Under "Laughable": I want to spend more time at home with my kids, there is supposed to be a third child (not on your fucking life!), I'm an intuitive. The rest was pretty vague and only came out after a little too much questioning on her part.

On one hand, visiting a psychic is fun, exciting, and a little emotional. Although I try to remain sceptical, it honestly is creepy when they hit the occassional nail on the head. Precisely for this reason, I always end up leaving feeling a little uneasy. What if she really can see/sense my past and my future? What if her lackluster divination proves true after all? When the bell sounded which marked the end of my reading, she insisted that I stay a little longer due to the large number of sword cards I had drawn from her three decks -- apparently a matter of some concern. She tried and tried to figure it out but could come to no solid conclusions (big surprise, right?). When I got home I made the sorry mistake of looking up the meaning of the card shown above. Why do I do this to myself? I think tomorrow I'm going to observe the flight of a crow then shoot it and read its entrails.

"All faults may be forgiven of him who has perfect candor."

2009-03-14T10:04:00.003-04:00

(Warning: this will be an exeedingly long post. If you are familiar with Whitman's poetry, feel free to skip the samples of his work and go directly to the parody. If not, please read them! I can't help but love his astounding egotism; at least he encourages us all to be equally self-centric. That said, the parody best brings out all that is laughable in this man of many faults.)

If the above disclaimer didn't send you running to blogs you'd rather waste your time on, I guess you're along for the ride. Thank you for joining me and be not afraid! I think you'll find it worth it. Directly below, in blue, is a sampling of Whitman's work which best represents the references in the parody. If you read only one bit of it, make it the last bit about the 28 men swimming. My all-time favorite.

From Leaves of Grass:

I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil,
this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same,
and their parents the same,I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.
****
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
****
The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand.
The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.
The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen.
The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous'd mobs,
The flap of the curtain'd litter, a sick man inside borne to the hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv'd who fall sunstruck or in fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls restrain'd by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances, rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them — I come and I depart.
*******
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.
She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.
Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.
Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.
The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair,
Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.
An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.
The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch,
They do not think whom they souse with spray.

And now, for the parody. Please, somebody, tell me you find this as I do, hysterical.

FIRST EDITION, 2008

O, I also enjoy singing about America

When I am in the shower O song-O awesome song,

O the mouth-song that comes out of my mouth,

Like food when I don't feel good.

O-hi-O, Cleveland is your capitol.

O, how this pen fits in my hand,

Like a magic microphone or something.

When I write, the words just plop out of it,

Out of me,

Me the poet.

I am a poet.

I contain multitudes.

My poem is so incredible that if you don't love it,

You are probably mentally retarded.

Whatever you like in life, that's me,

Except I am better.

I am like a flying ice-cream cone

Surrounded by cute puppies and Webkinz.

I am a sunriseUnless you are blind,

Then I must be a beautiful noise.

I am that scene in the Goonies when that large kid hath to do

The Truffle Shuffle.

Remember when stamps only cost 29 cents?

That was me.

I am a singing butcher and a tire maker and a quality inspector

And a street vendor and an RA,but not the lame kind that yells at you and takes all of your beer.

I am a convenience store clerk, singing about Things,

I am a financial analyst.

I am a philosopher-I explain platitudes.

I am a singing robot maker and that guy on the infomercials with a moustache

Who sells Oxy-Glow-I display multi-tools.

I am a farmer and a banker and a knight.

"But that's not possible," you say.

"How can you be all of those jobs?

You must be totally awesome.

But tax-time must suck."

Washing and shaving is for faggots.

Don't worry though.

If you don't like that line,

I'll take it out for the definitive 2021 edition of this poem.

Just let me know.

One time I saw a bunch of naked guys bathing under a waterfall like Niagra

My pants began expanding, like I'd taken a Viagra

I stood behind a window and couldn't look away.

I must've been thinking of Kathy Ireland or something, because I sure ain't gay.

Watching bathe multi-dudes.

Hey Cap'n, get up, this is awesome.

No seriously, you're going to want to see this.

I am the words in every book ever.

Even in ones from other languages like French or Irish,

And Klingon.

I am in every song on the radio, even the really bad ones,

Except for "Who Let The Dogs Out?"

But I am in every other song.

One refrain, many tunes.

I am on the walls of cavemen, and I am all over the internet like that Numa Numa guy.

And I will be in whatever technology comes up next,

Like a datachip that you eat like a potato chip.

But for now, if you want to read this on the subway

You can always download it and put it on your

Blackberry

Blackberry.

Sent as a joke to PoetryAmerica <http://www.poetryamerica.com/> , this poem is the 2008 winner of the Wergle Flomp humor poetry contest sponsored by Winning Writers. Author Benjamin Taylor Lally received a cash prize of $1,359.

About Benjamin Taylor LallyMr. Lally teaches high school English in Massachusetts, and wishes to dissuade his creative writing students and poetic ramblers from imitating the style found here. His less ridiculous poetry has been accepted by The Formalist, the Illinois State Poets' Society and Troubadour, and has been rejected by many, many other places. He is exceedingly proud to be the 2008 Wergle Flomp Contest winner. It just goes to show, it pays to make fun of Walt Whitman. And handsomely. He would like to thank the editors at Winning Writers for encouraging such wonderful lunacy, and his wife for the exact same reason.

Question of the Day

2009-03-07T13:21:00.005-05:00

What's for dinner?

(As you can see, I'll be enjoying live peacock to the mind-benumbing tunes of my minstrels. And my friends will all be standing around watching me eat. I'm the lady in the Cat in the Hat hat on the left. Oh, and one of my maids-in-waiting (see top left) is carrying on an illicit affair with the court astrologer. Either that or she's plotting my death so she can move into the marriage bed and wield power from behind the scenes; my husband always was a sucker for a woman with a star-shaped halo. )

Plaything of the Gods

2009-03-05T16:28:00.001-05:00

She prayed then to whatever power may care

In comprehending justice for the grief

Of lovers bound unequally by love.

Virgil, The Aeneid, Book IV, 720-722

Diplomacy

2009-03-02T12:59:00.005-05:00

Another 12 inches of snow, another day at home. Will the madness never end?

While aimlessly surfing the web this morning, I made my usual online newspaper stops and found this article on America's brilliant plan to open diplomatic relations with Iran -- by sending our actors and directors to soften their hardened, intolerant hearts.

On one hand, this seems like a great idea. We are obviously too distanced at the moment to sit down and talk politics, human rights, and nuclear bombs, so a cultural approach makes some sense. I just don't know how successful this can be when one of the delegates, the director of Field of Dreams, begins his visit by saying, "Today is my birthday, and I cannot think of any other place I wanted to be other than here." He is either a.) lying, or b.) the most desperate and pathetic has-been to be nominated to an "official delegation." Shouldn't we be sending Oliver Stone or Martin Scorsese? Or how about Tim Burton? I can just imagine the conversation:

TB: Um, yeah, we're here to stitch together the jagged, bleeding edges which separate our nations.

MMA: This meeting is over. You insult us with your careless grooming habits and your general demeanor.

Wouldn't it be funny if some sort of serious international incident arose from all of this? Like if Annette Bening got her head sent home in a box? Or if Phil Alden Robinson were to be impaled on a baseball bat? Imagine the ironic possibilities!

If you ask me, we should just settle this by celebrity cagefight. (If I knew any current Iranian actors, I would give a list of contestants here, but on our side, we should definitely include Brangelina, Lindsey Lohan, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and Fat Britney.) If our side wins, they must disarm, stop trying to make H-bombs, and just become nicer people in general; if they win, we'll just bomb the shit out of them anyway ('cuz that's the way we roll, sucka...) and then take over their film industry. But at least we could say we tried.

Hump Day

2009-02-25T19:08:00.008-05:00

So, I haven't "written" anything in a very long time. I've actually had a pretty good week so far.

It should be noted that I spent the entirety of last week trapped inside my house with one sick child and one child itching to get out. Oh, and my brain. I was trapped inside my house with that, too. It wasn't very much fun.

But on Monday, I went back to work and had completely forgotten that I had agreed to chaperon a fieldtrip to a prison! Aside from the hassle of getting together subplans and rearranging meetings, I was pretty excited. I mean, I might have felt like a prisoner last week, but I was about to meet real detainees, and the prospect thrilled me. So, on the bus we went. Fortunately, a coworker who had chaperoned the trip the previous year informed me that the prison would not be feeding us so I wolfed down a Dunkin' Donuts triple chocolate muffin and a coconut coffee (cream, one sugar) before we left. (Seriously, wouldn't you think they would have a culinary arts program inside a prison?! What are these people supposed to do upon their release?) The bus ride was the typical noisy riot, but upon arriving at the prison, and the entrance of one of the guards, Mr. Santiago, the 43 students (all of whom are 17 or 18) became entirely mute. He was a hardass; he told us we would be yelled at (teachers included) and to just get used to it because that's the way things are done in (fuckmeintheass) prisons. So, off the bus we went. I was (appointed) first to lead the charge and I was so nervous that, sure enough, I got yelled at by the security officer, whose job it was to scan our coats and metal detect us. I had forgotten to take off my dangly earrings. "For Christ's sake!" he yelled. "I know he just told you to take those off on the bus! Don't you people listen?!" My students thought this was very funny -- until it was their turn, and the confiscated cell phones, studded belts and hair scrunchies all went into the bin marked "retards from ** High School." Yeah, who's laughing now?! Assholes.

We were then taken into a confined area, told about the bulletproof glass, the weaponry onhand should all hell break loose, and the thickness of the walls. They were nervous. I had calmed down considerably since Major ----- (a 6'3" 62 year old man of steel, but also a hardass) told the other chaperon and I to take it easy and consider it a personal day -- the kids wouldn't be giving us any trouble today. So we went into yet another confined area (the prisoners' visiting room), were shown flashcards of all the canines (some of whom apparently only speak Dutch or German), and were allowed to ask questions, which, not surprisingly, all of us were too afraid to ask until we got yelled at about that, too. So the questions came and then, suddenly, we were divided into two groups. While one group sat through more forced reversed questioning, the other (mine) was taken into the cell block. On the way, we had to pass between buildings well guarded by the Dutch and German speaking dogs and their handlers. They barked incessantly. One looked like Satan's own hound. According to the flashcard, that was Argos. That cracked me up.

We went up into a "tower" that was made completely of bullet-proof, mirrored glass. We looked at the prisoners. It was like being in a zoo. Although we were assured they could not see us, we were later told by the prisoners who would speak to us that they knew we were there because they could hear us. I was mesmerized. There were puny guys, big guys, white guys, Hispanic guys, old guys, black guys, braided guys, glasses-wearing guys, middle-aged guys, kids, and lonely guys. There were two televisions on in the "common area." One had on a Hispanic channel, the other the Discovery channel. (On Sundays, the third TV has sports apparently; a risk, as it can cause fights.) They seemed bored. Some would wander in and out of their cells or chat with the guards, while others lounged in the Naugahyde chairs. Those in orange were awaiting trial; the tan-clad were serving time. Their shoes were exceedingly white. We were then taken back to the visitor area while group two went into the "hold." As we waited, the guard in charge of us confessed that he thought Major --- was a hardass, that his approach was more mild. We tried to ask questions, but in the face of his pussiness, we didn't really feel the pressure to do so. Say what you want about hardasses; they get what they want.

Finally, the "prisoners" (OMG!!!) came in to scare our suburban teens "straight." I have to say, it worked -- on them and "us" (the two thirtysomething chaperones). Here it is, two days later, and I still can't stop thinking about them. Do you know what? It turns out you can make just one bad decision and you can land your ass in prison. Fuck. And do you know what else? If you go to prison, your mommy is the only one who will go visit you (if she's still alive, that is, because you haven't killed her by putting your sorry self in prison). No shit. All five of them confirmed it.

They spoke to us for over two hours, sharing the darkest and most intimate moments of their lives as we looked upon them in horror. Apparently this was some sort of privilege for them. I just felt bad -- for them, because their lives seemed irretrieveable fucked up; and for us, almost out of shame (even though this is, by far, the best learning experience our students have on any field trip in their young lives -- and that includes Plimoth Plantation). Our stomachs rumbled (and then convulsed when they sent around the lunch tray to show us what a prisoner gets to eat every day -- two slices of slimey bologna (the kind with chunks of peppercorn in them), four slices of bread, two cookies, a packet of mustard and an apple). As we sat and listened to them, I wondered what they were thinking of our gorgeous 18 year old female students, and when we shook their hands, I wondered how it felt for them to be able to touch a female (which they can't even do during visitor hours if anyone shows up to visit them). Did they want us to pat them on the back or maybe rub their triceps as we shook their hands? I found myself wanting to do that.

And then we left. That was it. They went back to their cells, we got on the bus and went to Burger King. Then it was back on the bus. We belched our self-satisfied Dr. Pepper indigestion all the way home to our safe little suburb by-the-sea.

Yeah, it's been a good week so far. At least I'm not in prison. Yet.

Happy Birthday, Bev (Part II)

2009-02-24T19:08:00.004-05:00

So, I couldn't decide which slice o' heaven to honor you with, babycakes or the most incredible use of corrugated cardboard I've ever seen. Either way, I hope your day has been fabulous and that that family of yours did something sweet to reward your own sweetness. I'm bummed that Eva beat me to it, but thanks to her, I didn't miss it entirely! In spite of our stubborn refusal to remember each other's birthdays, I hope you know that I (and all the folks here at Truepenny, Inc.) count you as the coolest friend and neighbor one could ever hope for!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Goodnight (Sinister) Moon

2009-02-20T09:59:00.006-05:00

Eva's "Childrin R Skary" post on Wilderness of Mirrors reminded me of this Tom Waits' piece. While it could just be the natural darkness that dwells within me, I suspect it may actually be my deep-seated resentment toward (so far only) four years of reading really boring children's books that explains my love for any childhood story gone horribly wrong.

I Hate This Song!

2009-02-19T16:25:00.003-05:00

HATE IT!!!!

It makes me want to shoot a cowboy, steal his spurs, and carve my initials into his face with them. I hate it that much.

Mindless

2009-02-18T19:48:00.001-05:00

Because I promised myself I'd post today... I love this. I can't help it!

PANDA!

An Even Dozen

2009-02-17T11:12:00.007-05:00

I must stop this blogging every two weeks and be more consistent. Hopefully with almost a week left of vacation, I can do this. Scarlet Shutter's recent post on the 100-word story reminded me of NPR's contest two years ago to see who could write the best novel in 12 words. So I've been messing around with it. Here are my offerings. Any takers?

He drove all night. Rain and snow. Door locked. Long drive home.

She was born. She grew up. She had four kids. She died.

Husband, an electrician. Wife, trusted him. The house burned down. She inside.

It went off. Everything became quiet. Then, a laugh. Without a hitch.

They shouldn't have been in that graveyard at all. Serves 'em right.

She saw her future in her grandmother's eyes. She bought a pistol.

Leaving Jesus

2009-02-01T19:36:00.006-05:00

Awhile back, I had started a story about how I became a born again Christian but somehow never got around to the part about how I became unborn. But the ends of things are almost always more difficult than their beginnings.

Before I can get to the actual events which precipitated my break up with Jesus, there are a few background details that I should provide. First, when I was 16, I started dating a non born againer; as a matter of fact, he was Catholic, which means he might as well have been the Antichrist himself. But I couldn't help it... he looked like the lead singer from the Thompson Twins and he was funny and smart and he liked old movies and black and white photography. He was also a college boy, four years my senior, attending the University of Wisconsin -- Madison, working at a soap store run by two gay guys. So now I had smoking and my Catholic boyfriend to feel guilty about. When I was 17, I applied to and was accepted at UW. You can see where this is leading. I remember my pastor expressing his concern about my move to Madison. It was the late 80's and Madison was often refered to as "Moscow on the Lakes." Like most college towns, it was exceedingly liberal. Pastor Paul put me in contact with the Assembly of God church in Madison long before I packed my bags. He told me that if anybody could go to college in Madison and remain true to God, it was me. He told me my faith was unshakeable. Boy, was he wrong.

My first month of college: I attended church faithfully every Sunday and Wednesday night. I went to my classes faithfully. I remained a virgin, faithfully (in spite of having my own apartment. Do you people realize the dedication this requires?!). But I started noticing things. Like the fact that my boyfriend's gay bosses weren't hideous perverts out to molest young boys. They were actually funny and very kind to me. And then there were the rallies held by the born againers on Library Mall; they were full of hate -- toward gays, especially, but in general for anyone who didn't believe. They used the same "Jesus is coming back" approach that had been so effective on me, but eighteen year olds don't scare as easily as eleven year olds; what had always sounded terrifying to me now sounded somehow ridiculous. And then there was Geology 101. Turns out the fossil record pretty much disproves the Bible. Oh shit. Discomfort. Denial. Doubt. That was my first month of college.

My second month of college: upheaval in the church! Factions, infighting, and eventually, a split. I didn't know enough about what was going on to make an educated choice about whom I should go with, so I picked the side that was closest to my apartment (the bus ride to church was over an hour long; now I could walk!). We had services in a woman's ranch-style house. She was tiny and shrewish and severe. She had owl figurines everywhere. I should have known then. I continued to pray and read the bible, but less frequently, and somehow when I talked to God, I felt like a lying child on the brink of discovery. It's hard to lie to God. But also during month two, my boyfriend blew his entire savings on two tickets for us to see Verdi's La Traviata. I loved opera. I bought a vintage black crepe gown and my first tube of truly red lipstick. As luck would have it, the new branch of my church was having a prayer meeting on the very same night as the opera. Choices had to be made. I chose the opera (only after countless hours of soul searching and even more time in front of the mirror in my new gown, mind you). When I called the woman to tell her I would not be attending, she asked me if one night at the opera with my boyfriend was really worth my eternal soul. I tried reasoning with her; surely God would not begrudge me this human pleasure? Oh yes He would, was the reply. My God was an unforgiving God, a God who could take me out of this world as quickly and with as little effort as that with which He brought me into it. I remember the tears stinging my eyes as I told her I would not be attending church any longer. I also remember the bile rising as I told her (with no little satisfaction) that she was the final straw in a decision I had been struggling with for over six weeks. I told her if I went to hell, it was entirely her fault for driving me away from God (okay, admittedly childish, but it felt really good to say it).

And that was it. I went to the opera that night. It was, to this day, one of the most beautiful nights of my life (and included the loss of my virginity! Yippee!). And I have never prayed since that night, nor have I looked to the bible for anything more than beautiful words. And I have never regretted this decision. I thought I would miss God. I didn't.

The meaning of "la traviata"? The woman who strayed.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EVA!!!!

2009-01-18T06:29:00.002-05:00

I wish I could take all the credit for being so thoughtful about remembering your birthday, but Bev is the one on Facebook so this is from both of us.

We wish you all the best and many, many, many more! Do you like the cake we baked for you???

Love, Ana and Bev

Bloodsport

2009-01-16T20:22:00.007-05:00

Just when you think you have nothing to write about, manna falls from the heavens.

When I got home from work today, I found my house covered with little brown feathers. Initially, I suspected my son's down jacket. But then I found feathers in the kitchen sink, in the bathtub, even in the toilet... As I dustbusted, unquestioningly, I caught my youngest son out of the corner of my eye joyously stomping up and down, giggling madly, on a tiny brown object (see above).

This raises many questions. Obviously, my cats had found a sparrow but they are indoor cats. Unless one of Bev's cats made a take-out delivery, this poor little guy somehow found his way in my house (I'd like to think the holes aren't quite so gaping), seeking relief from the bitter cold, and found himself in the clutches of two very inexperienced house cats. Judging from the evidence, his must have been a most brutal demise. I found bird shit on the walls and doors, a lamp was knocked over, one entire table in my kitchen was cleared off and my mantle was destroyed (thankfully shattering one particularly horrible Christmas gift from my mother-in-law). Avian carnage.

While I feel bad for the poor little bugger, a part of me wishes I had been here to see the mayhem. I keep forgetting my cats are animals.

Again, my apologies

2009-01-16T16:21:00.003-05:00

For so many reasons, but mostly for posting another one of Bev's daughter's youtube finds. I will be more productive in the future, I promise!!!!

I Don't Think So

2009-01-11T12:44:00.002-05:00

My apologies for submitting a lame youtube that isn't even a video. And my apologies especially to Bev. I know this reminds us of a certain someone we'd rather not remember, but let's not blame this perfectly delightful song.

Personal Jesus

2009-01-07T17:07:00.020-05:00

So, it's finally time to finish my trilogy. To review: discovery in La-Z-Boy led to banishment to Montana.

I was ten years old and had never been on a jet, nor had I traveled further than Canada, which borders Wisconsin and therefore does not really count as international travel (nor does Montana, I realize, but in terms of distance, it seemed very far away). A tyro to be sure. But I had read a lot of Judy Blume and considered myself very worldly. I spent weeks planning my solo flight, what I would wear, what I would do in the various airports. I was actually excited about receiving my punishment. AND I wanted to be a veterinarian so the opportunity to work with horses was another adventure I looked forward to with unbridled romanticism. I had visions of myself in a light cotton frock, riding a black stallion, bareback, as our long flowing hair waved in the wind, in slow motion, mind you.

The trip was great. I read another Judy Blume novel (Wifey, I believe) -- right in front of everybody on the plane. I wore my favorite 3/4 sleeved rainbow jersey shirt and my blue corduroys. I carried a purse. I was something.

At the airport in Billings, I bought cigarettes from a machine and went to the airport restaurant where I chainsmoked (I'm wondering now how old I thought I looked) as I ate my T-bone steak and drank my Pepsi. I called my dad and pretended to be very scared by the whole experience of traveling alone, but I was nothing short of ecstatic.

When my aunt (whom I had never met) greeted me at the airport in Helena, I'm sure I reeked of smoke but she smoked too. Bonus! Add to my vision of independence stealing cigarettes from her pack, which I did, all summer long. She didn't smoke menthols, but I learned to love her Benson and Hedges nonetheless.

As you can see, I was a girl in need of reformation.

And then my cousin arrived, the very next day, and brought the gleaming light of God with her, a God I had never seen even though I had attended church every Sunday until I was seven years old. Beth was a blond-haired beauty. She was 21, she loved Jesus, and she wore her hair in French braids every day, with little hand-tied ribbons running the entirety of their gorgeous length. She was an intense horse woman with a vicious temper when it came to other peoples' laziness (both moral and physical). She was a rabid anti-smoker and she was a power-converter. She told everyboy they were going to hell and became irrate when they didn't believe her.

Her approach with me was a bit more tender, however. She simply invited me to go to church with her. I agreed, figuring it was the usual Lutheran service (boring but something to do). To set the stage, I should tell you a little more about my experience with religion up to this point. As I said, we went to church every Sunday and I knew about Jesus and Adam and Eve and Moses and the Apostles but that was pretty much it. Oh, and I knew it would definitely be cool to be chosen to play Mary in the Nativity play (I, unfortunately, was given the role as the back end of the donkey and that ended my career in Christian drama). For example, my notions of the "holy spirit" were so confused that my friends and I made up a game called "Holy Ghost" ; it was just like tag but the person who was "it" made ghost sounds as they chased the others around and we only played it on Sunday after church as our parents chatted with each other in the church parking lot.

So off we went to church. I remember my aunt snickering "Have fun..." when we left as she lit her cigarette and sipped at her coffee. I knew this was going to be a very different experience from the moment we drove into the parking lot. In the first place, the lot was full -- there must have been 100 cars. The church itself was very modern, all glass and carpeted staircases. As we sat down, I noticed the "pulpit" was more like a stage (with a full rock band set up behind it). There would be no organ ladies here in orthopedic shoes stumbling their way through "A Mighty Fortress is Our God." And the people... they were so... happy... about being at church. And they were huggy and kissy. I was introduced to everyone as "my little cousin from Wisconsin." "Welcome! We're so happy to have you!" was the invariable response. And it seemed like they meant it. Weird. I detected no sweet midwestern insincerity in their voices... a sound I was very familiar with.

There's really no point in trying to describe the microphoned preacher, the emotional congregation, my reaction to hands lifted in the air, people speaking in strange languages, the river of tears cried in joy. It was surreal. What got me to accept Jesus as my personal lord and savior that very day was the sermon itself. It turns out, Jesus is coming back, a fact I had never heard before that day. And when he came back, the shit was going to hit the fan. I thought I had years to make up for sinning on La-Z-boys, but suddenly my arrival in hell by other means was a certain reality; and according to the preacher, it was going to happen any day now. I was terrified. So up I went to that rock-star stage, fell to my knees and confessed myself a ten-year old sinner (which as you know was undeniably true).

And then my life split in two. I was a bible-carrying born againer of the newly-converted type during the day, but at night in my bedroom I would smoke my aunt's cigarettes, read Danielle Steele and torture myself endlessly about my weakness for the Devil's temptations. This sorry state of affairs would continue until I was 19, by which time I had read the bible eight times, accepted Jesus about fifty times (in case it didn't take the first 49), attended summer bible camp six times, was touched by the holy spirit and spoke in tongues (which I faked but could never tell anybody), learned the horrible truth that The Beatles were satanists and their records, when played backwards, spoke of sex with corpses. I became a Christian puppeteer, a Sunday school teacher, a leader of the youth group in my born-again community back home, a rabid pro-lifer, a hater of gays -- a young woman of great potential, in other words.

And while I did fall prey to all this nonsense, I can never regret my time as a born-againer. It gave me many gifts. I became a great reader and interpreter of texts, a self-policing teenager who never drank (the smoking was a different matter but I hid it well), a daughter who could be trusted by her father and a more caring individual. My father was right to have sent me and it had unforeseen benefits for him; I did all my chores without being asked, never lied, and except for my occassional attempts to convert his doomed soul, he must have been very happy he sent me.

I'll write more later on the horsey aspects of this summer. I received other great gifts from that as well, one of which was the certainty that I did not want to be a veterinarian.

Cookie Delivery

2009-01-05T19:59:00.003-05:00

Bev has assured me it is okay to post this story from our neighborhood. I'm so paranoid, however, that I'm not even going to use the fake names I already created for my characters. I'm going to use the names of trees instead.

Okay, so Elm and Apple are a couple who live on my street. They are in their 50's, a little eccentric but very nice and always stop to talk or at least wave as you drive by. Every year until about four years ago or so, Apple would deliver Christmas cookies to all the people on the street on Christmas Eve afternoon. Her cookies and fudge were scrumptious. Five years ago, the following happened.

Enter Maple and Birch, a couple who lives very close to Apple and Elm. It was Christmas Eve afternoon and Birch was out grocery shopping for a party she and Maple were going to. Maple was taking a shower. When he got out of the shower (and vigorously toweled off his dripping wet rippling muscles and blond hair, which I'm sure every woman on the street has imagined at one time or another), he got dressed and went to the kitchen. There, on the counter, sat a plate of cellophaned Christmas cookies from Elm and Apple which had decidedly not been there when he entered the shower. While pondering this anomaly, Maple jumped when the phone rang right beside him. He didn't recognize the Vermont phone number on the caller ID but picked it up anyway. On the other end of the line was an enraged man: "Did you just call my house and hang up?" "No," replied Maple. "Well, I just redialed the last number that called my house and here I am talking to you." "Listen," said Maple, "I just got out of the shower. I don't know who you are or how you got this number, but I did NOT call your house." The man refused to believe Maple and accused him of having an affair with his wife. Maple hung up on the man, still scratching his head.

Although this mystery has never been solved, it seems pretty obvious that Elm made the cookie delivery to Maple and Birch, let himself in the house when nobody answered the door, and helped himself to a long-distance phone call when he heard the shower running.

That's just creepy.

Where I Live

2009-01-02T13:40:00.005-05:00

I have decided it would be fun (and possibly ill-advised if not downright dangerous) to write every so often about my neighborhood. Like every neighborhood, here on (long and difficult to spell Native American name) Street, there are a wide variety of personalities and a good amount of lore and legend. It has certainly kept me entertained for the last nine years. Of course, I won't be mentioning names or addresses. And some of this must be reserved for Bev (she will know which ones belong to her).

First, character names and categories: #1: Crazies: Crazy Man at the End of the Street, Crazy Man with the Yard, Crazy Drunk Mother (that's NOT me), Crazy Retired Lady; #2: Meanies: Mean Old Lady with Nice Old Husband, Mean Old Man and His Mean Younger Sister and Their Mean Old Parents; #3 Eccentrics and Miscellany: No Visible Means of Support (I probably won't write about them for various reasons), the Realtor, Hot Tub Guy and His Dad, Hot Rod Guy; #4 Widows and Widowers: There are five that I can think of; I won't write about them either. #5 Coolies: the Gardener, the Landscape Architect, the Cute Young Couple With No Kids, the Horse Lady, the Funny Couple With Kids, the Gay Guys I, the Gay Guys II. There are many others who fit in no category.

Second, the setting: imagine a three-street microcosm of Peyton Place and you get the idea. Well, sort of. It's actually not that interesting but there are eerie similarities. Tree-lined streets, homes built in the 40's, 50's and 60's, mostly Capes. Lots of kids and dogs and cats and trees and birds and wild turkeys and squirrels and chipmunks. A little slice of heaven hiding an even tinier piece of hell (like the proverbial razor blade in the apple at Halloween).

My first story is actually about two kids who used to live in the neighborhood -- until they drowned in the river at the end of the street in the late 50's or early 60's. One was a little boy (whose exact age I have never been able to ascertain) who lived in my house. The other was a little girl who lived in the house across the street (now occupied by Funny Couple With Kids). There are older adults in this neighborhood who remember that day because either they or their children were invited out to play that day by the two children who drowned. Funny Couple with Kids were pregnant at the same time as me and that's when we found out about this story. We made a pact to teach our kids to swim at a very early age, although in this case it wouldn't have mattered. It seems they were playing on the ice and fell through. The current then dragged them under the ice and they couldn't find a way back up. I also found out about this after I had the following experience. I was sleeping and woke up, my heart pounding. I opened my eyes and saw nothing but the usual darkened room but the feeling was like having someone's face very close to my own, peering intently, but not angrily, into my eyes. It happened again about three years later. You all know I believe in ghosts but I've never felt this house was haunted (confirmed by the The Duchess, the traveling psychic of these parts). I've often thought of that little boy, but I think more about his parents, especially his mother. I guess they moved shortly after their son's death. And that's all I know.

Happy New Year!

2008-12-31T15:45:00.006-05:00

Cheesy and dorky New Year's Eve fun!

May 2009 be happy, healthy and most of all, FUN!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHB4dgxaBqE

Christmas Mix

2008-12-29T17:21:00.005-05:00

So, you would think with the last 10 days off, I could have found time to blog, at least more than a clip from a movie. But first there was Christmas shopping (always last minute), then the actual event (very fun, but utterly exhausting), then the visiting with family from far and wide, then the "other" Christmas with the family that couldn't make it to the first Christmas, and finally, during and immediately following the second Christmas, THE STOMACH FLU.

On the other hand, all of this insanity gives me a lot to write about. I tried to choose: fun stories of family dysfunction or tales of projectile vomiting and explosive diarrhea (which, by the way, my two year old finds hysterically funny)? Extensive lists of food consumed or detailed descriptions of what it looks like on its way back up? So, I've decided to just write a jumbled mess, thus reproducing in the written word the very chaos I experienced. Stick with me; this could be rough.

The first item: a rant against Santa. Since when does the jolly red fellow bring more than one toy per child? He was nice enough to only bring one to our house, but apparently he visited my in laws and left such a load there that I had to INSIST that we leave 80% of it there (that'll teach him). In the last five days, I have watched my children devolve from relatively normal, albeit temperamental, little tikes into greedy, grabbing materialists of the worst variety. That's not to say I don't appreciate Santa's generosity, but on top of the wonderful gifts from family and friends, HE REALLY SHOULDN'T HAVE. I know I sound like a Grinch. Maybe I am. But seriously, people, you should see my house. And as everybody could predict (because it happens every year), they find the boxes much more entertaining than the gifts themselves.

But the visit with my side of the family was nice. New babies, new stories, new but familiar faces. Always welcome. Except the stomach flu they brought with them...

I seriously won't get into too many details except one. My four year old does not have any memories of throwing up and doesn't really know how to do it. He puked a trail of debbi dogs (I can give you the recipe later) that began on his Lightning McQueen sheets, across his (formerly) cream-colored rug, all over the wood floors leading into the bathroom and finally ended on the white bath mat but could not bring himself to do it in the toilet because he was afraid the toilet water would splash him in the face. Coming upon this scene out of a dead sleep, I, feverish and already nauseous, tried to aim his poor little head over the toilet but, in so doing, stepped in the slightly warm and noxious goo of the above-mentioned debbi dogs, which, in turn, led to my own (immediate and violent) upheaval, a perfectly aimed arc of beer and Christmas cookies, overshooting the head of my little sick cherub, landing perfectly (and splashingly, much to his horror) in the pristine coolness of white ceramic toilet. I won't bore you with the other details -- the hosing off of bedding in the backyard, the endless night and following day. But here we stand, alive and stronger for it.

A special shout-out to Bev and her husband for going shopping for us -- the laundry detergent, popsicles, and 7-up were like manna from heaven. Thank you.

Merry Christmas!

2008-12-25T05:45:00.004-05:00

I watch Fargo every year on Christmas Eve. While this isn't my favorite scene, it is the most famous and the best one I could find on youtube. And what says "Christ is born" better than a human leg going through a woodchipper?

I hope your holidays are merry and bright!

~Ana

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8qWFhDvURLg

Dawn of the Dead

2008-12-19T19:40:00.009-05:00

As I sit down to continue spinning my yarn about what happened in the aftermath of the La-Z-Boy discovery of 1981, it occurs to me that you, gentle reader, might be interested in hearing first of what happened to Dawn. I can assure you, it is much more interesting than my discovery of horse hatred and the Son of God.

I'm sure you thought it quite "fortunate" that Dawn and her siblings were sleeping in the Winnebago on the night of her father's demise, and you were right to do so. Apparently the detectives in Richland Center thought it was, too; it just took them two years to find the murder weapon.

In 1982, Dawn's mother was arrested and put on trial for stabbing her husband in his sleep. Dawn and her siblings moved in with their grandmother, who also lived in town, for the eight months it took to try and convict her. Of course there was shock, but the townspeople also fell victim to an epidemic of worldly-wise head nodding. Of course she did it; look at the way she spent his money. (or) Well, if she didn't do it herself, she sure as hell knew who did. My father belonged to the latter camp (and was also a head nodder). He had known Don; he worked at the service station in town. He was a 6'4", 200 pound former Marine with flaming red hair. Dawn's mom, on the other hand, was 4'10" tall, one inch short (well, tall) of being a dwarf. Even if she did it when the man was sound asleep, my father contended, he would have been able to defend himself.

In addition to the speculation generated by the trial, there were also new, gruesome details for the public to ponder. The murderer had written obscenities all over the white bedroom walls in Don's blood. My middle school art teacher had helped the family clean up the mess (a fact I only discovered in college). The murder weapon had been found in the family's above-ground septic tank.

Dawn, Tiff and I remained very close through all of this, and our protectiveness of Dawn, and by extension, her family, became almost rabid. Dawn said (and I think truly believed) her mother didn't do it, and that was enough for us. We were ardent supporters of Carol (besides, what 12 year old wants to believe that a mom could off a dad?). Tiff and I were questioned by detectives about a photo they had found in Dawn's house, a polaroid of Carol taken in a bowling alley, to which someone had applied a match and bubbled out her face. Although we could honestly answer that we had never seen it, it seems pretty logical that one of her children did it. How could they not resent her for valuing BINGO! over them?

At any rate, Carol was convicted on circumstantial evidence and was sentenced to 20 years to life. Dawn and her siblings were sent to live with their mother's sister and her three children in Hume, Missouri, and just like that, she was gone. Well, she had left town -- she was hardly gone. In a display of loyalty that I don't think I could recreate today, even as an adult, Tiff and Dawn and I did not fall out of touch with each other. We called weekly and Dawn came back every six months or so to see her mom. With a southern accent. With stories of her cousin, at first how cute he was, then how he had seduced her, then how he had abused her. She lived through some white trash shit that put our former collective experiences to shame. By her junior year in high school, the situation had become so dysfunctional, that Dawn returned permanently to live with her grandmother. Before she graduated, she saw to it that her siblings were brought back too.
We remained close through high school, but then Tiff moved away, got pregnant, had a stillborn, got divorced and fell off the face of the planet for three years. I went to college, lost Jesus, and hated going back to my hometown. In my sophomore year of college, Dawn and her siblings were on The Oprah Winfrey Show, back when she was still doing sensationalistic "trash." I watched in disbelief as they talked to their mom via satellite. It was surreal. We spoke occassionally, but for the most part, it ended at our high school graduations.

Dawn is now the mother of five children, happily married to a hard-working family man. At least that's what I heard.

Eva! Look away!

2008-12-19T15:44:00.003-05:00

To launch the beginning of 16 days off in a row for me (and to end an unforgivable dry spell), I thought I would offer this image of holiday infant terror. My apologies to Eva -- the good news, they can't actually come out looking like this. To achieve this look, the bambino in question requires at least one sick parent who is good with face paint.

Daughters of the Dead

2008-12-12T19:57:00.029-05:00

I was going to write an entry on how I became a born again Christian and how I unbornded myself, but I realized that in order to tell that story, I first needed to tell the story of my friend, Dawn.

During the summer of fourth grade, I remember waking up one morning and my father telling me that there had been a murder in town. This was MAJOR NEWS! in our little hill-locked burg and it was all anybody could talk about. A man had been stabbed to death in his sleep by two intruders who knocked his wife out when she woke up during the horrid act. Fortunately, their four children (ages 11 through 5) had been sleeping in the Winnebago parked in the driveway.

I don't know if it was out of morbid curiosity or a deep-seated desire to befriend people who shared the rarity of a dead parent with me, but I made it my first order of business to find out about these kids. How could I not know them? Through my best friend, Tiffany (yeah, bad name), I discovered that they went to Doudna Elementary School (while we went to Jefferson). She told me they all had red hair and the oldest was a girl, Dawn, who was 11, one year older than me. Tiff had been to Dawn's birthday party the previous year, and I remember thinking she was incredibly cool for having such intimate knowledge of this celebrity family. Trying to be nonchalant, about a month after the murder, I asked if we should invite Dawn over to my house. She set it up.

The first visit was incredibly awkward. First, Dawn's father was buried directly across the street from my house. She literally had to step on his grave to get out of the vehicle which delivered her to 481 E. 8th Street. And then there is the fact that pre-pubescent girls (always prone to drama and overweening emotion) really aren't very good at negotiating the nuances of first-time meetings. I think the first thing I said to her was, "I just wanted you to come over because I know how you feel." I don't remember her reaction but I'm sure she was uncomfortable. We did end up having fun: I had a six-foot deep freeze full of ice cream and we had HBO -- 'nuff said.

Dawn, Tiff and I became thick as thieves almost immediately. The best thing we had in common was very little parental oversight. And we made the most of it. Sleepovers were always at my house because my father worked nights a lot. Tiff's grandmother lived next door, so there was that to be aware of, but we pretty much did as we pleased. We taught each other how to smoke like movie stars and how to dance like Olivia Newton John. Dawn introduced us to the extra thick application of goey, clumpy jet-black mascara at which she had become an expert to cover her bright red lashes. We walked the cemetery at midnight just for the thrill of it, and, of course, stayed up all night talking about boys: Tiff loved Chad Albaugh, Dawn loved Mike Rizner, and I loved Kevin Knause. Good times.

Dawn's mom, finding herself in possession of $60,000 in insurance money (double indemnity is a wonderful thing!), promptly bought a large house on "our side" of town, which meant Dawn would now be attending Jefferson with Tiff and I. The other thing she did with her money was develop an addiction to BINGO. She would travel the state with her friends, her ink marker and her table toys, leaving her youngest children with Dawn, Tiff and I, now aged 12, 12 and 11 respectively. It was the best school year ever. Her mother would be gone for days at a time, leaving her new Chevy Chevette in the driveway. It was too tempting to resist. We would cram ourselves and two kids in the car, leave the next oldest home alone and go driving for hours. We also loved to repeatedly douse Dawn's Linda Ronstadt poster, proudly displayed on her bedroom door, in Aquanet hairspray and light it on fire. We watched Grease no fewer than 20 times on her mom's waterbed. The house was a nightmare. With 5 cats, one of whom was always pregnant and miscarrying on the children's beds and the endless piles of crap and junk food her mother purchased, the house was literally a cesspool. It smelled horrible. We didn't care.

And of course, there were boys. Not just Chad and Mike and Kevin, but also Kirk and Jared and Robby and Ralph and Gary and Mark. It sounds lurid, but we actually (and unbelievably)remained relatively innocent. Games of spin the bottle abounded but it never went beyond kissing.

And this is where my stories meet. One night, as three unsuspecting girls made out with three equally unsuspecting boys in three cat-hair-covered lazyboys, one very suspicious father made one very short trip to one very dark and quiet house. We scrambled like cockroaches when the front door opened, my father catching fleeing boys by their shirt collars and unceremoniously hurling them out the front door. Tiff and I were forced to return to my house, in complete shame and fear. Dawn remained at home with her siblings to await her mother's return.

The consequences were as follows: I couldn't go to Dawn's anymore, although she was still free to come to my house. Tiff was grounded for a month and also banned from the house of sin. My father never told Dawn's mom, probably figuring it would make very little difference to her. My final punishment was the worst: I was being sent to Montana to spend the summer working on my aunt's Morgan horse ranch. And that's where I found Jesus.

Song Test

2008-12-11T16:23:00.007-05:00

The blog hates me! I just put this in at Bev's. No big significance. Just enjoy.

The Beat that My Heart Skipped

2008-12-10T23:46:00.003-05:00

Pardon my long absence. Real life -- what a drag! I had posted this on my blog in November and then removed it as an apology when I thought I had offended someone. That was a silly thing to do. By the way, Bev's daughters introduced me to this, too-- thanks, girls! (But honestly, what are young girls doing watching this anyway?) Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ESvYRR1Fyug

(Bev! Why have I lost my embedding skills???)

The Walk of Shame

2008-12-08T16:25:00.005-05:00

And to complete my trilogy, I had the interesting experience of having a new "reputation" at work. Apparently, I'm the workplace party girl. At least nobody said I did anything too wildly inappropriate, so I find comfort in that. I did see a group of guys talking who stopped as soon as I walked near them. They all turned, like a three-headed Cerberus, and leered in my general direction. Well, at least they have something fun to remember.

You'll be happy to read I've been dry since 4:00 Saturday afternoon. But I'm going out tonight -- for one beer. I promise!

Detox

2008-12-07T06:13:00.003-05:00

Given my apparent problem with alcohol, I've decided to go clean today and drink only water and maybe some coffee.

So, what gives, fellow bloggers? Did you guys all go on vacation together and not invite me? Not that I'd blame you -- nobody likes to have a sloppy drunk to look after.

I'm looking forward to your posts!

Dancing Around the Christmas Tree

2008-12-06T05:51:00.005-05:00

I went to my work's Christmas party last night. I don't remember how I got home or what I said to my in-laws when I got here.

Today could be a long day. Wish me luck.

God's Most Perfect-est Food

2008-12-04T16:06:00.002-05:00

If there was only one food left on Earth, this is what I would want it to be. Other suggestions?

How Do I Get on this List???

2008-12-03T14:03:00.001-05:00

http://tech.msn.com/products/slideshow.aspx?cp-documentid=13523062

Hindi Sad Diamonds

2008-12-03T11:53:00.003-05:00

I remember seeing this in the theater with Bev (I'm going to speak of her as if she's passed on until she submits a new post). This scene has it all -- pageantry, an evil bald villain stalking the young hero, crazy-cool music and a dance number! On the big screen, it took my breath away. I'm reading a book right now in which one of the characters is a Bollywood director and it made me think of this (for obvious reasons).

Commuter Update

2008-12-02T12:13:00.003-05:00

The 'Ho Does it Again

Cape Ann, Massachusetts -- A local woman reports a noticeable increase in men driving Chevy trucks waving in her general direction in the last two weeks. "I just can't believe this keeps happening," the woman stated in a private interview with Truepenny staffers. "It's like I'm a dude magnet." The woman, who has asked to remain unidentified, attributes the attention to her vehicle, a black 2008 Chevy Tahoe with a girl-devil decal on the back window.

In the last two weeks, the female driver reports two new additional "waving relationships" having been established on her drive to and from work, bringing the grand total to three. When asked how she felt about strange men waving at her, she replied, "You can't overthink these things. It's been fun and I'll enjoy it while it lasts." The two new "wavers" drive white and black Chevy Silverado's. "It helps me keep them straight!" she said.

A Perfect Paragraph

2008-12-01T19:56:00.005-05:00

If I could write only one thing this beautiful in my entire life, I could die a happy woman:

One Kashmiri morning in the early spring of 1915, my grandfather Aadam Aziz hit his nose against a frost-hardened tussock of earth while attempting to pray. Three drops of blood plopped out of his left nostril, hardened instantly in the brittle air and lay before his eyes on the prayer-mat, transformed into rubies. Lurching back until he knelt with his head once more upright, he found that the tears which had sprung into his eyes had solidified, too; and at that moment, as he brushed diamonds contemptuously from his lashes, he resolved never again to kiss the earth for any god or man. This decision, however, made a hole in him, a vacancy in a vital inner chamber, leaving him vulnerable to women and history. Unaware of this at first, despite his recently completed medical training, he stood up, rolled the prayer-mat into a thick cheroot, and holding it under his right arm surveyed the valley through clear, diamond-free eyes.

--Salman Rushdie, Midnight's Children

My Mates

2008-11-30T07:48:00.002-05:00

I think this is funny -- all except the bit about making a poo in the teacher's hair. That's just in poor taste.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zuTHdzSJz4c

Zoltan

2008-11-29T11:15:00.024-05:00

When I was teaching English in Budapest, I had a group of adult intermediate level speakers with whom I got on smashingly. Probably because the class was in the evening, they were relaxed, mildly inappropriate and willing to do all the crazy language exercises I did with them in lieu of a textbook. They liked to quiz me on how to get from point A to point B in Budapest using only public transportation. On the last night of class, I walked into the classroom, the lights went out, and the students (who had been waiting in the back of the room) paraded up to the front of the class, single file, led by their classmate, Zoltan, a midget, carrying a book of Hungarian art with a candle-topped cupcake burning on top. It was like something out of a David Lynch film.

Because very few people in Hungary had telephones in their homes at that time, I would leave my address on the chalkboard after our final class if I really clicked with a group of students (that seems so foolish to me now). On a Saturday about a month later, there was a knock on my door. I opened the peep "hatch," and seeing nothing, I closed it and went about my business (the alcoholic couple who lived next door had a grandson who like to liked to play knock-knock ditch). And then another knock. I did the same thing, my annoyance plainly visible and audible, and then a high-pitched but gruff voice, "Hi! It's me. Zoltan." Looking down, I saw him, bundled up against the cold, a stocking cap with a pom-pom on top almost covering his eyes. Embarassed but happy to see him, I invited him in and my boyfriend and I offered him a drink. He asked if we had any tea, so I put the kettle on. The apartment was insanely small and I remember worrying that he was going to burn his face on the stove as he chatted with me in the kitchen standing very close to the open flame.

Zoltan stayed for six hours that day. We learned a lot about his life. He lived with his mother. He was a door-to-door salesman of children's books, and before that, of doorknobs (I kid you not). He loved working, meeting new people, and he loved his mother. He said he was thirty years old. As he got more comfortable, his cheery conversation took an ugly turn. He asked if we had met any Roma people (aka, Gypsies) since living in Budapest. We said, no, we didn't think so. "Well, it's not like you'd be able to tell these days," he suddenly fumed. He then went off on a tirade. His hatred was palpable, coming off him in waves. He turned red, he slammed his small fists against the arms of the chair. He hated them for stealing Hungarian jobs, for being given preference in housing (because the Communists had wanted to keep these nomadic people in one place), for breathing the same air as him. I feigned sleepiness, I didn't offer him more tea, I started drinking beer, but he didn't take the hint. He raved for three hours. He never came back.

Even a monkey would agree

2008-11-28T18:10:00.004-05:00

One of the sexiest, saddest, funniest, sweetest things ever written in the English language:

And Jacky Caffrey shouted to look, there was another and she leaned back and the garters were blue to match on account of the transparent and they all saw it and they all shouted to look, look, there it was and she leaned back ever so far to see the fireworks and something queer was flying through the air, a soft thing, to and fro, dark. And she saw a long Roman candle going up over the trees, up, up, and, in the tense hush, they were all breathless with excitement as it went higher and higher and she had to lean back more and more to look up after it, high, high, almost out of sight, and her face was suffused with a divine, an entrancing blush from straining back and he could see her other things too, nainsook knickers, the fabric that caresses the skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the green, four and eleven, on account of being white and she let him and she saw that he saw and then it went so high it went out of sight a moment and she was trembling in every limb from being bent so far back that he had a full view high up above her knee where no-one ever not even on the swing or wading and she wasn't ashamed and he wasn't either to look in that immodest way like that because he couldn't resist the sight of the wondrous revealment half offered like those skirtdancers behaving so immodest before gentlemen looking and he kept on looking, looking. She would fain have cried to him chokingly, held out her snowy slender arms to him to come, to feel his lips laid on her white brow, the cry of a young girl's love, a little strangled cry, wrung from her, that cry that has rung through the ages. And then a rocket sprang and bang shot blind blank and O! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh of O! and everyone cried O! O! in raptures and it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lovely, O, soft, sweet, soft!

James Joyce, Ulysses

Indigestion

2008-11-28T06:48:00.002-05:00

A ghoulish repast as your stomach continues to work on that pie. The perfect digestif!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOx3dWptDJk&feature=channel

(Sorry, it won't embed.) And a shout out to CT who showed this to me.

"But here I cannot but stay and make a pause..." Some Thoughts on Thanksgiving

2008-11-27T06:30:00.000-05:00

So, it's Turkey Day, and of course I can't let the opportunity to do some Pilgrim bashing pass me by (cute buckles notwithstanding). The following excerpt is very long and somewhat boring, but PLEASE read it. I worked really hard cutting and pasting it from a different website:

But here I cannot but stay and make a pause, and stand half amazed at this poor people's present condition; and so I think will the reader, too, when he well considers the same. Being thus passed the vast ocean, and a sea of troubles before in their preparation (as may be remembered by that which went before), they had now no friends to welcome them nor inns to entertain or refresh their weatherbeaten bodies; no houses or much less towns to repair to, to seek for succor. It is recorded in Scripture as a mercy to the Apostle and his shipwrecked company, that the barbarians showed them no small kindness in refreshing them, but these savage barbarians, when they met with them (as after will appear) were readier to fill their sides full of arrows than otherwise. And for the season it was winter, and they know that the winters of that country know them to be sharp and violent, and subject to cruel and fierce storms, dangerous to travel to known places, much more to search an unknown coast. Besides, what could they see but a hideous and desolate wilderness, full of wild beasts and wild men--and what multitudes there might be of them they knew not. Neither could they, as it were, go up to the top of Pisgah to view from this wilderness a more goodly country to feed their hopes; for which way soever they turned their eyes (save upward to the heavens) they could have little solace or content in respect of any outward objects. For summer being done, all things stand upon them with a weatherbeaten face, and the whole country, full of woods and thickets, represented a wild and savage hue. If they looked behind them, there was the mighty ocean which they had passed and was now as a main bar and gulf to separate them from all the civil parts of the world. ….What could now sustain them but the Spirit of God and His grace? May not and ought not the children of these fathers rightly say: "Our fathers were Englishmen which came over this great ocean, and were ready to perish in this wilderness; but they cried unto the Lord, and He heard their voice and looked on their adversity," etc. "Let them therefore praise the Lord, because He is good: and his mercies endure forever. Yea, let them which have been redeemed of the Lord, show how He hath delivered them from the hand of the oppressor. When they wandered in the desert wilderness out of the way, and found no city to dwell in, both hungry and thirsty, their soul was overwhelmed in them." "Let them confess before the Lord His loving kindness and His wonderful works before the sons of men."

William Bradford
Of Plimoth Plantation

These words of William Bradford contain the entirety of my mixed feelings about the "discovery" of this part of the New World. I read a large portion of this work every year with my students and I always find myself hating and begrudgingly admiring Bradford and his crew.

On one hand, who decides to remain in New England in December and then has the gall to bitch about how rough the conditions are (especially when their charter had been granted for (much warmer) Virginia and they KNEW they weren't in the right place but purposely decided to stay in New England as they could better build an isolated cult without those pesky other settlers around)? Have any of you been to Cape Cod in December? Wearing only wool? I bet they WERE uncomfortable! In this passage, one can also see their seething hatred for untamed nature and for the "savage barbarians" (the same barbarians who would later share their food with them).

On the other hand, I can't help but admire the strength of their faith. When I think of what an incredible risk this was and how badly they desired to build a sort of utopia based around their core beliefs, I am astounded by their courage. I can't think of one thing I believe in strongly enough that would lead me to uproot my life and move to an unseen land on a ship full of sailors who hated me and my kind. Unfortunately, they and the Puritans would ruin it all by, in turn, becoming the least tolerant group of religious fanatics to ever walk the planet. Their desire for religious freedom, it turns out, was only for themselves; they would become the new "hand of the oppressor." For all that it was, it was decidedly NOT a grand experiment in democratic living.

If you ever get the chance, read more in Bradford's work. It is full of "honesty" about how they treated the natives -- of course, they didn't see the problem with their behavior, but you will. It also tells the tale of much suffering on their part.

As an American and a (relatively new) New Englander, I am, of course, very thankful they came. Even if they were sneaky, lying, complaining bastards.

David Lee, The Pig Poet of Utah

2008-11-26T09:18:00.004-05:00

From his collection, News from Down to the Cafe... like Tom Waits without the music.

Sonata in Red

"On a field, Sable, the letter A, Gules."
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, The Scarlet Letter

Timmons Adam was upwards
of sixty-eight years old retired
from being a teller at J.R. Potts bank
when he came in the cafe
the first time alone
after living in town his whole life

he and his wife were married
long enough they both knew
they didn't like each other
also knew there wasn't anything
they could do to do
anything about it
so they waited it out

she kept a short leash
we figured she figured
if she didn't want anything
to do with him
nobody else could either
watched a lot of TV

it was a miracle
she died first
he buried her in her own
family plot
opened up all the curtains
let some air
blow in the house

Boys he sed the minute he walked in
it's a A for Adam red-letter day
I done read the will
believe I inherited
my own family estate
gentlemen the drinks are on me
we all got a fresh cup of coffee that day

came from then on
almost the rest of his life
right out of bed
for coffee and breakfast
smiling like the sunshine
down to the cafe
wearing a black suitcoat and bow tie
mostly bright red
about every single day

What Ugly Women Know

2008-11-25T08:48:00.005-05:00

One need not be a Chamber -- to be Haunted --
One need not be a House --
The Brain has Corridors -- surpassing
Material Place --

Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting
External Ghost
Than its interior Confronting --
That Cooler Host.

Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,
The Stones a'chase --
Than Unarmed, one's own self encounter --
In lonesome Place --

Ourself behind ourself concealed --
Should startle most --
Assassin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror's least.

The Body -- borrows a Revolver --
He bolts the Door --
O'erlooking a superior spectre --
More near--

~Emily Dickinson

This poem gives me the chills -- "Ourself behind ourself
concealed" -- could anything be more terrifying?

Why Bev is Right

2008-11-24T12:09:00.003-05:00

I should have been more careful. Look what happened in an eerily similar episode of X-Files! You fans will recognize and love this bit:

Otie Zerfus

2008-11-23T11:27:00.015-05:00

Every year I teach Oedipus Rex to my senior world literature class. I always smile in delight when some boy in the class invariably says, "Dude! He's doing his mom!" as the horror of realization dawns on him. And then I tell them this little story from my childhood.
As you know, I grew up in a very small town. We did, however, have a "taxi" service in town, but nobody ever used it. In the first place, it wasn't listed in the phonebook or anything; it was more a word of mouth business. Secondly, it was owned and operated by the Zerfus family. (My dad actually had to take the taxi to work once when I accidentally drained the battery in his truck by leaving the door ajar after making a hasty exit from a makeout session with my boyfriend in the garage... but that's a story for another time.) The Zerfuses were a freakish family, even by the standards of our town, which had more than its share of families with skeleton-stuffed closets, my own included. But the Zerfuses left their closet door open -- unpardonable.
They lived about two blocks away from me, on the other side of the cemetery, in a white ranch house that looked like any other house in the neighborhood except for its peeling paint, its trash-strewn, unmowed yard and the torn red drapes that hung in the picture window. Otis Senior was never home. He practically lived at the American Legion. When it was closed, he drove around the town for hours at a time in his very old dark green Plymouth Fury III with the word "Taxi" spelled out in duct tape on the side. Mrs. Zerfus (whose first name I never knew, nor did anybody else for that matter) was insanely, wretchedly obese and practically a recluse. She could occasionally be seen riding shotgun with her husband when they went grocery shopping in the next town. Their only child, Otis Jr. (the main character of this story), was anywhere from 20 to 30 years old and was well known to be clinically insane.
My only personal experience with Otie Jr. was when I was in sixth grade. I had some girls over for a slumber party. We had just watched Halloween on HBO (my dad was working until 1 a.m. and the temptation to watch R rated movies was far too great to be overcome) and thought we would give ourselves a thrill by very quickly pulling open the drapes on our large picture window to see if the glowing gravestone in the cemetery across the street was putting on its show. Instead of ghastly, glowing granite, we saw Otie's face pressed up against the glass of the window, a glowering look in his eyes. Chaos ensued as we screamed, ran in circles, and randomly slapped and punched each other as we scrambled for the safety of the basement. Four girls called their parents and went home immediately.
Otie's insanity was further demonstrated by his habit of standing in the cemetery in the middle of the night, Bible in hand, scream-preaching about the moral dangers of the use of marijuana until the cops came to take him home. I can't remember a word he said, but I will never forget the sound of his comically high-pitched voice; nor will I forget the image of his massive, shadowy form (he stood about 6'2" and weighed almost 300 pounds) as he stood amongst the stones, his long greasy black hair dripping across his pasty white face.
One day The Richland Observer contained a most interesting birth announcement: To Otis Sr. and Mrs. (?) Zerfus, a baby girl. This was definitely news in our town; what were they doing having another kid with a full-grown boy living at home as it was, for Christ's sake? Lots of jokes also circulated about what it would look like to see those two in the sex act, a most distasteful image, I must admit. About a month after the birth, my dad was at the Legion having a drink with his buddy Larry when the door opened and in walked Otis Sr. A guy at the end of the bar yelled out, "Hey! There's the new daddy! How's that baby doin'?" Without batting an eyelash, Otis Sr. took a seat at the opposite end of the bar, and yelled back, "Why don't you ask the boy? It's his."

Creepy Monkey Chimneysweep

2008-11-22T09:34:00.006-05:00

When we moved into our house, I found this two-inch metal figurine in the matchholder of our fireplace (pardon the poor quality of the picture). Part Pan, part monkeyman, with more than one allusion to the devil (note the hooves and broom which suggests a trident), it has become the most beloved of the creepy objects I possess (but I'll show you a piece of jewelry later that is a close second).

Was this part of some child's toy from a far less uptight era (what with its sharpness, guaranteed lead content, and swallowability)? Was it a talisman of some kind? Did the previous owner bring it, find it? This needs a story! Sounds like a job for Bev or Eva (no pressure, ladies).

Shake it, shake it.... shake it... Feel Good

2008-11-21T19:29:00.008-05:00

Before you listen to this, plug your computer into the most powerful speakers you own and crank the bass. The best song around for 'Ho drivin'. Oh, and enjoy the video, too. (Sorry, it won't embed.)

My prolificity has left me tired, dahlings... This is just for fun.
~Ana

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rd96tPly9Ho

CAIN

2008-11-20T20:08:00.005-05:00

About a year and a half ago, we had to have our yellow lab put to sleep. It was heart wrenching, and I was such a coward that I had to have my neighbor's husband take her, something I've regretted ever since. Wanting another animal, but not having time to properly care for a dog, we decided to adopt two kittens.

I've never been a "cat person." When I was young, my mother had a black angora named Samson who taught me to respect and sort of hate cats. I find their unpredictability disturbing and I don't really like anything that poops in a box, especially a box which I have to clean every day. But they can be cuddly in the wintertime and I was missing having an animal, so I decided to take the plunge into cat "ownership" (as if!).

Upon arriving at the pound, I was disappointed to find they only had two cats "ready to go." If I was going to do this, I didn't need time to talk myself out of it. Unfortunately, one of the little buggers was off getting de-buggered, but I took him sight unseen after the hunky dogcatcher/poundkeeper assured me he was a nice kitty. The other feline was there but he was already over three months old and looked like a full grown cat next to the newly-weaned precious babies with whom he was housed. I tried to approach him, he hissed and ran away. Hunky dogcatcher assured me he really was a great cat but needed a firm and gentle approach; he demonstrated this for me on frightened feline (and for a minute I wished myself a cat) and I could hear this cat purring even as he looked at me in terror. I'm sure my head was muddled from standing so near perfect poundkeeper, but I giggled and agreed to take him, too. I was to return in two days to pick up them up -- if nothing else, I'd get to see Dave (?) Doug (?) Mike (?) again...

Two days later, after much primping and preening, I arrived at the pound to pick up my new wards. "Elvis" (the newly-castrated) was adorable and sweet and tiny. "Mikey" (the terrified hissing purring mess) was completely tense and entirely pissed off. I wrote the check, said my fond farewells to delicious dogcatcher, and off we went. The ride home was noisy (all Mikey) and sounded like I was killing a large opera singer with a butter knife.

Upon arriving home to two overly excited children, Mikey scrambled, still screaming, upstairs, under my bed, where he remained for the next four weeks. Elvis toddled out of his crate, hopped in my oldest son's lap and fell asleep.

The first order of business was names. No way in hell was I going to have two cats named Elvis and Mikey. After seriously considering Pontius and Pilate, we decided on Cain and Abel. They are half brothers, one litter apart, and their personalities seemed perfectly suited. The second order of business was to make Cain love me. I felt foolish for taking this psych case of a cat in the first place, but I also felt it would be a major accomplishment to have this creature trust me. I spent the next four weeks on my knees, squeezed half under my bed, tempting him with tuna fish (the smell of which makes me gag). I tried everything, including expensive toys. I even had my crazy neighbor (;-) come over to help. As the owner of four fairly normal cats, I thought she would be of some help. Her advice? 1. Give him a bath (yeah, right; I'm not an idiot) and 2. Just force the fucker and hold him tight and love him. She left bleeding. I even called sexy animal control officer/cat whisperer to the scene. (Seeing him on his knees in my bedroom will make the next 13 or so years well worth it). His advice? The same: gentle but firm.

Just when I was about to give him back, Cain decided to come around. It started with a small nuzzle in the middle of the night and very slowly progressed to creepy-watching-me-as-I-slept to sleeping on me (but tearing off in a fit when I awoke).

Cain is now solely MY cat and I adore him. He lives in self-imposed exile in the cellar during the day, but once those noisy kids go to bed, he is cuddled up on my lap and won't tolerate anybody touching him but me. As weird as this sounds, I count this as one of the greatest achievements of my life. And I hate cats.

The Amazing Gary

2008-11-19T20:01:00.006-05:00

I have a cousin who ran off with the circus when he was in eighth grade. And we're talking in the mid sixties, not 1934 when people seemed to do such things.

Barnum and Bailey's had come to visit a Wisconsin "city" (read town in any other part of the world) about one hour from his home. My aunt took her four children to see The Greatest Show on Earth and returned one child short. There were weeks of waiting (can you believe the woman never called the police?!) and finally a phone call from the little fugitive stating he had run away with the circus and was never coming back. Aside from raising the obvious question of how rotten life must have been with my aunt that the circus became a viable option (although I guess her failure to notify the authorities pretty much answers that), it has always seemed like a Huck Finn-esque story to me -- as unrealistic as Huck's finding $6,000 in gold in a cave (or was it $3,000? Whatever.) or his staged death by violent cabin invaders and subsequent flight down the slow Mississippi with an escaped slave. But Gary is real. A real kid who ran away with a real circus.

He became an elephant trainer and remained with the circus, aside from a two year hiatus when he purchased his own elephant and gave rides to kids at state fairs in Maine, New Hampshire and Massachusetts. What a bleak existence that must have been. He has been back with Barnum's for six years now. He's in charge of elephant "acquisitions." I don't know what this involves but I do know he travels to India every six months or so. I imagine horrible, under-the-table dealings for baby elephants and the exchange of wads of Barnum cotton-candy sticky cash. I know there are supposed to be humane laws protecting elephants, but sending them away to join circuses doesn't seem like it should be legal.

Gary used to be the black sheep in our family; now he's the family hero. Maybe because he had the audacity to run away with the circus, but more likely because, true to his word, he really never did go back home and we love a stubborn personality. His status in the family peaked when he was trampled by a bull elephant during a training session in the mid-80's and had to spend the next year in the hospital and in rehab. We love a dumb shit, too.

For Frank

2008-11-19T10:15:00.001-05:00

Knock-knock.
Who's there?
Duane.
Duane who?
Duane the bathtub! I'm dwowning!

But seriously...

Why I Believe in Ghosts

My mom died when I was seven. Those of you who know me know that I am not morbidly sentimental about this -- it happened and it was sad and of course I still think of it, but this is not a sob story. It's a ghost story and in a strange way, it's a nice companion piece to my earlier post, "Mother's Love."

Anyway, about one month before she died, we had moved to a new, larger small town in Wisconsin where my dad had gotten a better paying job as a refrigeration specialist at an ice cream factory (seriously, people, you cannot imagine how many friends you have when your dad works at an ice cream factory. But that would come later.) We were temporarily living in an apartment across the highway from the factory. She died quite unexpectedly and there we were -- me in a new town, awkwardly trying to make friends in an already-established group of second graders, my dad working a new job while trying to learn his role as "Mom" -- and both of us dealing with a fresh and painful grief. We had been the Cleavers in our life before she died. We lived in a white house with three large gardens and shrubs which my dad trimmed into geometrical shapes. I remember Mom handing him his lunchbox every morning as she kissed him goodbye and greeting him every evening with a brandy and seven. She was always there to meet my bus after school, always had dinner made by 5:30. And after she was gone, life seemed strange indeed. We were living in a noisy apartment on a highway, Dad was working swing shifts, my next oldest sibling had just left for college, dinners were burned and now featured Spam and instant au gratin potatoes. I had to spend a lot of time alone until we could find a babysitter so the rules on days when he worked till 4:00 were as follows: come home from school, unlock apartment door, lock apartment door, turn on TV and wait for Dad. And don't open that damn door for anybody, you hear?

About two weeks into this new life of ours, I got home and did exactly as directed; I was getting used to it. But on this day 4:00 came and went, and then 4:15, and then 4:20, and then 4:25. And then hysterical crying, and then some screaming. Of course, in my heart, I knew he was dead. And I would have to live alone in that apartment and I would have to cook all my own meals and nobody would ever tuck me in again, and... KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! WHAT?! AND NOW MR. STRANGERDANGER IS AT MY DOOR! AND HE'S GOING TO KNOCK THE DOOR DOWN AND KILL ME WITH AN AXE AND THEN WE'LL ALL BE DEAD!!!! The knocking and crying continued for a few minutes and then there came shouting (a stranger's voice -- LET ME IN! UNLOCK THE DOOR!) and then hysterical, terrified shrieking. And then the door unlocked and opened and my dad walked in and I almost evaporated with relief and happiness. The neighbor had heard me crying and it was he who had been trying to get me to open the door, poor guy. Anyway, as I sobbed into my dad's tight hug, I remember him saying, "I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry..." over and over. It was a pretty intense afternoon.

Years passed and we never spoke of this. Actually, I hadn't thought of it much until he brought it up one night as we drank coffee before he left for work. During the summers as a teenager, I used to stay up until my dad went to work when he worked the overnight shift or I would wake early to see him when he got home. We had our best conversations at these times and if nothing else we would watch CNN or Johnny Carson together. I don't know why he chose this particular night to bring up this memory, but without warning he asked, "Hey. Do you remember that time I got home late right after your mother died and you were so upset?"
"Yeah." (Christ, who wouldn't?)
"Do you know why I was late?"
"No."
"I had gone to the liquor store and got chatting with a guy and I forgot."
"Oh."
"That was a rotten thing to do."
"It's okay. We ended up okay."
"Do you know what happened that night when I went to bed?"

And this is why I believe in ghosts. Apparently, he had just gotten into bed and had not yet fallen asleep. He said the mattress started gently shaking. He got out of bed to stand on the floor and it stopped. He got back in and it started shaking again, harder and harder. He said he was terrified. The mattress started shaking so violently, in fact, that he was thrown out of bed and against the wall. Then it all stopped and he spent the rest of the night on the sofa, scared out of his mind. He said he knew it was my mom, and he knew she was pissed at him.

So why does this make me believe in ghosts? It's not even my own experience, after all. Well, I don't believe out of a misplaced, sentimental notion that my mom would care so much about me that she would traverse the unknown realm between the living and the dead just to protect me and punish those who might cause me pain. It would be nice to believe that, but... This story made me believe in ghosts because my father, a World War II veteran and the most fearless man I've ever met, was terrified and shaky just telling me about it six years after the fact. He was a sceptic in the extreme and didn't have time for any of "that nonsense."

"I never forgot that, you know," he said, squinting at the wall through the snaking smoke of his cigarette. "And I've never been late getting home or picking you up since then. You probably don't know that, but I haven't been late once with you, not for anything."

And this is why I believe in ghosts.

**Disclaimer: my father became an overnight alcoholic after my mother passed. He drank a quart of brandy and a fifth of schnapps a day at his worst. Fortunately, he would later go on to conquer this demon. I realize, however, he may have been drunk and had a vivid dream that still left him frightened years later -- but if that's all you can think, then you've missed the point of my story.

Thought of the Day

2008-11-18T08:50:00.000-05:00

Sorry, there's going to be a lot of Tom Waits on this blog.

The Inebriate's Guide to Boston's South End -- With Rodrigo and Me.

2008-11-17T08:10:00.000-05:00

I have been constant to one man for thirteen years. He is my best friend, Rodrigo (that's not his real name -- his real name is even better -- this is the name he asked I use if I blog about him). We met when we were dating brothers. We lived so close that our back porches almost touched. We joked about making tin can phones and setting up a pulley system between our apartments. Well, those brothers are long gone, but we have held fast. We have seen each other through break ups, falling in love, more break ups, family issues, general feelings of malaise, periods of intense joy. For nine years straight we have gone to Provincetown, MA every summer to dance and drink and lie on the beach. He is endlessly patient, caring, and kind. Like me, he can be petulant and selfish, which is why I love him so much.

Anyway, on Saturday (after an incredible massage -- he's a massage therapist) we went to Boston's South End for some bar hopping. I thought I'd share the places we went and what we drank -- I think we ate but I can't remember. He keeps me in touch with the city dweller I used to be.

Stop #1: Gaslight Beverages: R ordered the Edith Piaf and I ordered L'acolyte (when I ordered it, I simply asked for the Acolyte -- the bartender said, "Oh, you mean "lah-co-leet?" Whatever... the thing with the French brandy in it, lady.) Check out the menu for the ingredients -- they were delicious. The bar looked like a silver jewelry tray. Highly recommended, snobby staff notwithstanding.

Stop #2: Rocca Beverages: R ordered the Strata #6 while I had a nice sangria. Fabulous interior, nice staff, awesome ladies' room.

Stop #3: Banq Beverages: We both ordered Dragonfires (I think... Dragon somethings... things were getting fuzzy at this point). The hands-down coolest interior of any restaurant I've ever seen. It's like a cave but nicer and with toilets. Way too many bartenders -- all women, all bosomy, wearing black tank tops -- hmm... interesting for the four straight men who were there, at least.

Stop #4: Club Cafe Beverages: R had the French Martini and I had the Lime Drop. I vaguely remember eating nachos. Our waitress was a bitch.

Stop #5: Border's Beverages: I had the Eggnog Latte and R had a dry cappucino. Much needed coffee break after all that imbibing and a windy walk. This was our last stop.

We won't see each other again for a few months, I'm sure. But it doesn't matter, even if we don't talk once between now and then. We pick up right where we left off.

Rodrigo, you're the best!

Coffee in Bed

2008-11-16T19:29:00.001-05:00

I love Squeeze! Love 'em!

Foibles

2008-11-16T09:53:00.001-05:00

Last year, my friend's daughter was part of a video project in which she taped people talking about their strange little habits. I wondering if any of you out there in blogland have any you would like to share?

Here are some of mine: all the coffee cup handles in my cupboard have to point to the right, I have to make my bed so that I lie in between the bright side of the pattern on the sheets, and I count everything in increments of 12 (the number of seconds I curl my eyelashes, stairs, sidewalk squares, M&M's [which I also eat by color]).

So I Must Be Ecstatic Today

2008-11-15T09:46:00.000-05:00

This is true of me. Sometimes.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zdodc1Eu1nA

Meet the 'Ho

2008-11-13T17:51:00.000-05:00

It occurred to me after posting my last entry that I have yet to talk about one of the last great passions in my life, my new Chevy Tahoe, or "The 'Ho." But this is a complicated matter...

I know it is completely unpractical (although I have two small sons, we rarely do anything out of doors. It will never drive us to a skiing trip or convey us to whitewater rafting adventures.). It is better on gas than I had expected but I know it is environmentally irresponsible -- and I really DO care about the environment -- you should see my recycling contribution every two weeks! I'm not a litterbug and I almost never pour turpentine down the sewer grate at the base of our driveway.

But here's the thing. When I test drove this vehicle and felt the purr of her engine beneath me, that was it. Maybe it's because I'm short, maybe it's because I learned how to drive on a Chevy Silverado and this is somehow related to regaining my youth or being like my father. I don't know. I just love it. I come up with random excuses to go to the store and cruise the beach instead.

It is undeniably superficial, materialistic, wasteful and selfish to love driving my 'Ho as much as I do. The first song I played on her amazing soundsystem was Joan Jett's "I Hate Myself for Loving You." Whenever someone jokingly comments on how it's too big "for a girl of your size" or gives me a hard time at work for my horrible parking job, I apologize profusely. I admit to my weakness. Unlike my friend, Beverly, who feels the wonderful pull to be peevishly bad, I feel a compulsion to please, to confess, to prostrate myself, guilt stricken, in front of the judging hordes (who probably don't even exist and aren't judging at all but I'm paranoid, too).

But enough. Here's a video that I love. The truth hurts:

The Man in the Red Truck

2008-11-13T17:37:00.000-05:00

On my way to work, I pass a man in a new red Chevy Silverado (extended cab, full-size bed, chrome package) heading in the opposite direction. If I leave the house at 7:02 every day, I'm sure to see him. Even one minute earlier or later, and we miss each other. He waves to me, and recently I've started waving back.

Why does he do this? Because I also drive a Chevy behemoth? Is he flirting? It seems strange to say this, but I look forward to this every day. I know from the Nascar stickers that I see in my rearview mirror that we would have little to nothing in common, but I like this strange, gas-guzzling connection we have. It's just a friendly thing to do in an unfriendly world.

But then again...

2008-11-12T21:23:00.000-05:00

this was my other favorite song. Poor me, indeed!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-riI8Rcpc4c

In My Heart I Have But One Desire...

2008-11-12T20:14:00.000-05:00

When I was 20, this was my favorite song. Can you tell I was young and romantic? A better side of myself which is long since burned away. Poor little me!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Otk3uwxnn74

Mother's Love

2008-11-11T12:46:00.000-05:00

When I was about five years old, my brother caught me a wild baby bunny. He jumped right off a hay escalator and severely injured himself, but that rabbit was mine. Much to my surprise, upon arriving home with my new treasure, my only-cat-loving mother agreed to let me keep him. She even set up a cage for him in her immaculately clean kitchen. Life was great. Every day, I would come home from school, feed and pet "Hoppy" (you can see originality was discouraged in our house). He was so cute, so soft, so fluffy! And he was growing up.

One day many months later, upon arriving home, my mother met me at the door to give me the bad news: she had taken Hoppy into the garden with her to keep her company as she weeded her carrots. And do you know what? That little bunny ran away. I was devastated. I remember weeping into her polyester shirt.

When I was nineteen, I found out from my sister that Hoppy had not run away at all! In fact, my mother had killed him, skinned him and made a nice Haasenpfeffer out of him, which I apparently ate for dinner.

While this may seem a Grimmsian nightmare of sorts, I could only laugh at my mother's actions -- and not a bitter laugh. A true chuckle. I don't know what her motivations were... years of resentment toward her children? a genuine love for slow roasted game? It doesn't matter. What a thing for a woman to do!

Bewitched and Bewildered

2008-11-10T17:09:00.000-05:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orNpH6iyokI

'Nuff said.

2008-11-09T21:07:00.000-05:00

"Lasting passion is the dream of a harlot and from it we wake in despair."

C.S. Lewis

Horses and Apples and Snakes

2008-11-09T13:41:00.000-05:00

A good friend introduced me to this video which I love. Moses meets Catherine the Great in a Tim Burton world. And those shoes!!!! Creepy, sexy, lovely, sad and funny.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cC16j0TlVfA

2008-11-08T20:28:00.000-05:00

Random Fact of the Day:

http://www.history.com/this-day-in-history.do?action=VideoArticle&id=52083

Too bad we still haven't learned to use it like Superman. How was he able to look through just one layer of Lois Lane's clothing to see the color of her panties but later was able to check her for internal injuries (which X-ray really couldn't do, right?). They just knew things on Krypton that we still cannot fathom, I guess.

Waitsian Irony

2008-11-07T20:39:00.001-05:00

Starving in the Belly of a Whale

A wonderful song and a beautiful vision of an ugly truth:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=38Zcqd7Jus0 (give the video a few seconds)

Word to Your Mother!

2008-11-07T07:32:00.001-05:00

Anybody else out there have some cool words that you'd like to share?

Some of mine: mellifluous, brazen, exacerbate, extant, fleer (see below!).

Yo Gabba Gabba

2008-11-06T08:19:00.000-05:00

Okay, have any of you had the misfortune to see this show? And we wonder why our kids can't compete. The worst part is that it's like kid crack -- they would snort this show if it came in powder form (so keep that in mind if you need time to make dinner or empty the dishwasher or run screaming in circles in your backyard).

Here are the thoughts of someone who agrees with me (an old post but he describes the exact episode that is making me insane).

Behold the horror!

Okay, I could turn the TV off -- but then what would I do?

An Apology

2008-11-05T20:19:00.000-05:00

Thanks to my harsh sense of humor, I inadvertently hurt a very new but very dear friend. This is for you, Tex. I'm truly sorry.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cepC6-skPPk

Love Stuck!

2008-11-04T11:26:00.001-05:00

I just finished reading (okay, perusing over the course of the last two months), Umberto Eco's On Ugliness, given to me by a friend on my birthday. Check it out if you get the chance. Thanks to this book, I have a new favorite artist Franz von Stuck. Thought I'd share the wealth.

Ghost Busters

2008-11-03T17:09:00.000-05:00

Did anybody out there see Ghost Hunters this Friday? Did you think the voice and the pulling of the coat was staged? Oh how wonderfully frightening it was!

Gonna Light Me up that Cigarette

2008-11-01T13:26:00.000-04:00

I can't help it. I think this is awesome:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0nlRuIIzgI&feature=related

A Favorite Word

2008-10-31T15:30:00.000-04:00

Today's entry? A simple, beautiful word: fleer. Would anybody care to use it in a sentence?

Without Merit

2008-10-30T12:06:00.000-04:00

This will be a blog dedicated to random musings, useless knowledge, pointless rantings, and occasional discussions of the paranormal.

My very first contribution, for all you anglers out there, is how to tie a Snell Knot. Enjoy!